Our fridge is one of those old, icebox-style fridges that were built in the late Sixties, early Seventies. I have no idea who made it, because there is no logo, brand name, or other identifier to be found anywhere on it. I personally like to call it “that piece of crap”.
Our fridge really sucks. I’ve been on the caretaker’s back for months to replace it, as it seems to only want to cool things once a lunar month, when the moon is waxing gibbous, or when it’s completely empty. I curse at it often, especially whenever I open it up to gaze upon yet another tupperware container of spoilt food that I just put in there a couple of days ago. As I bury another fuzzy meal in the depths of a garbage bag, I’ll mutter evil, irrational things under my breath in the fridge’s general direction. I’m like that.
A couple of months ago the fridge light gave up the ghost, and I’ve been too lazy and too disinclined to replace the damned thing. That is, until this weekend, when I was siezed with a mysterious bout of motivation that came from lord knows where.
So I bought some replacement lightbulbs, and went about finally replacing the burnt out one. I reached into the fridge to start unscrewing the old one. As I grabbed the bulb and started turning, I noticed that the bulb was surprisingly cold. I remember thinking, “hm - must be that time of the month again”.
As I turned, the chilled bulb suddenly shattered into a thousand tiny, needle-sharp shards, cutting my fingers and sending blood all over the milk and yoghurt containers. The trouble really started, however, when my fingers instinctively closed into a fist, grabbing the firmament of the bulb tightly.
I think I now know what it’s like to be a human exclamation point. 120 volts of good ol’ Manitoba Hydro power flew giddily from the lightbulb, through my hands, and out the soles of my feet. For a couple of seconds I stood there, grasping the broken lightbulb, and mentally willed my fingers to open and release. I could feel my heart pounding in my stomach and in my throat.
Finally, I managed to wrest myself away from the bulb and fell back against the kitchen table, hard. Blood splattered against the wall from cuts in my fingers, and I noticed in my reflection in the toaster oven my hair was standing on end.
I believe in karma. I no longer curse my fridge.
