Week 6: Yet Another Place...

“....Hell...where did they go?!?”

You'd think that holding onto ones keys, especially the night before the big interview, would be a simple task. Yet here I am, frantically tossing about my room with that impending feeling of 'you're going to be late!' hanging over my head. I mean, how hard could it be to find them? The room isn't all that big! This thought and many more 'colorful' ones are running through my head as I rummage about in the cloths basket beside my bed. Jeans, socks, t shirts, they all go flying out of the hamper in a vain hope to hear that quiet clank or soft jingle, a tell tale sign
that my keys are somewhere inside. My efforts proving fruitless I stand up with a loud, frustrated sigh and cast my eyes about for an idea, any idea, of where I might have misplaced them.

It's a small room my bedroom; six by ten, the walls painted the blue of a late summer sky and the floors the mass produced varnished wood you find in Home Depot or Wal Mart. Jammed up against the corner is my dresser, a battered brown that contains the majority of my wardrobe. I go there next and open each scared and scratched drawer and rifle through them. As I reach the
last one and meet with no success I idly think that maybe I should do laundry then snap my attention to the contents on to of the dresser. I set aside two tan and black marble candle sticks, a purchase I made years back at the world famous Perry's Nut House, to start pawing through the random letters, half written stories, and other assorted odds and ends that tend to clutter one of the few flat surfaces in my room.

Nothing. Sometimes I wonder if my ancestors were sailors in the ancient world, if not I can only guess where this litany of creative profanity originated. I suppose I could blame MTV or pup culture.

With the proverbial clock ticking away in my mind I move to the window, its bent metal frame painted black and chipped from nearly ten years of abuse by myself and my brother. The glass pane itself is cracked half open to allow the fresh spring air to slip in and stir the threadbare curtains that only did a lip service job at blocking the light from pouring into the room.

“Ha!” I spot the glint of metal on the pressed wood of the sill and my hand shoots