My navy blue Nordstrom toiletry kit, which I have owned and whose single miracle zipper has not broken for 6 years, teetered on top of my book-stuffed tote bag. When I slung the tote over my shoulder to walk, the kit’s extremely faux leather sat loose and unkempt, more out than in. It teetered from SFO to LAX and then Santiago de Chile. Each time I stowed it under the seat in front of me (tray table locked, seat in the upright position), it drooped out of the mothership tote. I am hopelessly undisturbed by precariously placed items, and you should not feel shock nor sympathy for what I am about to tell you. At some point (whether during stowage or walking or bussing I can’t say), the sagging kit drooped so far that it plopped soundlessly to the ground.
Somewhere, the Gods of Loss smiled grand smiles at my generous sacrifice (one turned to the other: “Say, he’s a big donor!”). In the plebeian plane of reality, the tooth fairy came early and a Chilean scored an electric toothbrush.
I, blissfully unaware of my toiletry kit’s absence, had been traveling for 20-odd hours and was very excited to get home to shelve all the great books that I stuffed my tote with and have a hot shower and finish my last essay of college. I was alerted to the impossibility of these niceties when I entered my house and found my room door locked. Locked is the appropriate status for any door when you leave the country for two weeks, unless you are me, hopelessly undisturbed by precariously placed items, and by extension not a door locker. My suspicion grew enormously when my own room key didn’t budge in the lock. I was almost certain I hadn’t locked the door when I left, but if I did, my own key should open it again. It was time to call the landladies.
My landladies are two sisters who walked out of a comic strip and into the big wide world. Sister Carla is a psychoanalyst. One the first day I met her, after a house tour and three minutes of polite conversation, she told me I strike her as an anxious person. She is either a very bad psychoanalyst or very good at creating a market. I will admit that I considered asking for a session, but as my friend Maddie correctly pointed out, I would rather not live in the pilot episode of a canceled sitcom, Help! My Psychoanalyst is my Landlady! Aside from inducing a fluke panic attack, Carla has proven to be a warm and friendly mindreader, and I even look forward to our small talk while she counts my rent.
As for landlady #2, Sister Julia does not dip below a hunnedmilesanhour. Her hair is frizzed from walking fast and pulling at it and scurrying to and fro. A sorceress of fret and worry, Julia can create busyness out of thin air—indeed, she thins the air just by walking in a room. She comes around less often than Carla (neither of them lives at the house), but occasionally carves out time to rush around the place. Typically, this involves unplugging the microwave and unoccupied phone chargers, which are a fire hazard. Me, hopelessly undisturbed by precariously placed items, and by extension not concerned with fire hazards, had to google that one.
Julia and I, it need not be said, are very different people. So different, in fact, that when I left the door to my room unlocked on vacation, she found out and locked it for me. To be fair, it was a good-faith lock—it is just that me, not a door locker, had never actually tested the key to my own room. It was a hungry and tired time to figure out that it didn’t work.
So I called up Julia, who had to go into the off-limits landlady room and get a keyring of about ahunned keys, and, completely bewildered at the number of unmarked keys and lack of time in her evening, began sticking them one by one into my room door. After far too many precious minutes and three trips to the off-limits landlady room for more keys, the lock clicked open. I can only imagine the persistence it took for her to lock my door in the first place.
19:00—An update from the airline: “Excuse the delay Lucas, please allow me to inform you that we have meticulously revised our system and checked our registries, but regrettably we have not been able to localize the object you mentioned.”
Hope you enjoy the taste of someone else’s mouth, electric toothbrush.
If you read my previous blog, you will be able to write a 12-page essay about the relationship between mundane loss (like a toiletry kit!) and the retroactive construction of truth and nature of all reality forever. And if you’re a really long-time reader, you will know that the first thing I ever did in the city of Buenos Aires was leave my carry-on bag (full of pants and nothing but) in the backseat of a taxi. I am humbled by the consistency of this ritual.
Luckily, by the way, I did end up finishing that last essay of college. Which means my life is basically the same, except I have to… ah geez, what was that one thing… job! Yes, a job! Look for a job. So my life is basically the same, except for a rather looming three-letter item on my checklist.
And finally, since I won’t send anything out before then, July 5th is the 1-year anniversary of Lucas’ Blog! That’s right, this year, try nursing your 4th of July hangover with the taste of adventure! Or stumble out to the porch to take ibuprofen and squint at the sun, I’m not your mother. Be well, though, and if you hang your flag, take care to remember who the 4th meant freedom for.
Until next time,
Lucas