GONE, BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

Remember Rod Serling's introduction to "The Twilight Zone?" "There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone." I, however, call this area "My House." Because this fifth dimension -- some sort of parallel universe -- exists. It does. Right here under my nose.  I am sure of it.

Current items which apparently reside there include the remote control for the TV which I had before the one I have now, a small stone gargoyle given to me by a friend, a bunch of headbands of various design, an overstuffed manila folder marked "Debt Consolidation," and sixty dollars, all in twenties.  Oh, and the cat's tube of hairball remedy.  I miss the gargoyle most of all, as I have a large stone gargoyle and the little one sat next to it.  It made a nice eclectic display on my coffee table.

Now mind you, I live alone.  Of course I have visitors, but they are not the type to walk out with stolen remote controls or miniature gargoyles, much less hairball treatment for cats.  In fact I blame the cats for a lot of stuff that goes on but I think this is beyond even their wily, conniving capabilities.  So I don't know the mechanism involved here, but I'm fairly determined that someday I'll find out.

Of course I can't say that my place is the only place where a fifth -- or sixth, or seventh -- dimension exists.  I have evidence it lies elsewhere, too.  I have seen it happen on a fairly frequent basis out in my father's wood shed.  I have picked up a screw or nail, dropped it, seen it fall, heard it fall, and never seen it again after that.  Assuming, of course, that it rolled underneath something, I have gotten on my hands and knees and crawled on the floor eagle-eyed, absolutely certain that any moment I would come upon it and hold it up in happy victory.  I even have this magnetic telescoping tool that you can fish around with and cause the screw, or nail, to helplessly roll back and catch on to.  But no.   It's a goner.

And how strange is this: I dropped a pill once and it apparently vaporized just before it hit the bedroom floor.  Feeling a little giddy and peckish, I took another pill and placed it carefully just under the bedside table.  A little experiment; I guess I thought it would lure the other one out of hiding.  You know what?  Next time I looked there were two pills there.  I don't confess that to many people, but it is the truth.  Almost too much to wrap your head around, isn't it.

Years ago when Polaroid instant cameras first came out, I mooned my brother and he took a picture of my ass rear-end.  We thought that was the funniest thing on earth.  As long as nobody outside the immediate family (and certainly none of his friends) would ever see it, I had no objection to its existence.  Somebody put it in the Junk Drawer and every so often when someone was fishing around in there looking for a rubber band or paperclip or yo-yo or something they'd find this Polaroid of an ass a rear-end.  And laugh.

Recently my father decided to go through the Junk Drawer.*  I was curious and asked if he'd come upon that old photo.  He said no, he didn't see it, though he did find a plaid coin purse from Scotland, some Silly Putty, a deck of cards, a shoe horn, an unopened package of silver paper doilies, a kazoo, a stamp pad, a pair of disposable dark glasses (the kind you get at the eye doctor when you've had drops put in), a letter opener, trial size dental tape, an asthma inhaler, a plastic sign for your car windshield that unfolds to read "HELP - CALL POLICE," a card entitling the bearer to membership in the "Peter Maxx Clan Fub," and a squirt gun.  The Polaroid wasn't there.  It may not be anywhere, I guess.  Though I am betting it's somewhere with my remote control and the little gargoyle.  Why get stuck in a dark flat drawer for ages when you can join the party in the Twilight Zone?

*Check this link to "Papa Bob's Potpourri"  for my father's blog post on junk drawers (and other amusing essays): http://mayorbob.wordpress.com/page/3/