Under The Rug

“Ahhhhhhhhhh!!” Hi my name is Pufa and I live in Sacramento, California. I`m 57 years old, collect ties, and am balding. On a normal day I wear khakis, a plaid shirt, and loafers. So basically, I’m your average looking geek. It is the ninth of September, and I’m in the middle of my psychology appointment with my doctor Ms. Nutcase. Now, back to me screaming. “Ahhhhhhhhhh!!” I screamed again. Ms. Nutcase had just shown me the most horrid terrifying thing ever. It was cold and bumpy, orange and rough. I was as terrified as the time I had almost been eaten by I tiger, but that’s a different story. It was an orange! I know, terrifying right. I’ve been scared of them my whole life. That’s why I’m in a psychology appointment. I feel that I need to get over my fear of oranges. Ms. Nutcase is giving me what she calls the exposure therapy. It’s when she exposes her clients with their fear.
“That’s enough for today, but you have homework,” she told me “you are to keep a bowl of oranges in your house”.
“What if I don’t have a house?” I asked.
“Where do you live?” she questioned
“In an apartment, where I house a hobo”. I replied.
“Keep them there then. You’re dismissed.” On my way home I saw a saucer of orange things on the side of the road. I pulled over to look at them. I got out of the car and went over to them. It was an average 60 degree, sunny, humid day, at the end of spring in California. When I looked at them I reeled back in fright. They were oranges! I gingerly picked them up and put them in the car. If I already have to take some oranges home, I’m not going to pass up some free ones. Then I drove home.

When I got home I set the oranges on the kitchen counter. I then realized I was as tired as the time I had ran 7 miles to escape that tiger, but once again that’s a different story. It was only 6:30 but I still went to bed. Because of my choice to go to bed so early, I woke up at 4:30AM. “Ughhhhh” I grumbled. I tried to fall back asleep but I couldn’t. So I went to the bathroom. I walked in, closed the door, rubbed my eyes and screamed. “Ahhhhhhhhhh!!” Sitting on the counter was an orange, round, bumpy orange! I ran out of the bathroom, to the kitchen and hid in the dishwasher. I learned how to hide in cramped spots during my tiger incident. Boy is it uncomfortable to hide in a hollowed out tree on its side. But for the third time, that’s a different story. After a few hours I finally crept out of the dishwasher. I noticed that there were no oranges in the saucer.

Now let me describe this saucer. I looked like a jewel encrusted plate with a glass bowl on top of it. Some of the jewels were bright scarlet and were flashing oddly, while others were glowing green or vibrant saffron. I even saw one that changed colors. It went from a deep sapphire to a mint green to a brick red and back to sapphire. As I examined the saucer I saw little brown raisins here and there around the saucer. Naturally, I sniffed them. “Ecccckkkk!!” I choked! They smelled horrible! “What in the world,” came a croaky wheezing voice, “is that racket about?” “Ughhhhh!” I groaned. I had woken Hobo-Joe. He hasn’t shaved in months and on an average day wears flannel shirts, sweat pants, and sandals. He helped me escape from the tiger, but once again that’s a different story. He’s a hobo from India. I was so grateful that he helped me, I let him live with me. “Never you mind!” I yelled back. Then I got my car and drove to Wal-Mart too buy groceries. You might think I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed right about now. But put yourself in my shoes would you really be able to put all these clues together either if you were afraid of oranges? I didn’t think so.

When I got home from Wal-Mart, Hobo Joe was there to greet me. He said “I’ve got something to show you.”
He held out his hand and I screamed. “Ahhhhhhhhhh!!” It was an orange! Well at least sort of. It had an evil sharpie smiley face, sneaky, deadly, sharp eyes. Its teeth were as sharp as glass, and were even moving! It also had little orange, fine, hairs growing out of it! I yelled “throw it away!” And so the always faithful Joe did. Then I ran to my room and started reading my book. It’s an amazing adventure tale that always comforts me when I read it. It only took me four minutes to be fully absorbed in it.
I was so absorbed I almost didn’t notice. But then out of the corner of my eye I saw my lamp jolt suddenly. I looked at it. It shifted again. Then I looked at the floor. A small bump about the size of a baseball was moving back and forth under my bedside rug. I carefully lifted the rug. “Ahhhhhhhhhh!!” Guess what it was? An orange! I screamed again, grabbed it, and threw it out the window in to the cold, dark, mist of night. I didn’t have any orange troubles after that, for a while.

Two weeks passed and it happened again. I was almost asleep when I heard a sort of bumping sound. I felt the fear bubbling up inside me like I was a roughly shaken soda. The lamp was moving again! I heard the glass clink as the lamp fell and shattered magnificently on the floor. Instinctly I looked at the rug. Another bump! I tasted the distinct salty taste of my own blood as I bit my tongue. I saw the bump move back and forth under the rug. I smelled the sharp citrusy smell of oranges. This time, I put two and two together. I grabbed the chair from my desk. I felt the rough birch wood of the chair as I gripped it above my head. I brought the chair down with tremendous force. ‘Splat!’ It was flattened. Just then Hobo Joe ran into my room. He was as pale as a ghost. As he came into my room he kept looking over his shoulder. “They’re coming!”He muttered.
“Who?” I asked.
“Give me your baseball bat.” he said. He didn’t wait for me he went and grabbed my metal bat by himself. Then suddenly about fifty oranges swarmed into my room! The maneuvered across the floor in a single great swarm. They had snapping jaws of steel and real hair! “Ahhhhhhhhhh” we both screamed. Joe started swinging, as did I. Then an orange seven times bigger than the rest waddled awkwardly into the room. The little oranges could just bite and knock things over, but the big orange could bite, knock things over, AND flatten things. Hobo Joe ran swiftly towards it. He swung the bat down in a blinding, deadly, baseball hitting arc of aluminum.

‘Splat!’ The battle paused. I was backed against the wall by five oranges. I looked over at Hobo Joe. The giant orange was flattened! Orange juice flew everywhere! The room gained the tangy stench of orange zest, which hung vibrantly in the air. One by one the oranges burst like a nuclear bomb of citrus. Eventually there were no oranges left. My room was a disaster scene. My mattress was ripped to shreds. Glass littered the ground like snowflakes. My bed side table was missing a leg, the walls, ceiling and floor were stained with orange juice, and my door was hanging by one hinge. Then the clean-up began. Hobo Joe and I sprayed air freshener, we put up new wallpaper. We even bought new carpeting. Even though we took all those precautions, the citrus odor still hung ecstatically in the air.

I’ve never had problems with killer oranges since, even though I have had another tiger incident. Coincidently, it was the same tiger. But that’s another story. Even though I’ve had no more killer orange incidents I’m still terrified of them. I fired Ms. Nutcase since it was her idea to keep the oranges in my apartment. My new psychiatrist is Ms. Loon. E. Bin. She’s pretty good. To this day I still don’t know what those oranges were. I don’t think they were real oranges though. That’s the end of this story. Maybe I can tell you the tiger story sometime. One last thing, always remember to look under the rug.