Many households in Britain have a certain kind of hoover, as they say vacuum cleaner here, with which I have developed a turbulent relationship. Which is to say, I’m fucking scared shitless by it because I know it’s alive and waiting until no one is looking to become animate, pulverize me and then devour my remains with its absurdly long nose-hose.
I will turn to dust inside of it, and no one will ever know why I disappeared.
This thing is part hoover, part Night of the Living Dummy, part Satan’s evil shifty-eyed smiling conspiring plastic toy.
The first time I saw one of these was many years ago when I lived with a family in England for a few months. They kept Henry the Hoover inside their house, instead of in the woods in the countryside on the Moon in the fourth dimension where it belongs.
But when its owners looked away, I swear I saw its eyes shift.
I wouldn’t be alone with it in the room.
This week, I am moving a third time since my arrival in the ever-hospitable city of London. I have my own place now, and no longer have to endure the embarrassing existence of cohabiting, at my age, with people who did not originate from my womb. I have a new, sparkly toilet of my very own to care for and love, that I can use without having to first wipe away someone else’s mysteriously long pubes in watery-eyed horror and revulsion.
My new place is carpeted. And my landlord has been generous enough to provide a hoover so that I don’t have to make a baby and sell its kidneys to buy my own.
But my landlord, like many people in this part of the world, has chosen Henry the Hoover.
And I am going to be living alone.
Henry the Hoover is watching me and waiting. Henry the Hoover is tired of eating dust and hair. And Henry the Hoover hungers for more protein in its diet.