Plato for Plumbers

by Francis Gideon

"Hmm?" Ken said. He felt his face flush again as he thought of the last sentence he typed in before Mark had disturbed him. He was pretty sure he had forgotten to save his jumbled fantasies when he closed the laptop lid, which was really for the better. "What do you mean?"

  "You sounded happier before when you were writing," Mark explained. "As good as philosophy is, I highly doubt that was what kept your fingers moving so fast."

  Ken laughed, light and awkward. "It was nothing, really. Don't worry."

  Mark looked up from his work. He held his hand on the base of the bathroom counter, pushing himself up slowly so his and Ken's gazes could meet—and linger for a little longer. Ken felt something inside himself pluck, as if they saw one another and recognized something. More than just likes and dislikes. There was something soft and nice about the way Mark tilted his head and grinned casually.

  Is he gay? Ken wondered. He could have been gay. Maybe that was what Ken was seeing when he looked at him and that was why he seemed so familiar. If Mark was gay, then maybe all the other roadblocks Ken had put in between them weren't really that big of a deal. Even the age difference. Some gay men liked their daddies, even if Ken felt more like a spiritual father to his students than anyone else.

  "Working from home must be nice," Mark stated.

  "It has its ups and downs."

  "Oh? I would have thought wearing pyjamas all the time would be good."

  Ken looked down at his clothing self-consciously. He wore jeans and an old T-shirt with a worn logo for the school on the front. "I got dressed today. It helps me to concentrate, really."

  Mark rolled his eyes playfully. "Okay, you got me there."

  "No, no," Ken said, desperately trying to keep the light and somewhat flirtatious attitude between them. "I wasn't saying you're wrong. You're right, in a way. Half the problem of working from home means that you get into so many routines. Even if I'm not here all day, and I sometimes go to main campus, I still get very stuck in my ways."

  Mark nodded. "So if not philosophy, what would you be writing? Would you be?"

  Ken's face flushed again. So many ideas ran through his mind, none of them appropriate to repeat aloud. Mark must have sensed the sudden apprehension because he held up his hands in defeat.

  "Sorry. You don't have to share if you don't want. I'm just curious, and I suppose I try to live vicariously through others. Anyway, I think this putty is dry, so I'm going to turn the water on so I can test it."

  Mark moved too fast for Ken to stop him or apologize. He dropped down to his knees again, his gray pants stretching with the sudden flexing of his thigh muscles. He turned the water on and waited for a few minutes as he ran the faucet. There was no change, nothing new. Mark sighed.

  "Sometimes it takes a minute. Hold on." Mark bent down into his tool box again. He pulled out a wrench and then a metal water bottle. He took a long, drawn out sip from the bottle, his Adam's apple bobbing and hypnotizing Ken as it did.

  "What would you write?" Ken asked. "You know, if you had time."

  "And if I had the skill?" Mark smiled. He leaned against the back of the sink. He laughed, grinning to himself before he raised his gaze to Ken's. "I like poetry, believe it or not."

  "I believe it," Ken said honestly. There was a subtle poetry to Mark's body that made Ken think he could produce fine lines just by existing. The ratio of Mark's hips to his body was like a haiku. Five/seven/five. Ken could lick the syllables like sweat off Mark's body and still feel the rhythm run through him.

  "Not a lot of guys back at the plumbing company are really into poems," Mark said with a sigh. "At least, not unless they're limericks."

  They both smiled and shared a small laugh. Mark ran his hand across the back of his neck as Ken remembered something he often brought up in one of his upper year classes.

  "Vulgarity is simply the conduct of other people, just as falsehoods are truth to others as well."

  "Yeah," Mark said, nodding. "I like that, actually. It's just another perception or interpretation on what poetry really is. I don't think they're wrong for liking limericks—it just isn't my thing."

  Without waiting for a response, Mark drew his attention back to the sink. He turned off the faucet and then pressed his ear close to the pipes, waiting. Ken waited too, his nerves slightly raw. He had wanted to tell Mark that his line was really a quotation from Oscar Wilde. And then from there, what? Ken asked himself. Teach him another lesson about Plato's forms or Wilde's humor as a form of seduction? It wasn't going to work. Forget it now and you won't get hurt.

  Drip drip drip. Mark's expression wilted at the sight and sound of the pipe springing a leak again in spite of his patchwork on the part. Ken also sighed.

  "Damn," Mark said. "Okay, you need a new part. I know I have some in my truck, but I wanted to try and see if we could do it the old-fashioned way."

  "It's okay. I appreciate the effort."

  Mark grabbed his hat from the tool box. He folded the brim over, considering something. "Hey, so, I'm getting a bit hungry. Do you mind if I stop for a bit to get lunch? I'll put in the replacement part as soon as I'm back. I could do it now if you really want, but my mind gets away from me when I'm hungry, and I'll probably take twice as long. And I'll do a much better job if I eat. Off the clock, of course."

  "Of course," Ken said. "I can make you something, if you want? I should take a break too."

  Ken tried to lean in the bathroom door the way Mark had earlier. But Mark's body had made relaxing seem effortless, like a photo shoot, whereas Ken felt as if his own skin was too tight over his body. He felt utterly transparent and boring. No way would someone like Mark want to stay around longer just to eat lunch with him.

  But when Mark rose to his feet, he nodded along to Ken's suggestion, thinking about it. Close up, Ken noticed a small scar on Mark's chin, curved just under the lip. It wasn't alarming, like some facial scars were. This added character, especially when the deep groves became even deeper as Mark smiled with his answer.

  "How about," he offered as a compromise, "I pick us both up something?"

  "Deal," Ken said. "Deal."

  *~*~*

  "It's such a beautiful day," Mark said when he returned, a paper bag under his arm already spotted with grease. "How about we eat outside? Just on your porch. You have a nice garden, too."

  "I can't take much credit for that," Ken said. He grabbed a cardigan to throw over his jeans and T-shirt. The cardigan was brown and had leather patches over the elbows, in the style of a tried and true professor. He laughed lightly at himself. All he needed was a pipe and then he could strike the Rodin thinker pose on his lawn.

  "What do you mean?"

  "The flowers. I didn't do them," Ken sad. He bit his lip, not wanting to bring up his old boyfriend. Mark seemed to sense the backstory behind his words. He extended the brown bag as a way to deflect the tension.

  "Fries and gravy. Best in the city. I was tempted to get poutine, but they never make it here like they do in Canada."

  They both settled down on the front steps. Mark's thighs looked even better sitting down outside, Ken thought. He tried to not let his eyes rest too long over Mark's body without getting caught. Their shoulders were inches apart, and Ken could feel how sturdy he was. He could also smell Mark, just faintly. Sweat and metal, but also like pine and—was that a faint hint of melon? It seemed counterintuitive, the sweet with the dirty, but that fit Mark, didn't it? He was a man who worked with his hands, but whose body was a poem.

  "You've been to Canada?" Ken asked. "Even I haven't gone up to see our neighbors in the north."

  "Oh yeah. I had a contracting job there. It was fun, for a while. Everyone's much more polite." Mark grinned as he ate a couple more fries. Now that they were outside, his hat was on his head again, partly blocking his brown eyes from Ken's view. "You should go. Just to eat the poutine."

  "Maybe," Ken allowed. "If any of the good universities have a conference, then I can write it off as a business trip."

 
Mark gave Ken a sidelong glance. It was a familiar look now, one that asked a silent question of, Are you really happy with that answer? With things in general?

  Ken looked away without answering the stare. He ate a few more fries and watched as the kids from across the street came home for lunch. Ken sometimes forgot his condo was nestled right inside a suburban sprawl, where parents had kids, attended PTA meetings, and worried about the neighborhood watch. Ken spent so much time indoors or at the university, he would bet his neighbors didn't know who he was at all.

  Unless, of course, they wanted to tell time by him.

  "What time is it, Jimmy?" Ken heard the well-worn sketch in his head again. "Half past Ken. But this time, he has someone else with him."

  At least, Ken figured, he was doing something new.

  "So tell me how you ended up here," Mark asked, "if you don't really like philosophy?"

  Ken sighed and then he laughed. "I do like philosophy. I guess… How do most of those stories go? You find something you love and you let it kill you."

  "Bukowski?" Mark asked. "Or was that Kerouac?"

  "Same difference. I thought I loved philosophy. The world of ideas. Everything that was new and supposed to cure me of the doldrums of daily life and elevate me to a higher plane of thought."

  "And?"

  "The world is still here. It goes on, it continues to be dull, whether I read Plato or Kant, or go right for the low-brow humour." Ken sighed. He placed his fries on the ground and watched as cars went by. Though his sink was nearly fixed, he heard the subtle drip drip drip and dull throb of daily life in the far reaches of his mind. "There is so much focus on ideals in philosophy, like the forms that Plato talked about. I had one prof in my undergrad, David Lethbridge—a wonderful man, really—who told us all that there were two types of people in this world: ones who like Plato or ones who like Aristotle. Plato wanted ideals, ones that would never happen in real life, but they were something good to strive for. Whereas Aristotle wanted to focus on the daily grind; he wanted to observe things he could see. He was very empirical and not idealistic. I thought I would stick with Plato, like David did. But you can't eat ideals. You can't really do much of anything with ideals."

  "I don't see it that way, not necessarily," Mark said after considering Ken's words for a moment. Ken worried that he had spoken too much and completely scared Mark away. He was relieved when Mark ate another fry then began to move his hands as he talked, as if he was fixing something with his words. Ken really admired that kinetic energy.

  "I understand the question your professor was trying to pose, but I don't think it works. It just splits up everything into two choices. Black or white. In my mind, that seems to be the very problem with western—usually American—thought. We think there are only two options for our lives, but there are really many." Mark paused, resting his hands on his knees. "So yes, I think there can be a Platonic ideal that we can strive for while still remaining level-headed like Aristotle and focusing on things we see. But why not both? Why can't we ever just be satisfied with something in the middle?"

  "I…Hmm…" Ken trailed off. He examined Mark's profile, his jaw agape, completely amazed. "Now, I know I’ve heard that response before. But there’s something in the way you phrased the whole dilemma now that makes me pause for a moment. And that in itself is an accomplishment! But I guess... I guess that two-tiered system always stuck with me, and I'm just finding it hard to shake. I still feel like I have to pick."

  "It would. If that was one of your first profs, it's going to affect you. Just like childhood fears still do. I don't really think childhood fears go away, either," Mark admitted. "We just replace them with something else."

  "Like worrying about being a fraud? Or getting boring?" Ken asked with a laugh.

  "Yes, or that life isn't really as exciting as we think it may be. And maybe eating fries on front steps is as good as it gets."

  Ken and Mark laughed. Ken was struck by another wave of feeling towards Mark and the uneasiness of not knowing what to do about it. They were almost done with their fries, and he knew it would soon be time to go.

  "How did you end up here?" Ken asked. "You're really smart."

  "For a plumber?" Mark asked with an easy smile.

  "No, in general. You could easily be in grad school. Are you thinking about it?"

  Mark laughed, but didn't answer.

  "Come on, I'm not kidding with you. You know that grad school is far more about dedication and work ethic, right? If you can balance plumbing and still read audiobooks, then you're already ahead of the game."

  "Nah, it's okay. I mean—thanks for the flattery, but it's just not really the place for me."

  "Why? What would make you say that?"

  Mark pursed his lips. Ken could tell it was a touchy spot as he continued talking. "Growing up, my mom always told me that if I was the smartest person in the room, I should leave the room. Challenge myself more and more. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that smart people who know they're smart don't actually like to leave the room. They get stuck in their ways, their easy lives, and they don't challenge themselves. No offense."

  "None taken," Ken said, holding up his hands. "I know what you mean. You get higher and higher in the ivory tower, and it's more about keeping the ivory clean and polished than doing anything good. There is a ton of admin bullshit."

  "You see, I couldn't stand that. I like working with my hands. I like Aristotle, in that way, I figure. But I can't let go of Plato either. I have to have imagination, dreams. I always try to challenge myself, even if I don't exactly fall in line with my mother's dreams of what she wanted from me. Even if I'm just sitting at home after work and listening to audiobooks."

  "It's a good life philosophy—"

  "Anyone else come up with it before me?" Mark asked with a grin.

  Ken searched his internal rolodex for philosophers who came close, like John Stuart Mill or David Hume. But both of those men had never captivated Ken the way Mark already had.

  "Nah," Ken answered. "I think you're original with this one."

  Mark nodded, a pleased smile on his face. He ate the last of his fries and then put the greasy container down on the porch. "So what were you writing? Or wanting to write? You never really answered me before, which must mean it's something good."

  Ken grinned. He finished his fries and put his container down too.

  "I told you mine, you tell me yours," Mark added. He bumped Ken's shoulder with his own, egging him on.

  "Okay," Ken sighed. "Erotica. I would love to write it. One of my old boyfriends, in grad school—a long time ago now—used to run scenarios with me. I was just writing notes like he and I used to do before, but not actual storylines. I've never done anything like that before—at least, not yet."

  Mark, instead of being repulsed, leaned in.

  "What type of erotica? Are we taking the next de Sade? Or something like the books I can find at Powell's?"

  Ken swooned that Mark knew de Sade. "Anything, really. I would love to explore that genre. I taught a course on the moral philosophy of sex once and it was fun—but stagnant. Too much theory and not enough practice, if you get what I mean."

  Mark smiled again. The scar on his chin curved, deepening the lines on his face. "Oh, I do. But speaking of which, I should get back to work."

  When Mark stood up, he stepped onto the front porch in front of Ken, his strong thighs and belt buckle in front of Ken's face. He lingered there a moment, as if tempting Ken to respond to him in some way. Ken scrambled to pick up their lunch containers while his heart—and cock—came alive. When he stepped onto the porch next to Mark, Ken could tell by the smile on his face that his movements had been a ploy, a teasing way to get them both to give into what they really wanted. Ken held the door open for Mark, only inches separating their bodies.

  "Of course," Ken said. "I think I should get back to work too."

  *~*~*

  Mark's sounds in the bathroom were
less noticeable this time around. The water had been shut off again so he could replace the pipe. Ken withdrew back into his office, leaving his door open a crack as he opened the Word document. Maybe it was the effect of good food and conversation, but Ken felt a lot more confident as he sat down to write. In fact, he skipped over his conference paper completely and returned to some of his erotica prompts from before. He caught his reflection in the laptop screen, a big grin plastered on his face. He began to write about a man named Cal and his new friend Matt—with abs and big brown eyes—that he met at a lumber yard:

  Cal slowly picked up the lumber from the ground. He ran his gloved hand along the grain of the wood, testing it carefully. When he spotted Matt watching him from the sideline, he called him over.

  "Can you hold this for me? I have to bring my truck around from the back."

  Matt nodded, not saying much else.

  The strong silent type, Cal figured. Just what he was after. He felt his cock twitch with anticipation, especially as Matt turned around to pick up the lumber. The man's ass was so tight in his jeans. Matt held the wood in his hands, his bicep bulging to hold all the weight. As Cal walked around to pick up his car, he was tempted to ask Matt to rub his fingers up and down the wood.

  When Cal pulled his truck around, sweat beaded across his brow. Some of it spilled down over his tank top, soaking it through. He lowered the window in his truck and leaned out towards Matt again, calling instructions to him.

  "What?" Matt asked. "Sorry, I didn't hear."

  "Can you put the wood in the back of the truck?"

  "Sure," Matt said. He glanced at the back of the vehicle, his eyebrows raised. "But I need a little help."

  Cal got out of the truck, walking slowly around Matt. Their eyes met one another in a fierce stare that seemed to speak more than their words. They nodded to one another, already knowing the positions they needed to be in to get the job done. Cal took the other end of the wood in his hands as Matt took the front, and they moved towards the back of the truck together.

  "So what are you building?" Matt asked, his voice rough between heavy breaths.