The other day there was an article in the paper about a guy who got caught hiding in a Pennsylvania family’s attic; he had been living there for a week before they caught him. It seems that every day, after the parents went to work and the kids went to school, this guy would come down out of the attic and steal a little bit more of the family’s stuff: a pair of socks here, a piece of pizza there, maybe the crossword puzzle–you know, little things to make his stay more comfortable. And then he’d “disappear” back into the attic.
When I first read this story all I could feel was an overwhelming sense of relief. “Of course,” I thought. “The attic. That explains everything.” And then I started beating on the ceiling with a broom handle.
“Hey!” I shouted. “You can keep the socks. Just bring back that Doc Marten–I’ve been looking for it for three years.”
No response.
Still, I didn’t completely give up hope until my husband came home and pointed out that 1) we didn’t have the type of attic that people could actually live in (we’ve got one of those “insulation and exposed wiring” models), and 2) how could a one-legged guy get into the attic in the first place? (I refuse to give up on my theory that it was a diminutive one-legged man who stole my daughter Clementine’s VERY expensive shoe.)
Of course, giving up on the idea of an attic-based thief meant that I got to go back to my old theory–that there is an unregulated inter-dimensional vortex located somewhere inside my house. Because how else would you explain things like a shirt disappearing less then twelve hours after I bought it? After all, Clementine assured me that she had looked absolutely everywhere for it. (The same way she looked everywhere for the missing Doc Marten.) The way I see it, there’s either some guy up in our attic wearing a size three Doc Marten and a flowery beige tube top, or we’ve got a bad case of inter-dimensional vortexism.
Obviously Clementine must have come to this same conclusion, which is why she only wasted thirty seconds looking “everywhere” before she gave up in defeat. I must say, however, that she dealt with the possibility of either a guy living in our attic, or her room containing a doorway into a new dimension, much more calmly than I did: it surely is a sign of her mature demeanor that she shrugged off the whole incident by saying, “My new shirt’s gone. Can we go back to the store and get another one?” Que sera sera, indeed.
I just wish that I had the same unflappable sanguinity. “Gone? What do mean ‘gone’?”
“Like gone gone. Like I’ve looked everywhere, and now I need a new one.”
“Oh my god,” I said. “Don’t you realize what this means?”
“No,” she said, starting to sound suspicious.
“It means, “ I explained, “that there might be an inter-dimensional vortex in your bedroom. Don’t you get it? This means I’ll never have to run after the garbage truck again. This is huge.”
Rolling her eyes, she said, “Why do you have to make such a big deal out of everything?”
“Wait–just tell me this: have you heard footsteps above your bed at night?”
“Just forget it, okay?”
“Because ‘some guy living up in the attic’ doesn’t help me with the trash.”
As it turned out, however, it was neither: it was actually just a simple time warp, as evidenced by the fact that the shirt reappeared again in the bottom of the laundry basket a few hours later.
Which is a pity. I really could have used a hand with the trash.