Hoover – Hank Kirton

June 13, 2025

He was a human vacuum cleaner. In the living room he licked and sucked the carpet. He never got up off the floor. He had an important job. He was necessary. He wore nothing but an adult diaper. The only furniture in the room was a small red sofa he wasn’t allowed to use and his tongue always had hairs and minuscule granules of gravel stuck to it. Hairs in his throat. Caught between his teeth. Discolored teeth that were chipped and cracked from biting hard particles. Tiny tiny pebbles and bits of mystery grit and tracked-in sand. He bowed over the floor like a humble supplicant. The sun-bright afternoon irradiated the rug, clarifying the Dutch-white fibers, the late daylight slanting through the west-side windows like stanchions of saffron. He never looked out the windows. There was enough to focus on directly under him. He planted his chapped lips on the rug and sucked the specks of dirt straight into his lungs. He hardly coughed at all anymore. He hadn’t had a choking fit in weeks. His throat/tube was scarred and callused from daily industrial use, his gag reflex nullified like a circus sword-swallower or porn performer. His mouth undulated against the rough fibers and particles of dirt clung to his tongue, necessitating periodic uncomfortable swallows to maintain a clean and moist oral nozzle. Miss Winnie insisted he keep his saliva sluices producing juice while he worked. To remain efficient. Licking up dust. Miss Winnie wasn’t home yet. He sucked the carpet. Synthetic fibers clung to his lungs. Sometimes his chest hurt and it was difficult to breathe. His sense of taste was in danger of erasure due to the daily abuse of his palate and tongue. He made a whirring sound while he worked. Miss Winnie insisted. He had to sound like a running vacuum cleaner. The noise droned from low in his throat. Groaning like a motor. His lips and tongue worked on the deep nylon pile that stretched ahead of him. A vast unending plain. His permanent environment. He toiled in this flat land of mineral grit and grains of sand. Minute specimens from the outside world, carried inside by Miss Winnie’s outsole treads. She didn’t have a welcome mat. He sucked up an occasional dead fly or other bug—dry fragile insect bodies disintegrating in his wet suction. Pressed into oblivion against the roof of his mouth and then down his throat they’d flow, along with the rest of the sprinkled specks caught in the carpet. He gasped the dusty cobwebs that grew in the corners of the room into his struggling lungs. The webs stuck to the inside of his cheeks like tasteless unmelting cotton-candy. Miss Winnie insisted he keep the nooks in the room as clean as the carpet and she inspected them once a month. Once he sucked up a thumbtack and it scratched up his throat/hose and all day he had to swallow the salty blood oozing at the back of his throat like a crimson post-nasal drip. Sometimes he sucked up edible crumbs and was grateful for each unforeseen treat. Miss Winnie had eaten a blueberry bran muffin for breakfast that morning and he gobbled up the flecked remnants as if at a Thanksgiving banquet. He accepted the miniature repast like a hard-won prize from Miss Winnie. He’d been lucky lately. Miss Winnie’s cat Dandy had died last month and he’d been secretly relieved by its demise. Dandy had tracked kitty litter all over the rug and shed tufts of fur that strangled him and made him hack. That cat was a menace and he was glad Miss Winnie hadn’t gotten another one. Miss Winnie was a strict task-master but there were signs she still cared about him. Like the time she threw a party and a guest accidentally shattered a fragile wine glass. Miss Winnie picked up the pieces herself so he wouldn’t bleed to death trying to swallow the shards. Drowning in his own blood. She missed two tiny diamonds of glass and he sucked them up the next morning and they cut his gums but he didn’t bleed out. He didn’t stain the carpet with red drool. He just swallowed the steady trickles of blood until the cuts in his gums healed and resealed. He was proud that he may have saved Miss Winnie from cutting her foot. He felt brave and on top of things. Capable within his given realm. Miss Winnie was generous to him. She was stern but fair. Sometimes he experienced flavors of unknown origin. His tongue would connect with a salty patch at the edge of the rug or a sharp hit of vinegar would suddenly trip off his taste buds. He didn’t know how these unmistakable tastes were created or why they were there. Sometimes he thought of himself as an explorer, seeking experiences (both tactile and tasty) within the fibrous expanse. Discovering tiny sensory treasures that were invisible to others. His work was the whole world to him. It was the point of his existence. His very essence. Miss Winnie allowed this minor indulgence. He glanced at the clock on the wall and then set to work on a small coffee stain with his tongue, producing watery saliva to soak the little brown spot. He’d been working on the stain for days and it was finally starting to fade. Miss Winnie would be so proud of him. He kept her carpet in immaculate condition. He tongued the coffee stain for ten intense minutes, using the enzymes in his drool as a neutral cleaning fluid. Then he moved on. Crawling. Sucking. Moaning. Breathing. Swallowing. Doing his duty to please his Mistress. He checked the clock again. Miss Winnie would be home within minutes. He lifted his head and surveyed his domain. The carpet was clean. Another day done. He could feel the crud he’d collected in his belly as if he’d just finished eating a delicate dish of haute cuisine. He was strict and efficient. Methodical. Painstaking. Miss Winnie insisted on a degree of perfectionism. He crawled to the utility closet and shut himself in the dark narrow stall. Listening. Listening for Miss Winnie to enter the room and marvel at the thorough, flawless job he had done. He rested his weary cheek on a soft mophead, tucking his limbs into his exhausted body, knees pulled up against his chest. Mission accomplished. Again. His tongue hummed from the recently completed deed. He rotated his tongue around his mouth, gathering the last of the tiny particles he’d sucked up and then swallowed them. He heard Miss Winnie’s key click open the lock and the front door opened and closed. Miss Winnie had finally arrived. She said nothing but she didn’t need to. He knew she was pleased. She had to be. She turned on the stereo and classical music filled the space between them. Mahler. He felt content. Safe. He drifted to sleep and dreamed about elaborate tapestries that stretched out forever like expanding galaxies.