Tuesday, September 29, 1998
 

fun with staples
Ugly Couch Blues

By Zach Oat

4:37 pm. Well, now I’ve done it. I’ve locked myself out of the house.

I guess it had to happen sooner or later. It happened twice freshman year, but since then I’ve been lucky. Normally, the comings and goings of my housemates would solve the problem quickly, but today two of my three housemates are out of town. For one of them, it is the first time that he has left the house in a week. And now I’m sitting on my front porch on a fairly repulsive brown plaid couch. It is rather unyielding as far as couches go, but it is quite comfortable for patio furniture.


ZACH OAT

 I don’t know whether having such a nice porch and such comfortable patio furniture is a curse or a blessing. While it is making my stay out of doors more pleasant, it is also what lured me out of the security of my home in the first place. (Note to self: Do not leave the security of your home.)

4:54 pm. The live jazz from down the street that I was hoping to enjoy has stopped, and now the air is alive with the melodic strains of the Beastie Boys. I used to like the Beastie Boys, until I realized that they were just a second-rate House of Pain. (Note to self: Look for rapper Everlast’s new project.) Fortunately, my walkman has They Might Be Giants loaded up, and R.E.M. on the flipside. All is well. For now.

5:02 pm. I give silent thanks for the late lunch I ate and wonder what I will do when I start to get hungry. Luckily, I brought a beverage. A pen and some paper give me something to do. (I actually came out here to write my column. Ha ha ha. Whee.)

5:10 pm. My phone starts to ring. I actually jump up and try the door before slinking back to the couch, attempting to look nonchalant. I consider, for a moment, going in a window. There are holes in one of the back screens that apparently once served that exact purpose, but the window is over the sink, which is full of knives. Sharp, dirty knives. (Note to self: Do the dishes.) Also, the rear of my house is under surveillance by my neighbors in their back yard. I decide to play my cards close to the vest. No sense in revealing my idiocy just yet.

5:19 pm. Particle man. Particle man. Doin’ the things a particle can. What’s he like? It’s not important. Particle man.

5:21 pm. As the twenty-seventh person walks by and avoids eye contact with the loser who locked himself out of his house, I realize that I don’t know anyone on my street. Except for the sophomore across the street, they are mostly all seniors, like me, and I have no idea who they are. I actually know the sophomore. He’s a nice guy. Some would call him lucky. I personally wouldn’t want to be a sophomore in a house full of seniors come the end of the year. If he enjoys sleeping, it may be wise to make other arrangements.

(Note to self: Make other arrangements.)

5:35 pm. It is getting dark. The last of the orange sunlight

trickles between the houses and illuminates the cars across the street. I am cold. So very cold.

5:46 pm. Smack. Crack. Bushwhacked. Tie another one to the rack, baby. Hey, kids, rock and roll. Nobody tells you where to go, baby.

5:50 pm. My housemate pulls up in front of the house, and I am so overjoyed to see him that I do not ask why he is dressed like a homeless man. Once, I would have asked, but I have since learned not to. He has come home dressed like Pia Zadora, and I haven’t said a word, not even to ask who Pia Zadora was. He finds my situation very funny.

"How long have you been out here?" he asks.

I tell him. He finds that even funnier. Indignant at first, I am eventually forced to laugh as well. After all, if you can’t laugh at yourself, what right do you have to laugh at other people?

(Note to self: Laugh at other people. You’ve earned it.)