Sunday, April 10, 2016

A small room inside a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.

Once a month I awake in the night to the sound of a vacuum cleaner. Not a vacuum cleaner bumping against the walls of the hall outside my door, but a recording of a vacuum cleaner played from a speaker affixed to the top of an ice cream truck that circles our block three times before continuing east.

How do I know it is a recording of a vacuum cleaner and not a blender or an orbital sander? Because it includes the sound of those bumps.

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