I name
things. I think it is a natural need that humans have. However, something interesting happens once you give
an object a name. It takes on human characteristics.
I had
two swim bags during high school. The first was a bright purple duffel bag,
named Phyllis. I loved it, and used it not only as my swim bag, but my book bag.
Phyllis grew to hate my very being because of the extra weight. Very shortly
into the season, she ripped her strap from me. No matter how many times I had
it sewed or tied, she, like a bitter shrew, would destroy it in spite of me, achieving the awkward and uncomfortable result of making me carry her with her short
handles everywhere. She also liked to trip me,
wrapping the useless strap around my feet when I would get out of my desk. She
grasped onto edges and corners of doors, tables—whatever she could wrap her
cloth around, anything to slow my progress throughout the day.
The second bag I got was a ridiculously large ivory and purple duffel bag. I
named it Billius, mostly because it rhymes with Phyllis and one of my best
friends hates Ron Weasely (Billius is his middle name). Billius,
thankfully, never despised me. He was just the clumsiest fool ever. Walking off
of a bus, the poor dear couldn’t help but bump into the seats, sometimes even
the people in the seats. He, bless his seams, got in the way of everything. Both
have now retired into the depths of my closet.
Anyways,
this past week at work, my coworker and I finally named our vacuums. It’s been
four months, and we finally got around to it. Italy is to my coworker, what
England is to me, so we decided to give one an Italian name, and another one a British
name. We stared at the larger of the two, and eventually, the bright yellow
cord (bright because we clean it once a week) started looking more and more
like a large, heavy gold chain necklace.
Keep in mind, we are both running on very
little sleep.
She dubbed it Giovanni. Giovanni’s floor takes roughly 45 minutes
to vacuum, an hour if it’s really messy, and as he and I worked together to
clean, I couldn’t help but start to see him less of an it and more of a he.
Eventually, when I looked at him, his appearance reflected that of a fat, greasy, balding, heavily jeweled Italian
man. When the squeaking got on my nerves, I mumbled to him that he was a
squeaky, squeaky vacuum. As he refused to pick up the fringe from notebook
paper and the remnants of fall tracked in, I murmured that he was a lazy man,
and needed to suck it up, and do his job. The squeaking seemed to get louder in
protest. I swear I could almost see him do the stereotypical hand motions of
Italians.
Now, every
time I take his handle, I swear he is curling his lip, and scowling.
My
awkwardness with vacuums has only increased. Some (Giovanni I’m speaking to you, Catherine is the perfect example of
what a Vacuum should be, silent and efficient. The British slogan, “Keep Calm and Carry On” comes to mind
when I think of her cooperation with getting the job done. You are a slimy,
sneaky hoover.) Vacuums and I
disagree, which leads to made up conversations in my head with the inanimate object,
which is not so inanimate anymore.
I wonder if I'm crazy.
Moral(s)
Of the Story
-Naming something gives it power, sometimes to interrupt your sanity
-Be careful what you humanize
-Custodial work is beginning to warp my view of the world.
-One author once said to "write what you're obsessed with", It seems I'm consumed by thoughts of vacuums, as this is my second piece on them. What does this say about my life?
-Annalee
