Last night, I got to thinking. What if God or Jesus or whatever is residing in that black hole? If so, I'm glad I didn't jump! I mean, I wouldn't know what to say to them or him or it. Sorry your effigy was burned down the other night in Ohio? Or, Oh, so THAT'S what you look like. I'm so unimpressed. Or maybe, Oh crap, you do exist. Sorry for everything? But in all seriousness, it won't take me long to clean the chapel kitchen today. Even after actually mopping (not just saying I mopped), it only takes me an hour at the most. Then, I'll check out the door again. The black hole will probably be there again, as always. I'll have some time to think.
I came up with an idea, though. I will throw something in it. Maybe a broom? Those are easy to replace. Or maybe one of those animals that keeps getting in here. My boss, Martha told me after I left yesterday that a rabbit somehow got in and I believed it. I believe anything nowadays that my work place is slowly becoming a zoo, and I, the keeper or a looney.
I clean the kitchen. It takes two hours, and I am fine with that as long as I have music to mop, sweep, and scrub too. It would be nice if those smiling god lovers would clean up after themselves, but that's asking too much. After I throw all of the supplies into the closet, I open the choir loft door to see that darkness again with the broom by my side. Yep, it's there and as black as ever, and finally there's something I can do to find out what this thing is. I wrap my fingers around the broom tight so that it does not slip out between the sweat and flesh, and I am insensitively interrupted.
"Hello? Tim, are you in here?"
I freeze. It's Martha. She probably assumes I'm done with my task and has another one for me to begin. I wait until I hear her leave and then realize I slammed the door when she surprised me. Of course, now this means today's one little bit of excitement is ruined! My one test. This one broom. The anticipation. And now I have to wait until tomorrow because I already closed the black hole. If things weren't already odd enough around here, they'e now also becoming uncontrollable.
As soon as I walk away from the door to retrieve the kitchen's trash bags, I hear scratching. I do not want to open it. And surely, there can't be anything in there I didn't try to see already. Curiosity gets the best of me and if I am unafraid of one thing, it's opening doors. (I'm only afraid of walking through them in the event of a black hole.)
I unlock the door, and before I pull it open more than a few inches, that same damned gopher pushes its way out and past my legs. If my Martha finds more animals in the chapel she will surely call an exterminator. And although these creature are getting to be a pain, I don't want to see them gassed or choked, so I chase it since I can't think of anything better to do. Maybe I can find where it lives and remove its home so that it will leave me alone.
The gopher, who I have named Dexter for his fearlessness and blatant nerve, waddles down the center of the pews surprisingly quickly. And there I am, cursing and running like a nerd with my neck out. Stop! Please! Got towards the door at least, you idiot! The one you must have come in through! Over there! That way! That way! It stops for a moment, and I dream that it had heard me. Dexter stares at me for a scorching second then runs out through small sliver in the back door. I want to approach that door and see if he actually left, but I am afraid he wants a battle, and I am foolishly afraid of this small, weak animal because I think he is cunning. Though I haven't seen his teeth, I image them to be spotless and sharpened like a beavers. After all, he must chew through roots underground. But what on earth is he doing up here?
I don't even bother to tell Martha. She won't be able to handle the situation or will handle it too violently. I go out the front door and smoke a cigarette under a rhododendron and hope Dexter doesn't smell me out.
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