Richard’s Fridge

This is a Fridge from: USA |

This Fridge is from Tucson, Arizona, USA.
‘My Ex’
Assembled by union workers somewhere in the Northeastern United States during the McCarthy era, my refrigerator is an ‘Excellence’ model, affectionately known as ‘My Ex.’ She hums up a storm, day and night, here in the Kaktushaus, our humble abode wedged between Barrio Sin Hombre (place without a name) and Menlo Park (place with no relation to Stanford) in the ‘2SanSoucci’ quarter of Tucson, Arizona “My Ex” the refrigerator, is not to be confused with either William Perry THE REFRIDGERATOR, a former NFL player known for his gargantuan, square-like frame; nor Richard Perry, the aging enfant terrible who once graced Craft Horizons magazine as a cover boy while stained grass artiste of some disrepute.

Ever since ‘My Ex’ and I hooked with a year ago, her hum, a cross between Hawaiian surf, Harmonic Choir and a Gregorian chant throat-sung by a Lauren Bacall, has become the soundtrack for our Kaktushaus lives. When combined with weekday late-night neighborhood Norteno music, Latin pop and 24/7 Interstate 10 fossil fuel roar, ‘My Ex’s’ tones become a frozen-breath fugue.

All bets are off, however, once the weekend arrives. The thrill is gone Fridays and Saturdays from all the shouting going on outside. At first, I first wondered, are all my neighbors’ deaf? Given the frequency of decibel overkill and power failure, I even Googled up an American Sign Language demonstration for the word ‘refrigerator’’. (The sign for COLD is given, followed by hands outlining the top and sides of a table or box).

When I contacted Southern Arizona health authorities to inquire if they were aware of the severe hearing impairment epidemic that afflicts Barrio Sin Hombre, It was brought to my attention that the loud Alpha male shouting matches were simply an attempt to be heard over noise generated by marked and unmarked police car sirens, beer bottle explosions, glass-rattling hip-hop booming from rows of idling humvees and periodic gunshots, The weekend shouting was between coke and crack dealers was simply a ‘Nose Bowl’ pageant that unfolded along Melrose Avenue (no relation to Melrose Place) each Friday and Saturday night.

No worry. A shared belief intelligent design enabled ‘My Ex’ and I to resign ourselves to being sandwiched between neighborhood drug dealers. Through counseling and belief in a higher power, we have come to believe as Miss Scarlet prophesized in both GWTW the book and movie, and CLUE the game, that tomorrow is indeed another day (!) And so as each predawn Monday musk gives way to a This Is Fresh Air With Terry Gross sunrise, the fierce snarl of caged pit bulls across the street (in a kind of doggie Dachau or ‘Dogchau’) soon yield to easy on the ear sounds of horses, roosters, migratory birds and (Gott sei dank!) ‘My Ex’s’ once-lost but now born-again and found-again celestial hum.

Did I mention ‘My Ex’ came with no inner light? I can only assume her male bulb threads were stripped and fused into her female base at a time when the Eisenhower administration crossed paths with Marcel Duchamp’s. My Ex’s never doubts whether to light the candle or curse the darkness. This is why my answer to the rhetorical question ‘whether the refrigerator light is off or on when the door is closed…is an unequivocal “OFF.” ‘My Ex’ gets her light from an adhoc clip-on bulb attached to a table leg, just beyond the open swing of her door. It is an exterior light, which illuminates her inner vegetables and fruits with the aura of a still-wet George LaTour still -life.

To assure A Man For All Season freshness, ‘My Ex’s’ tope is filled with sealed containers of cooked meals and pre-sliced, in-season perishables, sealed tighter than the boy King Tut, in Dollar Store Tupperware. Her mid-section is lined with two-for-five dollar containers of horizontally stacked Chocolate Soy Milk, and unwashed in-season apples, pears, peaches, plums, apricots avocados, romaine and sprouts. ‘My Ex’s’ bottom consists of a couple dozen horizontally stacked one-pint water bottles; the coldest set necks-out, the most-recently-filled, set necks-in. As of this writing, each bottle has been re-filled at least four score and seven times with tap water.

While upper case ‘C’ Catholic scholars refer to Mary’s womb as “the furnace for Jesus,” ‘My Ex’ sports a lower case ‘c’ catholic womb partial to seasonal defrosting, which a doctor friend of ours describes as partial to regular ‘D&C (defrosting and cleaning).’ After which ‘My Ex’ exudes the pristine florescent brightness of a blue-chip Art Gallery in-between exhibitions.

Did I mention ‘My Ex’s’ seal is worn out? My guess is this happened back in the ozone hole days when Betty Furness opened and slammed refrigerator doors with abandon on TV. Technically known as The Peltier Effect, a situation that uses electricity directly to pump heat (not to be confused with Leonard Peltier a political prisoner currently on ice). In any case, as a result of the Peltier Effect, ‘My Ex’s’ outside temperature is 110 degrees F. along her top, and 30 degrees F. along her bottom. Each time I give her doors a gentle double push to assure proper resealment, I am reminded of the ‘Two Tommy guy’ from Goodfellas who said and everything twice.

Did I mention there is no air conditioning in the Kaktushaus? And that my Ex’ and I are also both allergic to chemical insect repellents? As a result, ‘My Ex’ and I reduce our carbon imprint by relying on several dozen plastic-encased ice-cubes, accessible 24/7, twelve months a year on a moments notice, ready to be stuffed into one of the elastic ankle, knee, wrist and elbow bands I wear to nonchemically mitigate the valley fever, as well as mosquito, flea, noseeum and chigger bites during 100 degree plus F. summer night temperatures.

On the surface, ‘My Ex’ has a penchant for eclectic chapeaux for all occasions. Her present crown(s) consist of a second-hand microwave oven, a Depression era world globe and a Buck Rogerian LED clock that features a laser arm red light time and temperature projection on an opposite wall. Jesus and Mary night-lights curse the darkness from symmetrically adjacent electrical sockets.

‘My Ex’ also fancies an ever-changing range of ice box cozy coats of many colors which are made and remade from photographs and magnetic letters attached to her sides. Currently, The New Yorker September 11, 2006 cover by Art Speigelman (altered into ”He Work”), is featured adjacent to a pair of magnetic alphabet letters that spell out the words ‘MENDACITY’ and ‘BESHERT’ in homage to the great Tennessee Williams and the late Rabbi of Prague. A 1988 photo of the racehorse Refrigerator, who earned over $2 million and won twenty-two races during his career before being inducted into the American Quarter Horse Hall of Fame, by among others, Michael D. Brown, former Commissioner for the International Arabian Horse Association until appointed FEMA Director by President George W. Bush.

‘My Ex’ and I are also car-less. To further minimize our carbon imprint, I do all the food shopping by bicycle wearing a Bird Brain Basket Bicycle Helmet (Model 4B). This ‘Contra La Caca de Paloma,’ (Spanish), ‘Gegen Taubin Scheiss Helm,’ (German), ‘Anti-Pigeon Shit Protector” (Auld English), is more than adequate for tri-weekly market action. Model 4B thus far, has protected me (knock on wood), from a sea of falling pigeon shit, and an army of red-neck cracker road rage, and CD-changing, radio-dial-switching, cell-phone distracted single occupant motorists. Market missions are accomplished by navigating primarily through side streets where possible. On the Homeland Security Scale, loose dogs and unfilled potholes, are less of threats than the plethora of animate and inanimate obstacles along Tucson’s bikelaneless main drags. It is a fifteen-minute bicycle ride from the Kaktushaus to purchase overpriced dry goods at the local Safeway, and a thirty-minute bike ride to get fresh fruit and vegetables from the Farmers Market. Both perishable and dry goods (see attached photos) are subsequently zip-tied and bungee-corded to the back of my bike.

Since my unemployment insurance benefits ran out last month, I sought advice from Dear Abby using my Freon nom de plum. “Dear Johnny Debt,” she replied, “I urge you and your ‘Ex’ to never forget the glass is always half full…keep the faith…the bright side is when you drop further in debt so as to qualify for the monthly $155 Food Stamp allotment it will enable you unlimited access to harvest food from dumpsters.” Her note concluded with a quote from Robert Fulghum, author of ‘Everything You Need To Know You Learned in Kindergarten: “Leftovers in their less visible form are called memories. Stored in the refrigerator of the mind and the cupboard of the heart.”

End Note: How did fridgewatch cross my radar screen? From none other than Dame Alberta of Mayo, a pen pal extraordinaire and fauve femme calendar girl since back in the days.