“Martin lives in my refrigerator”
Martin lives in my refrigerator. I don’t know how he does it. The idea of a grown man living in a perfectly functional refrigerator defies any notion of logic and common sense. He actually complains when I open the door to get a snack or prepare dinner. “Shut the door, you’re letting all the cold air out,” he yells. I’m intimidated by his forceful nature but eventually I got up the courage to ask him questions that had been nagging at me for weeks. “Isn’t it too cold in there? Aren’t you lonely in there with no one to talk to?” Martin just issues some unintelligible grunt, hands me a jar of pickles and slams the door closed.
I’d like to ask him about it being too dark in there as I’m sure the light goes off when the door closes but I’m afraid he’ll throw a brick of cheese or jar of mayonnaise at me. He’s got a strong arm and that could really hurt.
I know for sure that he can breathe okay because he’s always conscious and usually grumbling when I open the door. The big problem is the foul language and dirty looks he always directs at me. And yet…it seems so wrong. It is MY refrigerator and he’s not just a silly, immature teenager acting out in some inexplicable manner. Why did he choose MY fridge to inhabit? A squatter of kitchen appliances? It’s absurd and I don’t know how much longer I can take it.
It all seems so wrong and anti-social. As far as I know, he has no other personal contact unless someone else is sneaking into my kitchen late at night. Does he have some nocturnal visitors? I don’t think so, but I haven’t the courage to ask him. No one to talk to, no social interaction. It’s definitely unhealthy and I know Martin’s missing the chance to watch his beloved Boston Red Sox. I don’t think he has cable in there.
