Papertowels and Airspray, A short Story

Joe stood up from the cold porcelain seat.  He pulled his pants, and then the trigger.  The murky brown-yellow water vortexed into a shitty swirl that grew taller and taller.  For a moment, he gazed at the impending doom of rising shit, hoping that by some act of Newton or God, it would simply go down.  Nothing is more distinct than the sound of a clean flush.  Despite his prayers, the inexorable water line reached the top of the toilet bowl; shit floating like big, brown boats.   The creator of this slow, flooding hurricane darted to get the plunger that was so inconveniently placed in the bathroom closet, six feet away, behind the laundry hamper, under a shelf, in a grey book-bag that was once used to hold books.

Shit, shit, shit!

For the seventh day in a row, ­­­­Joe had clogged the toilet.  For the seventh day in a row, he had cursed six times before even thinking about brunch.  He plunged away, mumbling to himself. Man, I need a new toilet.  Replace this old piece of shit.  (Make that seven times before brunch.)

After cleaning this debacle with papertowels and airspray, showering with just airspray, and eating hot pockets with just papertowels, Joe took out his things-to-do list, for it was chore day.  Usually, he does not make lists as he believes it to be counterproductive.  Why waste time making a list of things to do, when you could do things wasting time? The reason: Oprah Winfrey.  The American billionaire, producer, philanthropist, and owner of the highest rated talk show host ever in the history of talk shows, claimed that list-making relieves stress and gives life meaning, even if that meaning is to clean the cat’s litter-box.  So, despite his biased disposition, Joe made a things-to-do list—a mighty fine one too.

#1: Clean the cat’s litter-box.

­A huge sigh.  He hated that cat. He hated how it stared at him for hours, like it had nothing to do, but stare.  He hated the cheap, smelly poop-box, filled to the brim with shit and piss.  But, what he hated most was its name.  His sister named the cat “Jesus” and for some reason, he didn’t ever think to change it.  It just stuck.  At first, it was funny.  People would come over and ask for its name.  He would say that it was Jesus and everyone would laugh and pet Jesus.   They would say, “Hey look, I’m petting Jesus!” with more enthusiasm than he had ever see them have.  Some of his more clever friends would crack jokes about CS Lewis, Aslan, and Liam Neeson. Sadly, the smart ones were few and far between.

One day when ­Joe was bringing in the groceries, Jesus ran away from home.  Joe spent the rest of the evening through the streets of his neighborhood yelling, “Jesus!  Come home, Jesus!  I bought that food you liked, you know, the one in the commercial with the woman with the sexy hands and that fluffy white cat!”  Passersby glared at him, judging with their eyes.  Mothers muffled her children’s ears, telling them not the listen to that crazy man.  They told their kiddies that Jesus was in heaven and didn’t eat cat food, especially that yucky stuff in that one commercial with the sexy hands.  Needless to say, Joe’s search for his cat ended his social life.

Joe took out his pooper scooper and his face mask. On all fours, he got of whiff of the pancaked feces. He reached for his papertowels and airspray. …. Didn’t I just do this? He asked himself.

#2.  Wash the car.  ­

­Joe’s car, perhaps justifiably, was an Oldsmobile. “Ole’ rusty,” as he called it, or, “piece of shit,” as everyone else called it, was dirty brown all over—the sides, the bumpers, the hood, the roof—except for the trunk which still held the dark ocean color of the original paintjob.  The first rusty spot started in the upper left corner of the car years ago, next to the headlight.  Joe never knew how it got there. It just did.  He never took care of it believing that everything would be okay. Before he knew it, the rusty spot had grown, a mitosis of oxidation, and travelled horizontally down the entire length of the left side of the car.  Soon, the rust triumphed over its fear of heights and grew vertically, covering the hood of the Oldsmobile.  Eventually, the expanding chemical reactions engulfed the whole vehicle, even the seatbelt buckles. The only place where the rust had failed to infect was the trunk, which to this day, still holds the glistening sparkle of its original carwax.

Joe grabbed a kitchen sponge and took a bottle of water.  He doused the sponge with some water and placed a dab of carwash detergent into it.  He scrubbed the trunk, whistling a tune that he had forgotten the words to.  He rinsed the bubbles off with the rest of the water from the bottle.  He proceeded to dry with a single papertowel.  Soon, he sprayed the car’s cabin with airspray.  Ah, clean, finally!

#3.  Take out the trash.

For others, taking out the trash would have been a simple chore.  Two or three minutes max.  However, for Joe, it was a grueling endeavor, since his trashcan was falling apart. The dull-green, plastic walls sustained cracks from being carelessly thrown around by garbage men.  The lid had been long lost after a thunderstorm a few weeks ago. Due to months of being dragged across the asphalt instead of being lifted (and because Joe constantly stuffed more garbage than it could possibly hold) the floor of the container was pushed out and off.   It wasn’t really a garbage can any longer, but a beat-up, green cylinder, a silhouette of its former self—a gaping hole where the lid used be, a gaping hole where the bottom floor once was.

Joe had gotten the garbage container at the local flee market.  The selling couple bought everything in bulk, believing that doing so would save them money in the long run.  Food, clothes, toilet paper, Glade plug-ins, shoelaces, contraceptives. They accidentally ordered an extra case of one-hundred fifty garbage cans that a flatbed truck delivered to them at no extra cost.  The couple eventually figured out that they had way too many garbage cans when they started using garbage cans as garbage bags.  So to prevent global warming, they decided to sell the extras at the flee market. Enter Joe and his five dollars and sixty-two cents.

Joe pulled the cylinder across his driveway, spilling spoiling meat and pizza boxes.  He looked back, unsatisfied with the trail of dying material.  He walked around back and started pushing, but got the same result. He began hyperventilating, preparing himself for what he calls, “clogging the pipes.” Joe bent down and hoisted the can straight up, rotating the cylinder ninety  degrees, arched his back, and used his chest as a plug.  He was the bottom of the trash-can.  From this position, he could smell the rotting remains of his used discards. He held his breath, but the stench still managed to seep into his nostrils and lungs.

Each step shifted the garbage in a new position, revealing the forgotten trash pieces that he had tossed during the week.  A ripped sock. Empty airspray cans. Shit-stained paper-towels.  At the end of driveway, he quickly dropped the garbage can and coughed.  Garbage stained his shirt; the awful smell was a piggish perfume. Joe gagged.  It was a job well done.

Chores and number filled the rest of his day.  By sundown, Joe had crossed off thirteen things that Oprah told him he should do.  He tiredly trotted into his house, popped a frozen pizza into the oven, set the timer, and went to the bathroom to wash himself.  He gazed into the mirror, looking at that unknown man before him.  Jesus, maybe that cat was onto something. The wrinkles developing on his forehead.  The unshaven beard.  The scar on his left cheek.  Time was going.  He was getting old.

Joe gave a heavy, suffocating sigh, and sulked to the kitchen. He reached for the triple layered cheese, covered with meat-from-every-genus pizza.  He made an almost superhuman bite, and reached for his can of stale beer that had been sitting there for God-knows how long. Stuffing the rest of the pizza into his mouth, Joe reached for another slice.

He was going to clog the toilet for the eighth day in a row.