Essay On The Vacuum

by Willie Smith

You remember the Electrolux of the Fifties. Gray. Red `n silver logo. Built like a mortar parallel to the floor. Steel runners. Elephant trunk hose.

Attachments for: under the couch; behind the china closet; top of the cocktail table; the carpet; the ceiling.

If you pulled the cord, like you wanted to tell a cat you loved its ass, and not really wanted to torture it, the card snapped back inside the machine. It was a good feeling. Tugging that cord several times a day almost equal one orgasm.

The bag was the bomb -- the shitcan, the graveyard, the entropy where everything wound up.

I hated changing the bag. Groping to release the two-foot rubbery tube crammed with debris. Trotting it out back. Kicking open the ashcan. Twisting the lid off the bag. Cascading filth, hair feather, lint, grit, sand, soot, scunge into the galvanized can I always seemed to miss with half the load.

Dusting off my shoes, coughing, sniffling, clearing my throat, eyes stung, I'd make my way inside with the re-useable bag. Stuff it back inside the vacuum.

Otherwise, we got along fine. Like a good wife, Lux kept the joint clean. Stayed out of sight. Didn't mind if I drank. Many is the time she sucked up a shattered beer bottle. Never said a word; just the tinkling her hose made, while rocketing shards into her gorge.

I loved her noises. They disguised my wails. When I clean house, I adlib dirty jingles. The lyrics never get far, the tunes cliches. It's not something I think about. Keeps my mind off the work. And Lux's motor whine, her vacuum whoosh and her hissing-sucking-farting conveniently drowned out my vocalizations. I felt at ease, unable to hear my own bawdries, knowing no one else could.

That came that afternoon, harvesting dust bunnies behind the furniture, when my relationship with Lux inexorably changed.

I was on my knees, angling the bristly attachment between the wall and the couch. I hadn't cleaned there in months. A lot of spiders had set up residence, profiting by the neglect.

The to better twist the bristles after an especially obese arachnid, I sprawled across the machine, pressing my crotch against the carrying strap, that fell into a slot on the body of the machine. Say what you want about Lux, she was streamlined.

One thing led to another. I got excited; disgusting.

Dreamily I drew the hose from behind the couch. Ripped off the attachment. Found myself contemplating sodomy.

Freed of the attachment's resistance, the motor accelerated. Higher and higher she sucked, like an angel needing it bad.

Before I knew what was what, I unzipped. This was an experiment. A scientific adventure. Christ -- you blew up in front of your class! Like a fool. Burned in your own fuel. But here I stood, fist around yang, ready to strike a blow for _peace_ between man and machine.

I shoved it in.

Lux make squeaky french noises. Inside the metal sleeve at the end of her hose, my tool swelled. I rocked, bumped, ground, boogied. She sucked and farted, jittering my shaft.

I saw every woman I had ever know. The Bible slapped me in the face. I knew it was wrong. But it was fun. And who gave a fuck? I was getting it _on_!

That was our first session. Month after month it went on like that. I started vacuuming twice daily. The apartment stayed clean as a whistle. The lest mote of dust drifting onto the carpet became a signal to haul out the machine. Stretch the cord. Plug her in. Make a quick foray without any attachment whatsoever. Then fall on Lux with desperation born of passion abused.

But one morning, my perversion betrayed me.

I had breakfast. Brushed my teeth. Brought Lux out. Whisked a nit off the bookcase. Got engorged with the usual suction. But decided -- maybe it was too much coffee, or bad dreams the night before -- I had to have more.

Detached the hose. Screwed it in her back. Where exhaust bled around the rear of her bag.

Cranked the motor. Inserted her hose anally. And into my rectum vomited eight months of dust. Thought I'd only get air. In the frenzy of my desire, I'd forgotten physics.

I was sick for a week. Crapping ash. Tasting death.

As soon as I could stand, I broke into the closet. Yanked out Lux. Bundled her into the ashcan.

Last I ever saw of that sucker. I got better. But, well, you know, I never _had_ better.

Author Biography:

Willie Smith is a struggling Seattle writer who has been called a `modern day Bukowski'. Others have asked whether we need another. This is Willie's third contribution to SOTT over the last three issues.

For other stories by Willie Smith, click here.

This story first appeared in the Volume 4, Number 1 (Winter 1988-89) issue of
Sign of the Times-A Chronicle of Decadence in the Atomic Age

For a copy of the issue that this story appeared in please use the on-line order form or email sott_backissue@unclemarkie.com and ask for Volume 4, Number 1.
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