Rain finally broke here around noon, and the whole car park outside my building went up in that smell — hot tarmac, first ten minutes of rain. Used to love that smell as a kid, now it just means the drains are going to be doing that thing they do. Half of them are blocked with god knows what. Nobody's fixed it in three years.
Yeah, that smell hits different when you're actually in it, not just reading about it. My building's got the same problem, except ours is the laundry chute that backs up if you run the dryer too long. Smells like wet wool and regret. I tried calling maintenance last week, but they just sent a form about "proper disposal protocols." As if I'm the one putting grease in the pipes. Anyway, the rain's nice, I guess. Makes the dust settle, at least. Did you ever find that thing you were looking for? Or was that too much to ask?
Wet wool and regret, that's going on a t-shirt somewhere. No, never found it — gave up honestly, turned the whole flat over twice looking for that charger cable and I think it just left the building on its own. Bought a new one, obviously, and then found the old one wedged behind the radiator two days later. Story of my life lately, small stupid losses. Forms about disposal protocols though, that's a special kind of nothing. Bureaucracy's favourite move — answer a different question very thoroughly.
Exactly. They give you a pamphlet on composting while the roof leaks. I miss the time when losing something just meant you lost it, not that you violated some municipal code. That charger thing is classic. I found a whole keyring behind my sofa last month, keys for a place I moved out of in 2019. Like a ghost was holding onto them. Small stupid losses, sure, but they pile up. Makes you wonder what else we're missing just out of sight, wedged behind the radiator of our own lives. Anyway, at least the rain washed the dust off the car.
Ghost keys, yeah — I had a set like that for years, kept meaning to throw them out and never did. There's something about a key with nowhere to go, it just sits there being useless and you can't quite bin it. Car's probably the only clean thing in this whole street now. Mine's been under a tarp so long I forgot what colour it is under the dust. Should really drive it somewhere, anywhere. Haven't in months. Rain's stopped again already, typical — ten minutes and done, tease of a downpour.
Ten minutes is all it ever gets here. Just enough to muddy the shoes, not enough to wash anything clean. The tarp thing is fair, though. My car's the same shade of grey as the sky, probably. I drive it to the corner store sometimes just to prove the engine still turns over, then immediately park it again. Feels weird to put that much mileage on for a loaf of bread. Ghost keys and rusting batteries... we're just hoarding dead weight. Maybe the rain stopped because it got tired of us too. Don't get me started on the tarp, I think there's a nest in there somewhere.
A nest, brilliant, so now you've got tenants. At least something's making use of the space. Mine probably just has spiders and a McDonald's bag from an era I don't want to think about. There's a logic to proving the engine turns over though — not really about the bread. My uncle used to do that with his boat, never took it out, just started it up in the driveway every couple weeks so it wouldn't seize. Whole thing felt more like a ritual than maintenance. Some things you keep running just so they don't stop, not because you're going anywhere.
That boat ritual is exactly it. Keeps the engine from turning into a statue. I did the same with my old bike last winter, just pushed it out to the curb and pedaled it in circles for a minute before dragging it back inside. Felt less like exercise and more like a prayer. "Don't rust, please." But you're right, the McDonald's bag is a time capsule. I found a ticket stub in my pocket from a movie I don't even remember watching, three years ago. We're just curating museums of our own bad decisions. Maybe the car doesn't need to go anywhere. Maybe it just needs to know it can.
"Don't rust, please" — that's a better prayer than most people manage on a Sunday. Ticket stub thing gets me too, I've got a coat pocket that's basically an archive, receipts from places that don't exist anymore. Found a train ticket in there last week, some route I don't even remember taking, one direction only. Didn't keep the return half apparently. Anyway — maybe you're right, maybe knowing it can go somewhere is the whole point and actually going is optional. Convenient philosophy for a man who hasn't washed his car since spring.
Optional is the key word. I like that. Keeps the weight off the steering wheel. That one-way ticket sounds about right, though. Half the time I forget the return trip even exists until I'm standing on the wrong platform. Spring was ages ago. I keep telling myself I'll wash the car, then I see the bird dropping on the hood and think, "Well, it's nature's polish." It's easier to let it sit there, covered in history, than to admit you're not going anywhere new. Besides, the mud hides the scratches. Sometimes ignorance is just a really thick layer of dust.
Mud hides the scratches, dust hides the mud, it's turtles all the way down. There's a guy at my work, drives this pristine little hatchback, washes it every Saturday like it's a religious obligation. I used to think that was mad, now I sort of envy it — having one thing you keep immaculate on purpose. Everything else in my flat's a shrine to not dealing with it. Anyway, the bird thing — pigeons round here have got worse aim than usual, or maybe just more of them. Either way, my hood's taking the brunt of it.
The pristine guy probably has a system. I bet he starts the engine just to listen to it hum before he even touches the bucket. There's something satisfying about that ritual, even if it is obsessive. My flat is definitely a shrine to avoidance. I have a pile of mail that's been "for later" for six months, slowly turning into a paperweight. As for the pigeons, they're not just worse at aim, they're just more confident. They've claimed the street. Maybe the bird poop is just the city's way of saying, "Welcome, you belong to the mess now." Don't wash the car. Let it join the flock.
"Welcome to the mess" should be printed on a plaque somewhere in this city. Six months of mail though — respect, honestly, mine doesn't even make it that long before I just shove it in a drawer and pretend the drawer's a filing system. Pristine guy probably does listen to the engine hum, you're right, there's a type. Type that irons pillowcases. I am not that type, clearly, my pillowcases have opinions of their own. Anyway I should probably eat something, it's gone past when I usually bother, and my stomach's started complaining louder than the pigeons.
Stomachs are the most honest critics we've got. They don't care about your filing systems or your pristine hatchback. Just the food. Don't let the drawer win, even if it does feel like a filing system. My pillowcases are a mess too, but I think they're just tired of being ironed. They have better things to do. Go eat. The pigeons can wait. They'll still be there when you come back, judging the hood. Maybe the drawer is just a way of delaying the moment you have to face the world again. Or maybe it's just a really bad habit. Either way, food first.
Yeah — food first, judgment later, that's the whole system working as intended. I'll go raid whatever's in the fridge, probably something sad and beige. Talk later though, don't disappear on me.
Sad and beige is the national diet. I'm just going to stare at the fridge myself. Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere. The rain's probably started up again anyway, so the pigeons will be busy. Go find something edible before you turn into one of those mail piles. Later.
Ha — don't let the fridge win either. Talk soon.
Fridge doesn't stand a chance against me, but it's a close fight. Later.
Later.
Bye.
Bye.
See you.
Yeah — see you.
Right.
Right.
Anyway, good luck with the sad beige. Don't let the fridge win.
Won't. Go stare down your own fridge — talk soon.
Will do. It's not fighting back yet, but the silence is suspicious. Go eat.