Animal Stories From Inside the Cage
Alan Malnar
Issue date: 2/3/10 Section: Final Approach
I suppose I'm one of those quirky types, like a finicky house cat. I hate peas, don't dare put them on my plate, I won't eat them. Yet I love pea soup. And sometimes I'm overly wary too, like a cagey bird. I lock everything in my house even though I live alone: I lock the door when I take a shower; I lock my file cabinets-I even lock my food pantry from myself! Perhaps this peculiar action suggests that I'm trying to convince myself to diet, or perhaps I'm so unconsciously paranoid that I suspect the cookie monster, or a pack of wild hyenas, will steal my cache in the middle of the night. I don't know.
I can also be careless and indifferent-like when I do laundry, I just toss everything into the washing machine, I don't separate colors. Darks mix with whites in sudsy water, but when I fold my clothes and put them neatly away, I'm as meticulous as a squirrel stashing nuts for the winter. I'm particularly fussy about my shirts. Shirts must be perfect. I hate wrinkly shirts. If they do happen to become wrinkled then I toss them into the hot dryer because I don't own an iron. That's because I loathe ironing clothes even more than I hate wrinkles. But the fact remains that I take pains to wash, dry, fold, and set my clothes neatly in their designated drawers-except for socks and underwear. I hate separating hot socks from hot skivvies! The crackle and hiss of static electricity repulses me; it sounds as if I'm scratching my fingernails on a chalkboard. So I simply toss one, big tangled mess of socks and jockey shorts into the top compartment of my chest of drawers. Let them tango in the dark with the dust mites. Let them wrinkle silly. No one sees them anyway.
I must have inherited my odd behaviors from my father's side of the family. My uncle John used to drape blankets on his car seats, plastic covers on his couch, and carpeting on his garage floor. My uncle Emil collected enough plastic bags in ten years to provide a chain of Safeway's stores with a lifetime supply. And my uncle Mike was a habitual door and window locker. Windows always locked, shades always drawn, and doors double-latched, he felt secure in his self-constructed womb, his safe haven from the world outside. I remember visiting him once in Las Vegas during the heat of summer. I awoke in the middle of the night gasping for a breath of fresh air. I ran to the bedroom window, only to find it screwed shut.
I can also be careless and indifferent-like when I do laundry, I just toss everything into the washing machine, I don't separate colors. Darks mix with whites in sudsy water, but when I fold my clothes and put them neatly away, I'm as meticulous as a squirrel stashing nuts for the winter. I'm particularly fussy about my shirts. Shirts must be perfect. I hate wrinkly shirts. If they do happen to become wrinkled then I toss them into the hot dryer because I don't own an iron. That's because I loathe ironing clothes even more than I hate wrinkles. But the fact remains that I take pains to wash, dry, fold, and set my clothes neatly in their designated drawers-except for socks and underwear. I hate separating hot socks from hot skivvies! The crackle and hiss of static electricity repulses me; it sounds as if I'm scratching my fingernails on a chalkboard. So I simply toss one, big tangled mess of socks and jockey shorts into the top compartment of my chest of drawers. Let them tango in the dark with the dust mites. Let them wrinkle silly. No one sees them anyway.
I must have inherited my odd behaviors from my father's side of the family. My uncle John used to drape blankets on his car seats, plastic covers on his couch, and carpeting on his garage floor. My uncle Emil collected enough plastic bags in ten years to provide a chain of Safeway's stores with a lifetime supply. And my uncle Mike was a habitual door and window locker. Windows always locked, shades always drawn, and doors double-latched, he felt secure in his self-constructed womb, his safe haven from the world outside. I remember visiting him once in Las Vegas during the heat of summer. I awoke in the middle of the night gasping for a breath of fresh air. I ran to the bedroom window, only to find it screwed shut.
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