On losing things.

The other day, I lost my remote.

Wait.  Before I get into this, I should probably set up some context.  I live by myself in a little rowhouse.  The first floor was once three separate rooms, but has since been converted into one large open space, though with three distinct zones - the couched-off living room, the office-slash-wine cabinet region, and my kitchen.  It should also be noted, that as a bachelor, while I don't have a lot of stuff in my living space, what little I own is arranged somewhat... haphazardly.  The furniture isn't, but the stuff - the mail, the couch blankets and cushions, the giant stuffed hamster - it's on the lower end of the organized spectrum.  I spend much of my life in this contiguous room.  One of the benefits of having a clear line of sight to the TV is that pretty much anything I do in my house, I can do so while watching TV.

And this day, this was exactly what I was doing.  An episode of Archer averages in at around 22 minutes long.  I hit play, and in the consequent 22 minutes, I engaged in the following activities:

1.  I prepared a plate of Triscuit nachos.

2.  I poured myself a tasty beverage from my fridge.

3.  I ate said nachos and quaffed said beverage on the couch.

4.  I used the only bathroom on this floor, through the laundry room extension.

5.  I sat down at my desk to shut down my desktop and turn off the monitors and mouse.

6.  Using my laptop sitting on the printer on the wine cabinet, I checked Facebook and Twitter.

It is important to note, for the purposes of this blog post, that I did not recall the order in which these activities occurred.  Some, of course, were obvious in sequence.  But for the most part, these instances were bits of motion spread out over the course of an episode.

It was when the episode ended that I first realized my remote was missing.  I run Netflix through the TV itself, so it was impossible to move on to the next episode without using the remote.  "Huh," I said to myself as I patted the couch cushions around me.  "Where'd I put the remote?"

The sudden silence hung in the air as I stood up, brow furrowed as I cast my gaze about.  I couldn't see it anywhere in the vicinity.  It crossed my mind that perhaps, over the course of my various activities, I'd taken it with me on my way to my desk, or the kitchen, or the bathroom.  I retraced my steps, slowly but not too slowly, confident that at any second, I'd spot the bulky black rectangle of my remote.

Nothing.  From couch to desk to kitchen to laundry room to bathroom and back, nothing.  "Where'd I put it?" I asked Alistair as he lumbered past me.  My only response was an inquisitive "Prrp?" as he looked up at me.  It was close to their dinnertime.  No problem.  I'd feed them as soon as I'd found the remote and got the next episode started.

I looked again.  This time, really looked.  Each object on my desk, in my shelves, in detail this time, seeking out edges and shapes, hunting, searching as Alistair chirruped at my heels.  "Shoo, Alistair," I muttered to my cat, knowing he wouldn't understand me.  How could he?  He was a cat.  Still, it felt good to say.  Helped relieve a little of the tension building inside of me as I cycled back to the couch.  Still nothing.

Couch cushions were next.  Next logical step, right?  If it had been on the couch, maybe it'd fallen behind one of the cushions.  One by one, I took my couch apart, setting aside pillows, blankets, controllers, and the hamster as I lifted each pillowy plank.  All the while telling myself to take it easy, to relax.  It had to be here somewhere.  After all, I was the only person here.  I had to have been the last one to have it.  Right?

But nothing.  Still nothing.  The silence was getting to me.  The search moved on, to the wine cabinet, lifting the stray paper, checking under the keyboard on my desk.  Shifting the recycling around on the island, checking behind the coffeemaker.  Because maybe, just maybe, I set it down and nudged it behind something.  Maybe it was in my hand as I headed for the bathroom.  Maybe I put it on the dryer.  Maybe I put it in the dryer.  Was it in the dryer?  No.  Behind the toilet?  I might have knocked it into the toilet.  No.

Did I go to this bathroom?  Or did I go to the one upstairs?  I headed upstairs.  I was pretty sure I hadn't gone upstairs during the episode, but clearly it wasn't downstairs, so maybe I should check.  I ripped up my bed, checked behind my bathroom mirror, peeked into the shower.

Nothing.  Still nothing.  The silence was deafening.  Taunting me, mocking me for my failure.

By now I was yelling at Zevran.  "Where?  Where did you put it?"  He blinked lazily at me from the top of the cat tree.  The little bastard.  It wasn't upstairs.  Maybe it was down in the basement.  I hadn't been in my basement for days.  But I went anyway.  I opened all the storage boxes and rummaged through my high school memorabilia and my box of computer cables.  I rummaged through my workbench, even though I knew it couldn't be down there.  But what was the other option?  That I'd missed it?  Impossible.  I'd looked everywhere up there.  Hadn't I?

There came a point between checking inside the printer tray and in the crisper drawer in my fridge where madness settled in.  Did I ever really have it?  Was the remote real?  Or was God playing some kind of sick joke on me?  Had I kicked it under the couch?  I didn't remember kicking anything, or hearing anything being kicked.  I was begging to no one, to the silence, as I lifted each couch, mumbling half-weeping pleas through the maglite in my mouth that I find my remote.  My mind was mapping out what would happen if I didn't find it.  I wouldn't be able to use Netflix or Hulu or Amazon through my TV anymore.  I'd have to find the manual 'ON' button just to use the XBox.  Every time.  I'd have to get a new TV.

By now, I wasn't searching with my eyes anymore.  They were useless to me, just leaking orbs dried out by what felt like an eternity of search.  I was on my hands and knees, fingers splayed on the hardwood as I crammed my arms into any dark crevice or shadowy gap between the furniture that would have them.

And then I found it.

I found it as I ran my fingers over the top of the black fabric of the cat carrier.  It had fallen from the cabinet onto the carrier - face down, so the black plastic blended effortlessly with the polyester.  Cushioned by the soft roof to disguise the sound of its descent.  I slumped to the floor, clasping the remote to my chest, breaths coming in long, shuddered inhales.

"Prrp?"  It was Alistair, his paw on my knee.  Dinnertime.  Of course.  With a smile, I stood, hit Play on the next episode, and strode off to feed the beasts.  And it wasn't until I slipped the quart container of cat food back in the fridge, still smiling to myself, listening to the strange duet of Amber Nash and masticating cats, that I realized my hands were empty.

"Huh," I said to myself, fighting back the tremor in my voice as a clammy fist clenched at my heart.  "Where'd I put the remote?"