Mr. Clean
The recent Indy article, “Unexpected Surplus of Volunteers for Beach Clean-up,” had a profound impact on me. At first I did my usual thing. I clipped out Pet Peeves for the time capsule. But right after, I didn’t throw the newspaper on the floor for my wife to involuntarily pick up later. This is sea change behavior for me. I’ve been a yucky, stinky slob ever since I learned to read and understand what gravity could do for items I no longer had a need for. Isaac Newton was a kindred spirit. He never picked up the apple that hit him in the head, but instead threw down an empty packet of pork rinds right after he learned gravity was the easy way out.
Apparently, a lot of beachgoers subscribe to Newton’s law. Clean-up volunteers found a BBQ grill, boogie boards, a dress with store tags, an American flag, and a large plastic sheet covered in human waste. The volunteers scooped up everything, but the waste. Authorities were called in and made the volunteers return the beach paraphernalia to the rightful beachgoers, who had their afternoon holiday interrupted by overly enthusiastic volunteers.
My hat is off to those community spirited volunteers. And no I don’t want my hat back. Just pick it up and throw it away for me. I’ve never been good at picking up after myself. My mother use to say, “It looks like a bomb went off in your bedroom. Straighten it up or I’m calling in Mr. Clean.” I was scared to death of Mr. Clean. I mean look at him. Standing in at 6-10, weighs the same as a seven-passenger mini van, and bears a cue ball resemblance to Kojak just after his lollipops get stolen. And what’s with the pirate earring? Makes you wonder what happened to the parrot. Mom was calling in some serious muscle. So, I did what any teenage boy would do. I switched TV channels when Mr. Clean commercials came on. I didn’t want to be reminded.
The volunteers weighed the trash at 450 lbs. It was too heavy to carry up 1,000 Steps to Coast Highway. Instead, the volunteers glued the trash together and titled it “Crapola.” The city council declared it a public arts sculpture and placed it on the national historic art registry. Neighbors complained. Some thought it wasn’t true art, but just a cheap way of not taking the trash out. Other neighbors insisted Mr. Clean be brought in to deal with the monstrosity.
Mr. Clean? Oops. I didn’t want to hear that name again. I switched TV channels. Oh goody, the Nature Channel. See, there’s no such thing as global warming. Ahh, this I could pick up on.
Crantz tells the Indy that he still has recurring nightmares about Mr. Clean coming to his bedroom. His therapist listens and an office parrot hums, “Mr. Clean gets rid of dirt and grime in just a minute. Mr. Clean will clean your whole house and everything that’s in it. Mr. Clean! Mr. Clean! Mr. Clean!” Crantz’ recovery is doubtful, but the therapist office sparkles.
