Hunting and fishing

Scintilla prompts:

[1. Talk about your childhood bedroom. Did you share? Slam the door? Let someone in you shouldn’t have? Where did you hide things?]

Every now and again I think of that middle hallway bedroom on Taylor Court. My brother and I shared that room for a time while my sister had the room off the kitchen all to herself. I had the top bunk, and always positioned my pillow so that I’d face the wall while lying in my favorite position — on my stomach looking left. The wall was made of linoleum I think, and was patterned with cracks and lines, like wood grain. Since I faced the same spot night after night it wasn’t long before I could see all sorts of faces and weird creatures staring back at me. My siblings and I changed rooms every so often, and months or even years might go by between stays in that middle room. I remember straining to find my little friends in the wall after a long time had passed. I knew right where to look, even found the five-like shape that made up the main monster’s nose. The face wouldn’t appear though, and I was left wondering if it was ever there at all. Years later, completely out of the blue, I remembered the spot again and ran in to hunt for my old friends. Within seconds the monster’s face jumped right out at me, bringing the entire scene to life once again. I was so happy I almost wept.

[2. What does your everyday look like? Describe the scene of your happiest moment of every day.]

It’s still cold enough that I want to have socks on when I first get into bed, but once I get a little toasty under the covers I inevitably peel each sock off with the toes of the opposite foot. When I wake up the following morning, it’s time to do some sock fishing, the results of which can set the tone for the entire day. Every once in a while I reach down with my feet around the bottom edge of the bed and hook both socks right away, scoop them up and hop out of bed to meet the day. This morning is more typical though. I nab the first sock right off the bat, but even repeated scourings of the sheet-scape fail to detect sock number two. At that point, I have to go all scuba on its ass, diving under the covers head first, enlisting the services of both hands and eyes. Still nothing. Next I check the floor between the bed and the wall. Nothing. Under the bed? Nothing. Well fuck, now I have no choice but to tear the whole damn bed apart, untucking sheets and blankets, necessitating a total bed remake when it’s all said and done. Still nothing. How can this be possible? Did my wife mistakenly dredge up my sock while fishing for her own? Surely she would have thrown it back under, or at least off to the side. But it’s nowhere to be found. I even rummage through the laundry bin, finding an even number of my socks. Ah, fuck it — there’s nothing to do but make the bed and move on, cursing whatever gremlin pilfered me in the night. Making the final tuck and surveying the scene one last time, I see a little white speck poking out from under the bed. And there it is. Of course, I already looked under the damned bed, but hey, the important thing is I have found my sock, and I slip it on my foot and head for the bathroom to empty my bladder. I step up to the toilet and right into a puddle of water left from my wife’s shower. The right sock — the one I worked so hard to recover — is soaked. Game over. Checkmate. Morning 2, Bob 0. Both socks come off and hit the hamper. Now where’d I put my doggone slippers?