For Gentleman Vacuumers

I say, old boy! Have you heard about the latest rage sweeping the parlors in the tonier precincts? And I say “sweeping” advisedly. I refer to the craze for doing one’s own vacuuming instead of leaving it for the domestics to sort out. At the Old Town Club smoker Wednesday last, good old Rocky van Vanderbucks III told me it can really be quite a kick!

Rocky said having kids of one’s own does rather focus the attention on making something substantial of one’s life, and I must say I agree. In Rocky’s case, he alighted on self-vacuuming when he happened to be moving the vacuum-works out of the way to make room for his weekly thousand-dollar-a-point whist foursome, and delightful young Rocky the 4th said something along the lines of “Daddy, that’s Magda’s toy!”, Magda of course being the hired help. Daughter of a White Russian count, the story goes. Not exactly a delicate flower of Tsarist womanhood but I daresay I’m no Rudolph Valentino myself, so fair play all round.

Naturally Rocky’s pride bruised a bit at the implication that he doesn’t know his way around a piece of machinery. So he plugged the diabolical apparatus in and commenced to foxtrot around the card room with it, more for the benefit of younger Rocky’s hero-worship than for the benefit of the carpet. Wouldn’t you know, old Rocky took rather a shine to this new lark! A bit like piloting a flivver without the grease, as he put it. Just when he was really getting down to cases, Rocky felt a ping in the southern regions of his back. Seems the weight of the thing was just too much for Rocky. He’d been deceived by the ease with which Magda rolled it around, no doubt.

No sooner was he back on his feet than old Rocky was back to steering the vacuum anywhere it could fit. His whist companions got in on the act as well, the cards and chips lying forgotten on the table while the gang pirouetted their machines in tight formation between the settees and the chaises longues. A whiff of one-upsmanship crept in over the weeks, with each man tinkering and decorating to make his machine truly his own. Foxtails found particular favor, as not only do they spiff up the vacuum, they generate more jetsam for the lads to vacuum up with such gusto.

But worry not for Rocky’s spinal health, old bean. His chosen steed these days is the Electrolux Ergorapido. The name is silly department-store Esperanto, but the device itself is a lean, muscular swan of a thing, one moment a vacuum, the next a wandlike device capable of rousting a tuft of dander from the most cramped domestic crevasse. Rocky’s frolics have me rather considering an Electrolux Ergorapido spree of my own. His son thinks the world of him once again, the carpets in his card room are immaculate, and even though she’s still obliged to haul out the old beast for serious vacuum messes, Magda has a bit more time to spend ironing his hatbands. This Electrolux Ergorapido is quite a thing, what?