by Nellie Curtiss …
It was 2:30 in the afternoon when the gunmetal colored ROOMBA left its station and embarked on its mission. There were no notes left behind; no clues as to it’s trek that day. The twin teens were not yet home from Grant Middle School where they ran for the track team. Nor was their mom Gretchen home yet from her afternoon errands to pick-up little brother at Googleheim Elementary.
Peaches, the five-year-old orange roan cocker spaniel, was in her usual place: pet bed by the coffee table. One wouldn’t think she was bred as a gun dog–a canine to retrieve the kill. Master Sargent Darin Freedomspeller was still on duty overseeing his recruit charges at the Willingriders’ Air Force Base. He would not be home until dusk when supper was served.
Rory was the name the children assigned to this ROOMBA. Rory or RR for short had its favorite run cleared already in the eat-in kitchen especially around the stand-alone marble waterfall island. RR cleared out the popsicle sticks, peppered pumpernickel, and pizza pretzels that had tumbled to the ground and Peaches had left behind on the floor as her floppy ears swept and covered the morsels.
Now Rory beelined it to the expansive slate floored big room where the fireplace was off, and the Italian rug marked the screening circle. As it grid-raked the floor, RR noticed a metal casing. With its new compartment for larger pieces, RR swept up and stored that out-of-the-ordinary find. “A clue, that’s what it is,” thought Rory. “What’s next?”
On to the hallway beside the bedrooms, then into the bedrooms. Under one twin’s bed, RR found that Pamela had saucers, scrunched up Hershey’s chocolate wrappers, and honey-drenched nut bread crusts. These were too big for RR’s internal compartment; so, RR extended arm tools to scramble, scoot, and stack the oddities near the doorway. Another cleaner would retrieve them and trash them.Then on to Packer’s bedroom. This other twin’s room was cluttered with hunting magazines, t-shirts, and thirsty recipe journals. Some pages were torn out and crumpled beside the wired waste basket. Two bottles of Heineken were hidden near the headboard. Stacked against the wall were plastic filaments, packed and ready to feed into the 3-D printer.
Rory entered the closet and was able to get three-quarters finished when a box full of t-shirts collapsed overhead and buried RR in the thick of jerseys, some numbered, some plain, some white, some yellow, some orange, but no pink or blue. RR’s motor whirred and whirred trying to unstick the wheels from the weight of T-shirts galore packing its backside.
Master Sgt. and Mrs. Freedomspeller never inspected the twins’ rooms. Why would they? So, who would find Rory the Roomba caught amongst t-shirts while hunter-green filaments of plastic lined up to be fed to the 3-D printer? How would RR get free from the clutter and the spitter-splatter of t-shirts? There was no air for the mechanical muse to whip and order up the jerseys for service to closet and cleaner. There was no air to breathe through the air purifier attachment. None at all.
What Rory didn’t catch as he was sporadically whirring was mom Gretchen thinking: “Children need oversight. Packer, what have you done? How do I guide you, keep a watchful eye?”
At 4:00 p.m., just as Rory’s motor gave a final whir, an automatic shutdown, RR heard the clattering of the gun dog Peaches as her nails clawed the hallway along with the hullabaloo of Mrs. Freedomspeller’s Birkenstocks. Then Packer’s voice boomed, “No, don’t come in here! It’s MY room. No-one is allowed. Period!”
Nelda Curtiss is a retired college educator and long-time local columnist. Reach her at http://www.columnsbynellie.com or email her at columnsbynellie@gmail.com
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