3 Rogue Roombas #2
“No.” I’m half-offended he thinks I need help, and I couldn’t let him look closely at the Winnebago anyway in case he notices all her unexplainable quirks.
Before Calvin can argue, a man with a beer gut emerges from his house onto his porch. “You two here about my damn vacuum?”
The man is probably in his sixties. He wears a flannel shirt even in this oppressive summer heat.
Sweat glistens on his balding head, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he frowns 90 percent of the time, haunted vacuum or not.
We follow him inside to find décor that never left the 1990s.
Ducks in bonnets traipse across the kitchen wallpaper, maroon carpets clash with the floral and hunter-green couches.
I’d be willing to bet the toilet is mustard yellow.
“My son bought me this damn vacuum last time he came to visit. Said I don’t clean enough since the wife passed, but this thing is nothing but trouble. It sure as hell doesn’t clean anything.”
He nudges the round device tentatively, like he expects it to grab him, but it only lies inert in the middle of the living room floor.
I peer around and see dark black patterns burned into the hideous maroon carpet.
The pattern is full of shapes and lines, geometry everywhere.
It definitely looks intentional, but there’s no discernible message or meaning.
This is no language I’m familiar with. What I mistook for a decorative pattern on the kitchen floor is, upon closer inspection, more of the same strange symbols and markings.
Something tugs at the back of my mind. Look, listen.
That part of my subconscious that seems to have a mind of its own.
What do the symbols remind me of? A message.
The voice buzzes in and out like a poorly tuned radio.
I tell myself to be quiet, hush, let me think.
I’m sure I’ve seen something like this before, but I can’t remember where.
Before I can parse it, the man speaks again, interrupting my train of thought.
“Which one of you boys is Reggie? I didn’t realize there would be two of you. You sure you’re okay with your kid around this thing?” he says warily, glancing back and forth from the vacuum to Eldi in the carrier.
Calvin glances at me, deferring, to see where I want to go with this.
It’s my case, after all. And it isn’t the first time I’ve been mistaken for a man, especially going by Reggie.
I’m pretty sure Calvin thought I was a man, too, the first time we met.
I’m androgynous by choice, mostly. Maybe genderfluid or nonbinary are the right terms. Human is the label that feels like it fits the most. I’m not entirely sure how I feel, and I’m certainly sure I don’t care enough to define it further.
Pronouns are a good test for whom I like or whom I can stand to deal with.
Calvin seems to find it an amusing diversion to confuse people, and I think he also uses it as a litmus test of sorts.
I once heard him refer to me as “she,” “his,” and “they,” all in the same sentence.
It was honestly kind of impressive. I mostly default to she/her, but I do prefer travel days as he/him. It feels safer.
Not to mention the sympathy I get for presenting as a dad with a toddler in tow is higher than it is when I present as a mom, especially when Eldi is in a mood.
With a binder and the half head of hair that I don’t have already shaved tucked under a ball cap, it’s easy to pass as male if I want to.
I’ll take advantage of the easy masks life has handed me.
“That’s me, I’m Reggie,” I say, keeping my voice mid-register and letting the pronoun stick, ignoring the question about Eldi.
He gestures at the vacuum on the floor. “Well, I heard you’re the one to bring in for this kind of bullshit.”
Eldi is craning her neck to get a peek at the thing, straining against the carrier, and on impulse I unbuckle it and place her on the floor.
She’s hard to hold on to when she wants to be set down, superstrength powers and all.
Though I suppose you could say that about all toddlers.
And I’m feeling contrary about my parenting judgment being questioned.
She’s perfectly safe. The man, however, is quite concerned.
“Watch out, that thing’s dangerous!” he yelps as the vacuum suddenly whirs to life and whizzes straight over to Eldi. She pets it like a cat as it sits docilely in front of her, emitting a funny clicking noise, almost a purring.
“My cat hates it,” the man mutters, not taking his eyes off the vacuum.
“Well,” Calvin says gently, “cats generally do hate vacuums.”
“This thing is different,” the man insists. “It’s not a normal vacuum.” He’s grabbed a spatula and a pan lid off the counter, holding them in front of himself like a sword and shield. “It scorched the carpet, carved up the hardwood. Doesn’t clean a damn speck of dust.”
“Did you call customer service?” I ask.
“Of course.” The man grunts, sounding annoyed. “I had to track down a number off a vacuum website. It was a real pain in the ass. They say they can’t do anything; there’s no serial number. They claim it’s a fake, that I’m trying to get money on a false claim.”
“Why not get rid of it?” Calvin asks.
“I tried that. It keeps coming back.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I put it in the trash one pickup day. But it was back by evening. Thought maybe I was getting old and forgot and didn’t put it in there after all.” His face flushes red at this confession. “But then two more times it happened, and I’m sure I put it in the bin. It’s not me losing my marbles.”
“How else did you try to get rid of it?” I say as I watch Eldi climb onto the flat top of the round vacuum and ride it around the kitchen as it traces the patterns on the floor.
“I tried to burn it. Still works. I threw it in the pond out back. The damn thing left a trail of pond water all the way through the house and a dead goldfish in the mudroom. I tried to smash it with a hammer and it didn’t leave a dent, so I tried to run it over with the car.
Had to replace two of my tires, but the vacuum doesn’t have a scratch.
” He’s still clutching the spatula and lid so hard that his knuckles are turning white.
“Look, I called my priest, and he told me it sounded like I need a psychiatrist, not an exorcist, but I’m not so sure.
I want the damn thing gone before it burns down my house or kills me in my sleep or something.
The tires—after I ran it over—they looked like something slashed them with a knife. ”
The vacuum glides up to my feet, and Eldi steps carefully off it, raising her hands to me.
“Mine,” she says as I scoop her up. My phone vibrates, and I instinctively pull it from my pocket to check, a bad habit, but one I can’t break.
It’s an email. I read the subject line: “my kid’s tablet is cursed, pls help—missouri.
” Ours, my inner voice answers Eldi. I make a split-second decision.
“I’ll waive my investigatory fee if I can have the vacuum.”
Eldi bounces with glee in my arms at the words. Calvin shoots me a look of surprise but doesn’t comment.
“Would have given it to you for free, but I won’t argue,” the man says with a shake of his head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”