Clean Room, Guilty Conscience?

Clean Room, Guilty Conscience?



         The door opens easily, with only the slightest push from my now trembling hand.  The only noise it makes is the tiny squeak similar to that of a mouse and a gentle thud as the doorknob meets my wall.  This is all usual, my door did nothing to warn me about the extremely unusual thing that was about to confront my eyes.  It was something that I have no memory of seeing in annals of my mind.  It was my bedroom floor.  And it had nothing on it.  No dirty clothes, movies, pillows, magazines, or other miscellaneous objects prevented me from seeing the hard oak floors covered partly by a turquoise and green polka dotted rug.  I have to bend down and touch the ground.  The need to make sure my eyes aren’t playing mean, satirical tricks on me places an unreasonable, but inescapable need to stroke the grainy wood.  When my fingers meet the slightly sticky floor and the scent of Lysol enters my nose, I know that this isn’t a desert mirage taking place in my second story bedroom.  My constantly disastrous looking room is actually presentable, you could even eat off of the floor but all of the food I had on the ground seems to have been picked up along with everything else.  I know I didn’t clean up my room, let alone any room in the house.  Or did I?  There is only one way to check.  I dash over to my closet door without having to watch for the usual pitfalls and death traps that lay strewn across my carpet.  I grab the handle and pull the door open, backing up along with it so I am not crushed by the avalanche of stuff that I am sure is about to come crashing down on me.  If I had cleaned my room, then everything would be in the closet, prepared to crush my brother when he comes in to steal a shirt.  As the door swings open, I await the crash of a thousand drums as my personal knick knacks collapse back to their rightful place on the ground.  But there is no thunder, no stampede of horses that accompanies my opening of the closet.  And when I peer round the corner, ready to pull my head back in case of a delayed reaction, I see that everything isn’t crammed in like I expected.  Clothes are actually folded, games are on the shelf, and DVD’s are on the rack.  Now I know that I had nothing to do with my room getting scrubbed down and hosed off.  I need to know who did it, they might have taken something, or at the very least I need to thank them.  But who would clean my room?



         I start with what I know.  I woke up at around 11:00 this morning and came downstairs.  I have been down there since then, listening to my Ipod and playing video games with my younger brother.  It is 4:30 now, my mom, dad, brother, or 6 year old sister are the only ones that have been in the house besides me so it must have been one of them.  But why did they do it?  I need a motive and I need one fast since I have friends coming over for a New Year’s Eve party soon.  That means I have a deadline and absolutely no idea where to start snooping around. 



         I contemplate getting my beagle, Stretch, to assist me and have him sniff out the perpetrator who probably smells of disinfectant and dryer sheets.  I reject this plan when I see that Stretch, true to his name, is sprawled across the floor in a yoga-like position.  Also, the only person in our house that smells of cleaning supplies would be my mom, and I have already decided to question her last.  If she sees my clean room and wants to assume I did it, that is perfectly acceptable with me.  And if she is the one that cleaned it, then I would be smartest to stay away from her in case the spell she is under decides to break.  So instead of heading into the hunt with my trusty beagle leading the way, which is what would have happened in any book I have ever read, I head down to the basement where my dad is watching some college football and eating taco dip.



         “Hey Ron, grab a chip, some taco dip, and settle down into a chair, I need someone to watch the game with me and comment on how much smarter we are than the coaches.”  My dad hardly turns his head when he says all this to me, reinforcing my theory that he knows each one of his children’s steps and can identify them as they walk, run, or fall down the stairs.  I follow his advice, my mom makes a mean taco dip, and watch a couple minutes of the game with him.  I am pretty sure that my dad is not the one who cleaned my room, that’s why I am talking to him first, I’m looking for clues and as master of the house, supposedly, he might be the one that gives me some helpful hints.  It’s simple enough to figure out if my dad had the time to clean the room.  I ask him if there was a game on before this and he answers after the announcers on TV go to commercial, “Yes there was, it was a great game to watch.  It went down right to the wire.  I was down here all morning cheering on Illinois.  Why do you ask?”  I try to think on the spot, this always seems easy for detectives to do in movies, and I come up with maybe not a stroke of genius but definitely a stoke of believable crap that will satisfy a questioning dad who doesn’t care that much.  “I had a teacher who was going to the game, I was going to try and see her on TV but I guess I missed it.  Oh well. I’m gonna go back upstairs and get ready for my party later, have fun with the game,” and with that remarkably decent lie, I head right back upstairs.  As I trek back up the basement stairs I mentally cross my dad off the short list of suspects I had, his name had always been at the bottom of the list and now it had completely fallen off.  As I get back onto the main floor of the house, I start searching for toys scattered around on the ground, it’s time to find and question my sister.



           I follow the trail of half-dressed Barbies and plastic food to the realm of fairies, the color pink, and my six year old sister Marie.  It might seem odd that my little sister ranks higher on my suspect list than my much older and more physically capable dad, but then you obviously don’t know about my father’s aversion to work and absolute love of football, snacks, and not cleaning.  I find Marie in the middle of a tea party with a princess and an elderly English man that appears to be her butler.  Are these her conspirators?  Are they plotting to go clean other rooms now or talking about how to get rid of the Clorox wipes used to wash away the grime in my room?  Maybe the butler did it, just like in all the old movies and books.  I might have solved the mystery right here and now, except of course, the princess and butler were imaginary, or at least invisible to me.  Nevertheless, I decided to question Marie about her whereabouts earlier in the day.  “Okay sister, I’ll keep this nice and short because I know you’re busy with your friends.  Were you playing a game earlier, maybe in my room?  Did it involve cleaning; you might have called the game Housekeeping or Mommy or Maid.  I’m not mad, I’m just curious, I thought maybe you would let me play sometime.”  I am so clever.  Unfortunately so is my little sister, she’s top of her class in Phonics.  “I wasn’t in your room Ron, I’ve been playing with Fiona and Edgar all day.  And I also had an adventure with Sir Jumpsalot, my bunny; we went in the sand box and on the swings but never in your room.  I cross my heart and hope for pie.”  Marie tells me all of this with the earnest look of a puppy trying to persuade you with just his eyes that he honestly didn’t eat the leftover turkey, it was your husband.  Anyone who has ever seen this look knows that it is completely honest and sincere.  George Washington, who supposedly never told a lie, had perfected this look; you can see it on the one dollar bill.  Since I know that Marie is telling the truth, I never really suspected her anyway, I decide to continue with my queries elsewhere and leave her to play with Fiona and Edgar, who I can only assume are the princess and butler that were politely waiting for me to stop questioning their friend.  As I head back out the door and try to decide who to question next, my mom or my brother Eric, the choice is made for me.



         I almost collide with my mom who is coming down the hallway with a full hamper of dirty clothes.  Since one of us was paying attention, her of course, we don’t collide but we still get close enough that I can smell the dank, musty clothes mixing in with the scent off all mothers, something like cookies, flowers, and new car smell rolled into one.  I mutter an excuse me and try to slide past her, I was hoping to confront her last, but before I can sneak by, she stops me in my tracks.  “Ron, I’m very happy to see you cleaned your room.  I wasn’t sure you were going to be allowed to have your friends over later but now you can.  I told you that it wouldn’t take that long, now go downstairs and order a pizza for dinner.  People are going to start coming soon and I want something to be ready for them to eat and I am still so busy.  Hurry up now, most of them are your friends.” This last sentence comes drifting back to me from the bathroom in my parents’ room.  Amazing.  She did all of the work for me, at least concerning her.  I didn’t have to think of any questions or try and seg-way it into the conversation.  I feel a weight lift off of my shoulders, because if it had been my mom who cleaned my room, it would have cost me, I’m sure of it.  I head downstairs to order the pizza like she asked, but I also need to pay a visit to the culprit.  I don’t know why he did it, but I know it must have been him.  Unless someone broke into our house, avoided detection, all just to clean my room and possibly steal a couple socks or maybe a gift card.  But I am confident that it wasn’t an outside job.  I march into the living room, grab the remote out of his hand, and take a seat on the couch right besides Eric.



         He yells at me and tries to grab the remote, but I hide it better than any treasure or lost idol was hidden from Indiana Jones.  I put it beneath the cushion that I’m sitting on.  “Why’d you do it Eric?  Was being the younger brother to hard for you?  You just had to get some attention.  Or maybe you were trying to get a spotlight put on me.  You wanted to go to a friend’s house tonight and what better way to get permission than to make sure mom is happy.  Or did you want to set high expectations for me, did you want mom to think that I willingly cleaned my room and have her expect me to do it every week now?  There are lots of motives, take your pick.  Why did you clean my room and don’t try to deny it.”  This all comes out in a rush and a slightly higher voice then I had hoped for.  I was hoping to try and strike fear into the heart of my brother with my menacing voice and slow drawl.  Instead I sounded like a pre-pubescent girl who has a seriously bad sore throat asking one of the Jonas Brothers for an autograph.  Definitely not the angle I was going for.  He just kind of stares at me for a second, his eyes and mouth wide open in amazement, and then he simply says with a hint of attitude, “You’re welcome.”  What?  That wasn’t what I was expecting.  I was thinking tears, a plea of innocence, a dash out the door into a waiting car, or maybe for him to pull a gun on me.  Instead I got attitude.  I try to assess the situation and be like Sherlock Holmes, but no small detail comes to me, no trifling snippet of conversation leads me to a light bulb realization.  I don’t even feel like Watson, maybe I am Watson’s half-brother who tags along on a case once in awhile trying to impress their dad but failing as miserably as he always has, ever since their first little league game when Watson’s team beat his in cricket.  Anyway, I should be happy.  I know who cleaned my room.  It was Eric, he admitted it, in a way that only a younger teenage brother could do.  I asked questions, followed the trail, and arrived with the perpetrator.  But I still don’t know the motive.  So I do the most reasonable thing, I turn to him and say, “Umm thanks, but why did you do it?”  He again just stares at me, but this time he also rolls his eyes, which is a great way of making me feel like a member of the not-so-intelligent club.  Since he continues to stare, I might even be president of the club.  “I guess you didn’t hear mom.  It’s a good thing that I cleaned your room or else you would be in trouble now.”  What Eric just told me clarifies nothing for me, I am still as confused as, well I’m pretty confused, I’m out of similes for the moment.  My blank-eyed stare must let him know that I am still utterly clueless so he continues.  “When you were down here on the couch listening to your Ipod, mom came and told you that if you didn’t clean your room, then you couldn’t have any friends over tonight.  You didn’t respond and she didn’t check to make sure you heard her, you were almost asleep and actually fell asleep pretty much right after she walked away.  So I went upstairs and cleaned your room.  When I came back down, you had a big bowl of popcorn ready and asked me to play Madden with you so I just forgot to tell you.  Once again, you’re welcome.”  Wow, I remember that.  Well I remember falling asleep and playing video games.  But then I realize something doesn’t add up in his story.  Why didn’t he just wake me up?  And why did he even care if my friends came over tonight?  As I voice these concerns to him, he answers readily, “Well I knew that there was ten bucks in your room that I could take, which made it worth my while because it really wasn’t that tough, I don’t know why you make such a big deal out of it.  And I wanted your friends to come over because, well, you said Michael was bringing his sister Tiffany and she is hot.”  And with that simple answer, all the pieces fall into place.  I’ve got the who, the what, where, and even an approximate when.  Case closed.  And since Eric decided to clean my room maybe I can put in a good word with Tiffany, wait no I can’t, I forgot that Brandon had asked Tiffany out a couple days ago.  Well I can at least let Eric keep the ten bucks.