Friday, October 06, 2006


Living in a new apartment brings with it a number of challenges. Where’s my deodorant? Where’s that cooler of frozen food I packed? It’s two-thirty in the morning, what the fuck is that creepy noise? Where the cute boys at?

(Answers: In my purse, turning nightmarish in the basement, probably ghosts, the enduring mystery of my life.)

Tiny cases that require just a little bit of sleuthing (or hiding under the covers, as in the Case of the Weird Nighttime Footsteps Outside) aren’t a problem. In fact, they’re kind of fun. The strangest side effect of packing up my entire life and redistributing it on new shelves has been the degree to which I feel like Sherlock Holmes while doing it. Retracing my thought pattern through ten tightly packed boxes to successfully track down the clean pants I knew I shoved somewhere feels like a brilliant deduction.

It’s all detective work and MacGuyver-style pragmatism after a move. Track down some toilet paper! There isn’t any? Turkey napkins from last Thanksgiving are, if my theory is correct, dear Watson, in the box with the forks, dish soap, and chicken bullion.

Paying more attention to my belongings and surroundings in my new place has given the rest of my day at work a significantly more investigative flair. I noticed that a guy on my floor who normally wears crisply ironed khakis and short sleeve button-downs is hiding a pair of beat-up Doc Martens under the pressed hems of his pants. Aside from making me fall in love with him a smidge, the information adds a new folder to a dossier I didn’t know my brain was keeping. A smoking habit, a tiny Disney tattoo, a craving for red meat during a certain time of the month: all are clues I’ve discovered at the office this week and put away for later examination in my mental registry of possible suspects.

Suspects for what? Exactly.

I’m sure not everyone in my life is hiding a secret identity or a history of nefarious deeds, but it’s hard not to reconsider everything when even my belongings are foreign to me, popping up in weird places and looking diffferent in my new room. Until I’ve tracked down each of my fifteen high school and college journals in my boxes and they’re safely stowed on my new shelves, I’m keeping a metaphysical magnifying glass to my eye and an imaginary pipe between my teeth.

The Cacace Detective Agency, specializing in fiction and unreality. No case too invented in my own ridiculous head.


Anonymous anonymous mom said...

some people never get over "harriet the spy"

3:44 PM  

Post a Comment

<< Home

Site Meter Blogarama - The Blog Directory