The Mad Man

One day I hear a knock on my birch wooden door, so I cheerily rush up to open it. However, instead of being warmly greeted by a friendly, familiar face, I stare into eyes I have never seen before. I greet the man with an awkward ‘hello’, but he just stands glued to the spot, his eyes glazed. I question if he wants tea, or a tart, but he blindly blinks and forcefully shoves me aside, toppling me over, and enters my home. 

Startled by him entering my abode without consent, I desperately call after him, “Hello? Who are you?”

 The man of course doesn’t respond, but continues rumbling through my house, past the fuzzy welcome carpet and into the brightly lit dining room, thudding and squelching in his messy, mucky boots. 

“Please get out!” I fiercely bark, watching him slip and slide on my smooth wooden floors.

 I gape as he throws up boxes of cereal and rolls on cans of soup, I speedily dodge as he comes hurtling at me out of control, drenched in a goopy mess of crunchy cereal, moldy bread and chunky soup. EEK! I duck and dash, while the crazy man splashes in muddles stumbling into a pile of newspapers with a CRASH! There is leftover spaghetti leaking out of the fridge, moldy loaves of bread saturated in slippery soup, newspapers shredded, scattered, and spread like stars among the sky, and the man who created this catastrophe was stuck in a heap of rubbish beside the front door.

 “WHAT DID YOU DO!! I screech, by voice booming and bouncing off every solid object in the room. I dart at the man, in shock and fury, not knowing what I was about to do in all of my rising anger. However, before I could grab hold of the man, he rushed past me sneakily, and hopps up on top of the fridge. I chase after him in rage, but he cleverly bounces into the pile of soft newspapers and dashes behind me, sliding away in his mucky boots. The man grabs a mop, a brush and a broom, he turns on my vacuum with a woosh and vroom. I climb to higher ground, torn between terror and temper. The man walks steadily towards me, the vacuum raised, the mop whipping the air and the broom brushing the ceiling. ‘This is the end’ I think, snapping my eyes shut and resting my head gently on the top of the fridge where I am shakily sitting. 

Yet, instead of feeling the vacuum’s suction force sucking out my life, I hear crunches and splurts and splishes. I don’t dare open my eyes, so I strain my ears to hear what else is going on. I listen to slops and slashes, brushes and bangs, vrooms and grinding noises, but then suddenly it all stops, the sounds, noises and all movement. I fearfully pop my eyelids open, assuming the worst, however, in place of the grimy mess that had been there in the first place, I am dazzled by a crystal clean floor, spotless walls, and a fresh flower aroma that flows around the house. 

“What happened?!” I exclaim buoyantly, quizzically gazing at the shining house, sparkling in cleanliness.

“My job here is done!” A low voice grumbles.

I spin around and goggle at the madman grasping my azure vacuum and thrashing my broom around in the air. His beard is wet and foamy, and his boots are squeaky, black and shined. 

“Um- their--mus-t hav-e been a misunderstandi-ng, si--r--?-” I fumble with the words toppling out of my dry, chalky mouth.

“Sorry for the fright I gave you, I’m just the cleaner of this town!” The man grunts.

“I --um--what?-” 

“Yep, I cleaned your house, so,- well I best be off now!”  

I stand wearily on the spot, unsteadily, without words to express my stupor. The cleaner left, and he thankfully never returned, but whenever I saw him in the neighbourhood, I always called him the ‘Mad Man’, because, as I always quote, you can’t have ‘crazy’ without ‘normal!’