Leatherface is not alone. The madman from “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” is in fitting company, offering dark inspiration alongside slasher-movie kingpins Freddy and Jason. And if that weren’t enough, the members of KISS have got my back, literally … resting on a nearby shelf over my left shoulder. Joey Ramone’s there too, as is the ghoulish mascot from the seminal ’80s punk band The Misfits.
They are my bobbleheads, bouncing and wobbling in time to my constant fidgeting as I adjust to life in a cubicle.
I often feel like a puma in a cage, but these macabre decorations — along with a murderer’s row of skulls intermingled with candid shots of my beautiful family — help my cramped space feel more like a home. Fitting, as they all came from my actual home.
Sadly, this transplant was done on a whim. If you were to ask a certain blonde woman with whom I share a wedding anniversary, it was a long time coming.
It would seem that said blonde woman has been conspiring to cleanse our humble abode of the relics that, in her words, are a reflection of my “obsession with faces.”
It’s true. I do like faces — scary, menacing, generally painted or otherwise contorted faces. Taken as a whole, these things can be, somewhat overwhelming. Such is the reason our old Bug Man as well as the occasional door-to-door Jehovah’s Witness have fled my office like the Lutz family in “The Amityville Horror.”
Yep … it was pretty cool.
But my office as it once was is no more. My Lovely Wife needed some space … so she took mine.
I can’t blame her. For the entirety of our marriage, she’s never really had a hideaway, a personal space in which she can escape all the stresses of life, work, family and loving a man who oozes awesome (which is actually harder that you might thing).
What she needed was a “Calgon, take me away” area — minus the bubbles, wetness and the constant pounding on the door by Jellybean who never has to go tee-tee until the bathroom is otherwise occupied.
Thus, I relinquished my former man cave … sort of. I’ve still got a bunch of books … and there’s the stuffed piranha … and the KISS lunchbox … and a couple of gargoyles on high shelves that My Lovely Wife can’t reach … but I’ve removed most traces of me.
My framed “Halloween” movie poster, along with a framed Escher drawing of a giant eyeball with a skull in the pupil, have been banished to the garage.
Initially, I worried what the neighbors might think about all the creepiness, but then they put out a life-size cutout of Nick Saban, and I realized that obviously they had taste issues of their own.
Most everything that was toteable and unlikely to frighten my cubby mates has made its way to my cubicle, where everybody thinks twice before interrupting my stunning lack of productivity. And who could blame them; would you disturb someone with a fetish for murderous bobbleheads?
Meanwhile, My Lovely Wife has a sanctuary all her own — complete with family photos, plants, a rocking chair and colorful throw blanket.
Now the only face she has to look at is mine … talk about awesome.