Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Friday, November 11, 2016

Cleaning House


There comes a time in a man’s life when he must take the bull by the tail and face the consequences.” W. C. Fields

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Seems like this is what Tuesday’s election results accomplished. So I decided to do likewise…clean out my office. I call the shredder.

My office has been a repository for paper for years. I’m a hoarder, can’t bear to pitch things. Might need it later. You know the disease.

Boxes of antique paper, yellowed with age and layered with dust, line the walls of the conference room. The history of my business life lies buried in those boxes. It’s hard for hoarders to cast themselves into a shredder.

True, the boxes may hold dark secrets, incriminating photographs or, as my attorney says, ‘evidence.’ Fortunately, whatever lies hidden in the boxes has either perished outright or succumbed to the statute of limitations.

Craig operates the shredder truck, a hulking, mobile metal contraption housing giant mechanical teeth that rip and tear paper to shreds. He finds me inside, sobbing, inconsolable at the thought of saying goodbye to my history.

Hey, man, what’s with the tears, the pitiful laments?” He’s a practical sort of fellow, clearly insensitive to my condition.

My life’s history is in these boxes, Craig. I’m having a wake in preparation for a funeral for myself.”

Man up, you’re not alone. I see it often. What’s bothering you?”

I point to some boxes in the corner. “See those boxes? My mama and daddy are inside. All that’s left of them, some papers. How can I recycle them?”

He laughs. “Look at the big picture. They’ll be resurrected into some more paper in a few months, maybe a book, or magazine, perhaps a box. They’ll join a host of other people you’re shredding in these boxes. Be of good cheer.”

The thought is a cheerless one, but I see his point.

He continues philosophizing. “You know why it troubles folks to clean house?”

Enlighten me, O sage,” I reply.

Because all their useless fodder is the dead past, but yet it still lives on inside of them. It defines them. They drag it around like a bag of garbage, or they store it in boxes like you have. They just can’t shed the past.”

That’s a strange way of looking at it, Craig. Were you once a hangman?”

He laughs. “Nah, but I think I know what happened to Jimmy Hoffa.”

How about John Galt?” I ask.

Maybe him, too. Billboards ask who he is. Makes me wonder who I am. I figure my job in heaven might be that of ridding people of the past. I feel good grinding their useless history into powder. Reminds me of what ‘forgiveness’ is all about.”

’Heavenly shredders?’ Brother, that’s a real stretch.”

Absolutely,” he says. “Listen, we go through life toting all this excess baggage of the past. No wonder so many people are beat down and depressed. All they need to do is call the ‘shredder angel,’ he’ll lighten the load. That’s how I see my job, helping people unload. And now I’m gonna help you, my friend.”

He empties the boxes, one at a time into a trash bin and weighs it. Then he connects it to a vertical conveyor belt which lifts it to an opening on top of the truck and dumps the contents. A loud crunching noise erupts from the shredder. He repeats the process.

With each box dumped I feel an exhilarating sense of freedom. The past is disappearing, right into the bowels of the truck, soon to be recycled into something else more useful. So simple, so easy, I wonder why I waited so long.

Soon all 457 pounds of irrelevance has disappeared, like it never was. The office is empty again. Space for more boxes. The empty ones litter the floor, ready for the dumpster.

I pay him. He hands me a Certificate of Destruction and Recycling, evidence of my redemption. As he drives away he shouts, “Don’t forget, you can call the shredder angel anytime. See you around.”

Imagine. Cleaning house is just a call away. If only we could believe it.


Bud Hearn
November 11, 2016

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