Garage sale..!

Pakistan Observer - - OPINION -

GARAGES are meant for cars and cars only!” said my car an­grily. “Sure,” I said and looked ab­sent­mind­edly in the di­rec­tion of my garage. “But what does your garage have?” “You!” I said in­no­cently.

“Look in­side your garage!” shouted my car an­grily, “the whole of last night I was cramped against that silly cot which went on slid­ing onto me.” “That’s my old baby cot,” I said stub­bornly. “And what is it do­ing in my garage?” asked the car, “wait­ing for your sec­ond child­hood? Well I don’t think it need wait any longer, you’re al­ready into it mas­ter and you may as well take it up­stairs into your bed­room! Oh how cute you’d look in it. Would you like a plas­tic doll hang­ing over you mas­ter? Or maybe a lit­tle duck?”

“That’s enough,” I said sternly. “Oh no it isn’t,” said my car, “there’s more to say. Why do you have to keep those two steel cup­boards in the garage?” “Be­cause there’s no place up­stairs dammit!” I shouted.

“So why should it be in my garage?” “Where else?” I asked ex­as­per­at­edly. “Throw it away!” shouted my car. “Do you know what is in­side?” I asked. “Do you?” asked my car, “in the last five years they’ve been ly­ing in the garage, I haven’t seen you open­ing it even once!” “I will,” I said, “once I get some time. “Till then they steal my place! And what about those old paint tins?” “What about them?” I asked. “They smell! Do you know what it is to try and sleep with paint and tur­pen­tine fumes? And that junk near the wall.”

“What junk?” I asked, “that’s my scooter.” “And pray sir, when did you last ride her?” “That bike has many pre­cious mem­o­ries,” I said. “In that case why don’t you keep those mem­o­ries in your bed­room mas­ter, in­stead of crowd­ing me with them? You know what I think?” “What?” I asked ir­ri­ta­bly. “You should have a garage sale!” “A garage sale,” I said slowly star­ing at my car. “Get rid of all your junk once and for all and al­low me the space I de­serve,” whis­pered my car ex­cit­edly, “to be able to stretch my wheels and open my doors with­out touch­ing left­overs, scrap and nos­tal­gic rem­nants of rub­bish!”

“Okay,” I said as I sat on the floor and wrote a plac­ard. “Mas­ter!” shouted my car, as it read what I had writ­ten, “what are you writ­ing?” “Garage sale!” I wrote, “of too talk­a­tive a car..!” I looked af­fec­tion­ately at my baby cot, old scooter and steel cup­boards and they smiled at me as I pushed the car out. —Email: bob­s­ban­ter@gmail.com

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