Adventures in Suburbia

A tale of heroism, treasure, valor, and duty - all in about 1200 words.

It was Saturday. The sun broke over the hills, alighting a small town in the valley below. Morning came late to this town by the City by the Bay. Soon began the daily battle between fog and sun, each vying for domination of the sky. The fog always made its last stand on the western hills, dug in low amidst patches of vegetation. By midmorning, though, the victor was clear, the fog had retreated, and another sunny day began in the rugged hills of Northern California. By and large, this land of Northern California was a peaceful region held under King Arnold, a benevolent ruler and a former Mr. Universe. In this town, amidst these hills, awoke a man at half past 10. He was a man of moderate station in life, lord of a small manor, and keeper of a silver steed by the name of Civic. On this Saturday, he had purposed to take much rest, and so awoke at his leisure, with no great pace in any of his actions. His sleep had been sound and he was refreshed. The man was aware of many productive tasks he could set himself to, and indeed, he looked forward to accomplishing a great many of these, but only at a pace he found pleasing, ensuring that each task of labor was offset by an adequate amount of leisure.

Tranquil was his morning. Cereal was eaten in front of a television. This he saw as good.

He read from a work of fiction, all the while reclined on his couch. This also he saw as good.

Feeling the time was upon him to labor upon one of his many tasks, he decided to make tidy his kitchen. He had no manservant, squire, wife, nor wench to attend to these matters at his bidding, and he was yet inexperienced in the ways of kitchen tidying. He set about his task with vigor, though he knew not what tidings this task would bring before day's end.

Dishes caused nary a problem, for his manor was equipped with a contraption to sanitize these items for him. He had previously been instructed on the proper way to feed the white powder from the green box into the mouth of the mechanical beast, so he felt assured his dishes were well on their way to cleanliness.

The counters showed little resistance to his efforts, for he was equipped with powerful chemical cleaners which he could call forth in a satisfying mist simply by squeezing the trigger on their marvelously engineered bottle. Indeed, many bacteria were smote by its spray, and much grit and grime was cleansed from the kitchen as the man labored on into the afternoon.

He moved on to the next task, and it was this one he approached with great zeal and delight. For this particular man was the owner of a certain device, known in the common tongue as a Swiffer. The Swiffer, as is told in many lore (and also in many television ads) allows one to clean all manner of floor surfaces with a chemically treated cloth secured at one end, known as a Swiffer cloth. Swiffer cloths are used once, attracting great quantities of dirt and dust, and then discarded, while the Swiffer remains, ready to be loaded with another Swiffer cloth. The man retrieved his Swiffer, anxious to begin Swiffering, as the action of using a Swiffer is commonly known. This particular man was such a fan of the Swiffer, that he opted for a class of Swiffer cloth a cut above the rest - an upgraded version, if you will. This man employed Swiffer Wet cloths when Swiffering. Some called him a radical for this choice; he knew deep within himself that he was simply a man ahead of his time. Soon, he surmised, regular Swiffer cloths would be a thing of the past. Swiffer Wet was the way of the future. These thoughts passed briefly through his mind as he opened the closet to retrieve his box of Swiffer Wet cloths. Much agony awaited him as he opened the door.

There were no Swiffer Wet clothes to be had. A mad search ensued over the whole of the manor. Every nook was searched. Each cranny, closet, and cabinet was investigated, but 'twas all in vain. There were simply no Swiffer Wet clothes to be had. Without such a cloth, the Swiffer itself is a cruel joke, a device whose particulars match up well with any mop or broom you would care to name, and yet the clothless Swiffer falls short in a crucial capacity at its business end. To wit, the Swiffer is nothing without a Swiffer cloth. The man, with a steely-eyed look on his face, said aloud to no one in particular, "If it cost me life and limb, I will not suffer another day without Swiffer Wet cloths. This is my solemn vow."

He went at once to a seller of fine wares not far from his manor. He left the Civic in its stable, for so close was his destination that he could simply travel by foot. He searched long and in earnest for the item. Amidst the many aisles of this so called "super" market, the man's confusion slowly turned to anger as he came to realize that he would not find his prize here. He quit the store in haste.

At once he returned to his manor and flew upon his Civic, his rage in all its glory. He pushed the steed hard as he went to a larger seller of wares, one which he knew would have this item which now consumed his every thought.

The mechanical doors of the enormous market were only just fast enough to detect the man and then open for him, since he now moved with considerable pace. He came quickly to the aisle where his objective should lie. Scanning quickly, he saw regular Swiffer cloths and nearly laughed aloud. Truly, an inferior product, thought the man. He disregarded the object, continuing the scan. Three quarters of the way down the aisle, his eyes alit upon the prize. Two fist pumps later, the man grabbed greedily for the box and went to check out. Had they been a month's wages, the man would still be unable to tell you what he paid for the item. All he knew is that the Swiffer wet cloths were now his.

Triumphant, fatigued, and imbued with an abiding sense that all was well in the world, the indomitable urban hunter reflected on his journey as he headed for home. Traffic was light and the Civic soared westward on the freeway, affording a magnificent view of a retreating sun, sinking low behind the everpresent rolling hills. It was an alpenglow not absent a certain majesty, and yet its soft colors provoked feelings of tremendous comfort, rather than awe. As the oranges and pinks turned to an exquisite mix of deep purples, the Civic came to rest in its stable.

The man Swiffered his floor, and the floor was made clean again. And thus night came to the valley. From his manor, the man watched the last bit of day fade away. He pondered the endless line of traffic heading up and disappearing over the hills, which to him seemed to be a string of white Christmas lights strung between two dark peaks. He knew he could not watch for long. He grew sleepy and much work awaited him on the morrow. Sunday, as always, was laundry day.