by H. M. Mann
“She has requested my presence?”
Not exactly. “We will be serving dinner around seven. Will you join us?” I’m being so formal today. We’re only having pizza on paper plates and some lemonade.
“Oh yes. I will be there. Thank you so much for calling.”
“Goodbye, Paul, and see you tonight at seven.”
Marion turned off the cell phone. “One more call?” she mouthed to a woman more ancient and wrinkled than she was.
“Is it local?” the woman shouted.
Marion nodded at the loud, ancient, wrinkled woman.
“Okay!” the woman shouted.
Marion pushed the numbers for Señor Pizza.
“Señor Pizza, can you hold please?”
“I guess.” They’re busy at three-thirty?
Marion hummed along with “Feliz Navidad” for a few seconds. Such a festive song, but why are they still playing it in January?
“Señor Pizza, how can I help you?”
“This is Marion Minnick. I’ve ordered from you before. Over on Melrose?”
“Yes. One of Johnny’s girlfriends.”
I’m flattered, but Johnny’s much too young for me. “I would like four large pepperoni pizzas, extra extra extra sauce please, delivered to my house at seven-fifteen sharp this evening.”
“Four large pepperoni… seven-fifteen. Yes. They will be there.”
“Oh, and tell Johnny he will want to deliver these pizzas on time for a really big tip.”
“I will do that. Thank you.”
Marion handed the cell phone to the loud woman and ducked under her dryer.
Oh, the things we do to make our lives interesting.
32
Johnny couldn’t write, and not because he really couldn’t write. He couldn’t reach his computer keyboard from the bathroom where he had spent most of the past month with a severe case of diarrhea.
He had eaten crackers and sipped milk to soothe his stomach from Christmas Eve through New Year’s. His adoptive parents had sent a card wishing him “Seasons Greetings” and a $25 gift card to Red Lobster. He opened his only “present” with glee in about 1.4 seconds on Christmas morning. The “milky cracker diet” had eased his pain but hadn’t stopped the flow. As a result, Señor Pizza had inexplicably brisker business without deliveries, and when Johnny finally did return to work, Hector pouted.
“Maybe I should pay you to stay away,” Hector said. “I make more money when you are sick!”
This made Johnny feel much better.
When his ancient toilet stopped up three weeks later on a cold January Sunday night, Johnny panicked. The plunger had no effect, and there were eight saltines and a cup of 2% milk begging release from his bowels.
Johnny made it to the BP gas station up the street in time that night, but the night manager there didn’t like Johnny very much, even though Johnny bought some overpriced whole milk from him the third time.
Early Monday morning, his plumbing empty, he had called the building supervisor’s emergency number and had explained his plight:
“Hi, this is Johnny Holiday, you know, the tenant in number three who hasn’t missed an on-time payment in three years. Well, my toilet is backed up, and I need you to come fix it. Thanks.”
By Friday night, Johnny had left sixty-seven emergency messages with the building supervisor, the last extremely blunt:
“My toilet has died. It is deceased. I have nowhere to relieve myself. The gases from the once-living toilet are seeping into the upper floors. The other tenants are threatening to move out or call the health department to shut this place down. Please come over and fix it today or else I will light a match!”
Still no one came.
Johnny had to develop a nodding acquaintance with three different BP managers. He had run out of Lysol and burned his only aromatic candle. He had learned that closing the bathroom door and stuffing towels under the crack couldn’t keep the stench from creeping into his bedroom, through his apartment, and out into the hallway to wrinkle the noses of his neighbor, the mail carrier, and the garbage collectors outside.
The man upstairs, however, continued to fart in the bathtub.
Johnny could stand the torture no longer and called Roto-Rooter on Saturday morning. He hoped he could deduct the cost of the repairs from his rent. He also hoped the bill would be less than one hundred dollars, the total amount of Johnny’s massive fortune after delivering only a third as often as before. Please be … $50 or less.
As usual, Johnny was wrong.
The plumber—“Call me Jack!”—was a loud, wide man who sang country tunes as he worked. “Got a little Texas tea in your toilet, huh?” he asked.
Johnny nodded dully, his stomach gurgling, his eyes dry pieces of lead in his eye sockets.
“Gonna have to snake it,” Jack said once his plunging efforts only splashed brown splotches of Texas tea onto the bathroom floor and walls. Jack cranked his snake for the next thirty minutes, but the toilet remained full. “Whatcha been flushin’, man mulch?”
There’s a new name for “crap.” Normally, I’d be writing that down. I think I’ll spare the literary world from hearing that phrase. “I’ve had some diarrhea,” Johnny said.
“Even a truckload of diarrhea don’t do this,” Jack said. “Sure there ain’t an extra large burrito stuck up in there?”
Johnny spent the next twenty minutes far away from Jack. He tried not to think about Mexican food, but it was no use.
Jack went back and forth to his truck several times. He carried in two more snakes, a fourteen-gallon Shop-Vac, a five-gallon bucket, a little stool, and finally a wax ring. “Gotta pop the top, see what hisses.”
I will never write about any of this, Johnny thought, realizing there were some things writers should never put in books. And if something hisses, and it’s burrito-shaped, I will move my entire apartment into the Vega.
“Looky here, looky here,” Jack cried.
Johnny didn’t want to “looky” there, but he peeked in long enough to see a branch the width of Jack’s massive bicep sticking out of the hole in the floor. “I didn’t flush that.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Jack said. “It’s a root.”
“There aren’t any trees around here.”
Jack smiled. “You can cut ‘em all down up top, but the roots keep growin’ as long as they can find water, or in this case, toilet water. You must eat good, huh?”
I’ve been feeding an underground root with my man mulch. Lovely. “Um, what’s the solution?” Johnny asked.
“Well, I can jackhammer the whole enchilada out of there.”
Great. More Mexican food I can never eat again.
“Or, I can just …” Jack grabbed the root with a gloved hand. “If I can just get a good holt of it …” He twisted the root and pulled up a piece as long as Johnny’s arm, the root erupting from the hole, oozing goo plummeting to the floor. Jack grinned and held it out to Johnny. “This has to be a record.” He pulled out a tape measure. “Yep. Twenty-seven inches. Want it for a souvenir? You could put it over the mantel.”
The toast Johnny had eaten for breakfast now begged for release. “Um, how much longer will you be?”
“Be done here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” Jack said.
At least thirty-four shakes of a lamb’s tail later, Johnny heard the glorious sound of a flushing toilet. Jack came out of the bathroom carrying all his tools in one trip. “You might wanna put some root kill down the toilet for a few months.”
Johnny followed Jack out to his truck, the crisp cold air so much tastier than the furious fumes flowing from his apartment. “Um, what’s the damage?”
Jack closed the back of the truck. “Two-sixty.”
Holy man mulch! Johnny cried in his head. I can’t pay that! The pawnshop guy was nice, but I doubt I’d get all my money back if I returned the ring … which I’ll have to do anyway, but to pawn a once used, un-given engagement ring to pay for a toilet bill? It’s just
not right!
Jack opened his door and got in, starting up the truck.
Johnny stood under his window. “Um, can I pay you in installments?”
Jack laughed. “You’re just a tenant, boy. I bill them, not you. And I’m gonna bill the crap out of them.” Jack laughed again. “Get it? The crap out of them!”
Johnny got it. “Ha ha,” he said lamely.
Johnny tried to smile as Jack and the root rolled away, but he couldn’t. He hadn’t had a good month, barely sleeping without nightmares jolting him awake, barely eating even when his stomach had settled down for minutes at a time. He had dragged tail during every shift, and customers hadn’t been full of the holiday spirit between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Day, tipping him even less than normal. The Grinch didn’t steal Christmas, Johnny thought. Congress did.
He reentered the apartment and opened all the windows to air out the funk. Several cats in the alley beat a hasty retreat. He flushed the toilet several times just to make sure. We are a simple race. We don’t care about what carries away our crap until it craps out. After using an entire spray can of Lysol bathroom cleaner, he took a long shower, thought briefly of shaving off or at least shaping up his shaggy beard, decided not to, and put on the clothes he had worn to work the night before. He grabbed some coins from his bowl of change, careful not to pick up the ring.
That ring could have changed my life, Johnny thought, staring at the pennies that surrounded the ring. Now it’s just … lost change. He looked at the dusty Firefly on top of his computer monitor. No point in taking that either. Gloria was right. It was a stupid purchase.
He rolled into Señor Pizza ten minutes late, but he didn’t think that would matter. Thursdays were notoriously slow until eight.
“Marion called,” Hector said. “Four large. She say she give you a big tip tonight, heh heh.”
Heh heh to you, Hector. Johnny read the ticket. Yep. Seven-fifteen, huh? Marion’s up to something, probably trying to get Gloria and me back together. Kind of a shame Gloria didn’t make this call. She has been calling here to talk to me. I just don’t have anything more to say to her. Johnny felt guilty as soon as he thought it. Some hero I am. Gunn would just … storm her house, drag her outside, and kiss her to death.
“I’m not feeling very well tonight, Hector,” Johnny said.
Hector smiled. “Wonderful! After you take Marion’s order, you can go.”
It’s so nice not to be needed. “I meant that I really shouldn’t be around food.” What illness do I claim tonight? I already used diarrhea, swine flu, and the hanta virus. “I’m pretty sure I have an upper respiratory infection in my lungs.”
Hector smiled ever broader. “You will not be in tomorrow either then! And maybe not for Super Bowl Sunday! Like I said, take Marion’s order and go home.”
I don’t want any of them to see me, Johnny thought. I look like an anorexic Moses. And I don’t want to see any of them anyway. .
Johnny knew that wasn’t true. He missed them all. He missed Gloria’s smile, laughter, and warmth. He missed Angel’s rare giggles and questions. He missed—
He had trouble naming what he missed about Marion, but he missed that unnamed thing as well.
I don’t have to even go up on the porch. I can just reach over and put the pizzas on Marion’s chair and vanish. Four large costs … thirty percent of my total assets at the moment. Shoot. It’s not as if I need food money. That’s like throwing money down the drain. But … I kind of like having heat and a roof over my head. I’ll just … knock on the door, hand them the pizzas, wave off the charge, not say a word, and leave.
Johnny knew he couldn’t do that, especially if Angel answered the door. He had to be manly about it. I’ll just have to be professional about all this, and if Marion or anyone else asks me inside, I’ll just say, “Regulations forbid it, ma’am.”
Good thing I wrote that book on delivering pizzas.
33
After returning from the mall, Gloria lay on her bed for only a moment and was sound asleep. She had a fitful, confusing dream where a talking pit bull puppy was teaching a yoga class position number thirty-four, only she couldn’t form her half circle correctly. “You’re a bleeding rectangle!” the dog barked at her with a strangely Scottish accent. When her dream feet and hands transformed into wooden blocks, she woke in a cold sweat.
She didn’t want to get out of bed, get dressed, get on a bus, go to McDonald’s, get on another bus, and come back home with cold burgers and colder fries, but Angel’s excited shouts from the front door pierced Gloria’s floor and made her body automatically swivel to the edge. Gloria stood and rushed to her bedroom door, opened it, and said, “Angel, I’ll be down in a minute.”
Angel ran up the steps. “Mama, you’re not dressed.”
“Because I’ve been asleep,” Gloria said. She stretched and sniffed the air. Nothing’s cooking. Maybe I can convince her to walk with me a few blocks to Burger King. “You still want McDonald’s?”
“No.” Angel cut her eyes to the stairs. “But Mama, you have to get dressed.”
What is going on with this child? “Why? We’ll get Grandma to fix something.”
Angel sighed and pushed Gloria into her room. “I want you to get dressed now.”
Gloria sat on her bed. “You still haven’t told me why.”
A rapid knock on the door made Gloria jump.
“He’s here!” Angel smiled.
Gloria smiled. Johnny? “Who’s here?”
“My daddy!”
Angel tore out of Gloria’s room and down the stairs leaving Gloria muttering, “Paul … Paul is here.”
But how did Angel know? How could she know? She came home, she woke me up … Gloria looked at the nightstand. She was standing there at the nightstand when I woke up. She might have been standing there a long time—
She saw Paul’s card on the nightstand! But how could she know that the man on that card was her daddy unless Mama told her? She rushed again to her door.
Gloria was getting an unintended workout.
“Hello, little one,” Gloria heard Paul saying. “And who might you be?”
Oh no, baby, please, please, please don’t say—
“I’m your daughter, Angel, and you’re my daddy.”
Gloria shut her door, pinning her back to it. She spied the dress clothes hanging in her closet. I was supposed to dress up earlier today in case her daddy returned to meet her? Our little trip was only to get a puzzle so she could impress him? Or something like that. The child is as sneaky as her grandma, who will be going to a nursing home as soon as I can swing it. What am I going to do now?
“Gloria!” Marion called. “Gloria, you have company!”
“Mama, mama!” Angel called. “My daddy is here!”
And Paul isn’t speaking, Gloria thought. But what can he say? I’m sure he’s just as shocked as I am.
Gloria opened her door a crack. “I’ll be down in a few minutes,” she said. “Angel, why don’t you and, um, Paul, go work on your puzzle?”
“C’mon, Daddy,” she heard Angel say.
Gloria sat on her bed to collect the three or four bazillion thoughts screaming through her mind like—
She laughed derisively.
Like flying dinosaurs, Gloria thought. My head feels like a geranium.
Gloria tried to slow her breathing and take stock of the situation. Paul already knows he’s a daddy. This is good because I don’t have to break it to him, but it’s also bad because I didn’t break it to him. How he must feel! He walks into a house, smiles at a little girl, and finds out he’s her father. I’m surprised he stayed! What am I going to do? She stood. I’ll just get dressed and go downstairs and—
A vomit burp crept up from her stomach and exploded into her throat.
But first—why now, God?—I need to throw up.
Gloria dashed to the bathroom, shut the door, lifted the lid, and threw up her pancakes and eggs breakfast. I’m sure my barfing is s
till echoing through the house. What Paul must be thinking! She wiped her mouth with a piece of toilet paper and listened at the door.
“Is she all right?” Paul said.
“She’s excited to see you, Daddy!” Angel announced.
Gloria slumped against the door. I’m nauseous, little girl, not excited. Another vomit burp bubbled up her throat and descended into an empty stomach. I feel like such a rectangle! She sat on the seat.
“You all right?” Marion asked from outside the door.
I am not speaking to her.
“You think you’ll be able to handle some pizza in about twenty minutes, Gloria?”
She ordered … pizza. Why not? The night is young. Might as well mess it up completely because … Johnny’s on his way.
I have lost five pounds just now.
Paul is downstairs.
Angel is gushing over her daddy.
Mama is gushing all over Paul.
Mama did all this.
I am never speaking to her again!
“You know, if you don’t eat the pepperoni,” Marion said, “you might just get by.”
Gloria growled.
“And eat all the crusts,” Marion said, “you know, to sop up all that nervousness in your stomach. I’ll pour you a tall glass of milk.”
Gloria threw open the door. When she didn’t see Marion but did see Paul standing at the bottom of the stairs, Angel holding his hand, Gloria flashed him a smile and a wave and tore into her room, shutting the door behind her.
“She’ll be down directly, Paul,” Marion said. “You two go back to your puzzle.”
Gloria growled her way through putting on black slacks and white blouse, not because they weren’t nice, but because they were tight. Hey now, she thought, I haven’t worn this outfit in a long time. I’m losing weight. She blinked at herself in the mirror. Oh yeah. I’m mad at my Mama. She turned sideways and looked at her booty. Not bad, not bad. She growled at her mirror as she brushed her hair. She growled at the too-tight dress shoes that she hated to wear but that had looked so cute when she had bought them.