By Alexander Rombout
The vacuum sucked and spluttered against the detritus of the linoleum floor. Joshua shook the barrel of the machine by its hose as he commanded it around the kitchen. He took pleasure in sliding the broad head along the floor and hearing the crackle of dirt being whisked away. Taken from linoleum to sweet oblivion. The word hung like a hovering bird against the wind in his frontal lobe. Linoleum… Linoleum. Li-no-le-um. A horrible noise punctured his thoughts, the electric engine whined in a sharp crescendo, and with an almighty thunk the vacuum seized up. Dead.
“Damn it.”
He squatted down beside it, rattled where the hose joined the body, and flicked the power switch off and on a few times. Prognosis: The vacuum was devoid of life. He stood up and tentatively kicked the side of the vacuum barrel. Joshua looked from his small kitchen to the rest of the apartment. It was well tidied, the table had been cleared of the errant letters and junk mail, washing put away, kitty litter emptied. But across the apartment’s modest floors, a thin veneer of crumbs, hair, and debris remained.
“Joshua!” said a voice from another room.
“What?” he replied.
A young woman emerged from the bedroom.
“You know you have to sweep first,” she said.
Joshua nodded vaguely, and fiddled with the vacuum’s power cord, pulling all of the cable out before using the button to spool it back into its carapace.
“I said did you sweep first?” she repeated.
“Yes! God- yes,” he said. “It’s probably just full.”
She exhaled sharply through her nose. “Okay well, maybe just sweep again after you empty it out-”
“I did sweep, okay?”
She stood a moment, gaze lingering on the back of his head.
“Fine. I’m going to the shops,” she said as she grabbed her bag by the shoe rack.
The slam from the door echoed off the walls, and he looked down at the kitchen floor. He threw his arms up in exasperation. He stared at the dormant vacuum. The longer his eyes remained, and despite a complete and utter lack of movement from the vacuum, he swore it was beckoning. He loomed over its diminutive frame. He pressed the power button and with a shrill whine, the machine shook and sputtered its way back into life. He allowed himself a small fist pump of victory and picked up the shining telescopic tube. Yes, he thought, sweeping is for suckers.
They careened around the contours of each room, where the grime and hair lingered most. He loved this part. They returned to the kitchen, and its li-no-le-um floor. He pushed it hard into the corner, where the floor and wall met. He tried to savour every crackle and pop, but it wasn’t enough. He pressed the length of his arm against the length of the telescopic tube, and his hand against the back of the head. He pushed the vacuum along the siding again, as one.
The enormity of the sensation was overwhelming. He gripped the head tighter now and ran the vacuum across the floor. He could feel every speck of dust being pulled up into the belly of the machine. He imagined his arm, brilliant and chrome, hand-head splayed, travelling the room like the old-testament God, exhuming sin from sacred linoleum. His arm was chrome, and he felt the slick, insulated copper wiring snake through the knots and twists of his veins. He pumped electric. This was sex. His lungs drove hard in the chest-barrel of the machine, exhaling and inhaling in one continuous motion. A singular breath. But the dirt and detritus started to choke his wind passage. He tried to cough it out, but the inhale would not stop. The exhale would not stop.
He had stopped pushing, but they still moved. The Joshua-Vacuum travelled the length and breadth of the kitchen, hallway, and living room. The crackle of dust was sanding the sides of his throat. He tried to pull his chest away from the barrel, and felt the cracking of fused ribs, and sinew stretch. Now it hurt. He tried to move his legs, but they had fused and shrunk to no more than little vestiges. The only remnant of Joshua was his deformed arm, red with carpet burn, hanging from the side of the barrel. His skin and the plastic carapace were almost one now – a matte beige.
“Please,” he said, “Stop – I’m sorry.”
The machine drove him into the siding and across the rough carpet. The pain consumed every thought. As it pushed him to the very back corner of the room, he felt his umbilical-power-cord go taut. This would be his only chance. He grabbed the bedpost and pulled. The plug popped out from the wall socket, and the loud wheeze of the vacuum cleaner faded into silence.
