[This is a serialized story with chapters dropping each week.]
CHAPTER THREE : Continental Cubbyhole
I rose early the next morning, excited by the prospect of finally solving my storage dilemma. Was I nervous? Yes. I was going to meet someone I didn’t know, in the parking lot of a closed Pizza restaurant, to buy stuff out of a car trunk. It’s the kind of thing people do when they are in the market for drugs or stolen stereo speakers.
Although, it could be argued that what I was in the market for was far crazier.
As I pulled on my socks, I had so many questions running through my mind: if it’s an Infinite Closet, how does it fit in the trunk of his car? Surely there’s a show-room somewhere. And why be so secretive about it? It’s not like Infinite Closets are illegal. Maybe they are?
Finishing my fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice and jelly-filled donut, I had the sudden dreadful realization that I hadn’t done nearly enough research. I was out of my closet-depth and soon to wade deeper into the uncharted waters of cosmic cabinets. What was I thinking?! It seemed there was no turning back now.
After the half-mile drive to Pizza, Pizza, Pizza, I entered the parking lot to find who I assumed was Cuba, all the way on the other side of the lot. (The reader may be asking, "Why not just walk?” As silly as it may seem in retrospect, I had thought I might need my car to cart the Infinite Closet home. Certainly, there was a chance it wouldn’t fit, but I knew for sure I wouldn’t be able to carry it.)
I was out of my closet-depth and soon to wade deeper into the uncharted waters of cosmic cabinets.
The lot was completely deserted, except for a mammoth 1979 Lincoln Continental Mark V. Or maybe it was ‘78? My great uncle drove one of those “land yachts,” and had bragged to me many times how his Collector’s Edition model was the longest American-made car at the time. He also never failed to mention that it was the most expensive. At around $22,000 in 1979 (the equivalent of $100k today), this was the car of moguls and CEOs. And by about 1989, drug dealers and pimps.
I suppose Cuba was driving the Continental for its hallmark faux-spare-tire deck lid. The length of this “boat,” combined with the extra foot or so provided by that tire-shaped bump in the trunk, made it the most amenable car available (this decade or any other) for carting items as potentially lengthy as an Infinite Closet.
He reached out to shake my hand, even before I had stepped out of my car—a rusted out, sunflower-yellow (officially, “Yellow Rush”), 1998 VW Beetle, since we’re on the topic. This was the first of the redesigned Beetles, boasting the smallest and, dare I say, most useless, trunk of any car I had ever driven.
I parked several rows away from where he was, perhaps because I was subconsciously distancing myself from the potentially illegal action I was about to undertake. As a result, it felt like it took me forever to reach him. This awkwardness was compounded by the fact that his hand remained extended, as if suspended from an invisible thread, the entire time I approached.
“I’m Cuba,” he said when I had finally reached him. He unfroze, gave me a firm shake, and continued, “You can call me Cubby.”
Cute, I thought. He’s named after a small compartment.
“Nice to meet you. I’m…”
“I KNOW who you are,” he interrupted. “Wayne has told me all about you. The jam and the jars and your unique storage dilemma and so forth.”
It was actually kind of a relief that I didn’t have to explain it all to him. It meant we could get right down to business. “So… you sell In-fin-ite, um… Clo-sets?” Suddenly, the words felt completely foreign on my tongue, and they were followed by an abnormally prolonged silence.
I was just about to turn and leave, when Cubby finally spoke up, “YES, of course. That’s WHY you’re here, after all…”
I expected him to elaborate with some sort of explanation, perhaps a short history of Infinite Closets. I was hoping to gain some clarity on the price range, as well. Instead, his voice simply trailed off as he smiled again and turned toward the Lincoln, reaching for the keys in his front pocket.
I watched in silence as he pulled a large, loaded ring from his jeans and fished for the right key among what seemed to be twenty or more. I recall imagining that he was perhaps a custodian for his day job. Yes, that would make sense. That would be a natural career—what, with all the storage involved—from which to transition into the field of closet sales. Maybe this was going to be ok after all.
Locating the Continental key, he inserted it into the antiquated key-hole of the disco-era trunk and lifted the massive lid with two hands, revealing plush, dark-grey carpet that not only covered the entire bottom and sides, but also the full length of the lid interior.
Aside from the leather-bound tool-kit, the leather-bound owner’s manual, and the collapsible umbrella (all standard for the most expensive Mark models) the trunk appeared to contain… nothing. I’m not sure what I expected to see, but I know ‘nothing’ was not it.
Before I could inquire about the situation, Cubby dived into the trunk, his entire short body nearly disappearing into the darkness of the rear compartment. All I could see was the soles of his faux-leather sandals. His feet turned and twisted, as if he were fishing for something in the dark with his hands and needed to squirm in order to reach what he was after.
Finally, he wriggled backwards, like cat who’s stuck its head into a hole and realized it can’t continue. Out he popped, holding a worn, black leather pouch. It appeared to be the same material as the car’s vintage tire-change kit, but instead of leather straps, it had a large silver zipper.
He unzipped the pouch, then gracefully, like a slight-of-hand magician, pulled out a plain white business card. As he handed it to me, I read the embossed message, which was set in black Helvetica and centered on the card: “INFINITE STORAGE, 1-800-STA-SHIT.”
Tune in next week for Chapter 4…
And meanwhile, read one of these…
