Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader Presents Flush Fiction

by Bathroom Readers' Institute

  It had eventually gotten thicker again, thanks to hormones and hair vitamins, but Joanna had been quite vain in her younger years and the physical transformations that accompanied “the Change” had unnerved her.

  At least she’d never developed the wide part so many women did when they were past a certain age.

  Clea loved the kitchen, as Joanna had known she would. Joanna thought the kitchen was one of the house’s best features. It was full of light, with a window over the sink and another in the door that led to the back yard. Clea tried to play it cool, but when she first saw the built-in bookcase—perfect for displaying cookbooks and knick-knacks—her face lit up.

  It was a cook’s kitchen, with a gas stove, plenty of storage space, and a built-in pantry. There was a decorative tile backsplash behind the sink, the colors complementing the rich peach paint on the walls.

  One of the women who’d looked at the house had complained about the narrow space the refrigerator occupied. “It’s not wide enough for my Sub-Zero,” she had whined.

  As if anyone who wasn’t running a catering business needed a Sub-Zero fridge, Joanna had thought at the time.

  Clea wasn’t married. She was buying the house on her own to make a nest for herself. Joanna approved of her gumption. So many women wasted their lives waiting for Prince Charming, or put off living until they’d already missed the best parts.

  The house was just the right size for one person. It had two bedrooms upstairs and a small, sun-filled space off the kitchen that looked into a garden run riot with roses. That room would make a wonderful home office if Clea needed it.

  Joanna hung back as Clea explored downstairs. She’d learned to let the prospective buyers feel like they were discovering the place for themselves.

  She never followed too closely as they opened cupboards and closets and ran faucets and flushed the toilets and in general peeked and poked around.

  The place was furnished just enough to give it a “lived-in” look. Joanna had chosen everything herself and was gratified when Clea ran her hands over the top of a Birdseye maple sideboard in appreciation.

  The woman with Clea—her name was Alison—seemed bored and looked like her feet hurt. No wonder, she was wearing three-inch heels that pitched her bulky torso forward at an awkward angle. Someone had no doubt told her that adding height would make her look slimmer.

  Someone had lied.

  Alison wasn’t even impressed when she and Clea walked into the master bathroom. She looked like she’d seen it before, way too many times.

  That annoyed Joanna. The bathroom was a showpiece with a skylight over the sunken tub, gorgeous tile accents and a steam/shower cabinet.

  Clea’s reaction to the room—despite Alison’s blasé attitude—was all Joanna could have hoped for.

  That was the minute she was sold on the house, Joanna knew. Everything else she saw just sealed the deal—the little window in the master bedroom closet with the built-in jewelry drawers and shoe cubbies; the Art Deco chandelier in the dining room, which was a genuine dining room and not just a space off the living area.

  Clea loved it all.

  She didn’t even try to haggle over the price, which Joanna appreciated.

  When Clea and Alison drove away, Joanna caught a glimpse of a bumper sticker on the back of Clea’s car, a slogan advertising the local NPR station.

  Joanna approved.

  She knew Clea would love the house and fill it with books and music and maybe a cat or a little dog. The yard was big enough for a dog.

  It would be good to have someone living in the house again.

  Joanna had been so lonely since she died.

  Vanilla or Chocolate

  Skye Hillgartner

  She’d kissed a boy behind the water tower when she was fourteen. It was clumsy, but they laughed, and split a chocolate bar on the walk home.

  The anniversary cake was vanilla.

  “Why not chocolate?” she asked.

  “Everyone eats vanilla,” her husband said, and went to get more wine.

  The party was decent. Her husband kept pointing to her, saying, “Still beautiful, isn’t she?”

  All she could think was that fifty years of vanilla didn’t seem worth celebrating.

  The Newest Edition of Richard Phlattwaire

  Jess Del Balzo

  Wednesday marks the release of Richard Phlattwaire’s latest book, Nate Bit a Tibetan. The novel, Phlattwaire’s fourth, creates a sizzling urban universe full of neon lights and subway monks. Phlattwaire utilizes his bizarre, scheming style to lure the reader into his fictional New York City, where the man in robes next to you could really be an “ordinary person.”

  I met up with Phlattwaire for an afternoon tabnab—the author’s word for savory snack—on the ivy-covered patio of Orgasmanic Oasis, a downtown health food eatery, just a few weeks prior to the launch of Nate.

  “I’ll be happy if this book gets half the attention Fleece Elf did,” he says as he gingerly picks at his Chinese chicken salad and sips a cup of single-origin coffee.

  I can’t help but notice a new Dick Phlattwaire. I first encountered him just seven years ago. He was 24 years old then, on the verge of fame. His debut novel, A Car, A Man, A Maraca, was just about to break. His raw talent was undeniable. Unfortunately, as his popularity increased and he began to scale up the social pyramid, Phlattwaire embraced a lifestyle of drugs, alcohol, prostitutes, ungodly amounts of food, and opulent safaris, to fulfill his fascination with the mating habits of African animals.

  These days, however, Dick is flatter than ever. He is in the best shape of his life, thanks to kicking his bad habits. His daily routine now includes running, weight lifting and a careful diet of “happy foods,” such as Asian salads, homemade yogurt, cautiously imported fruit, and baked goods made with special protein powder shipped in from Barcelona. He spent last fall in a rehabilitation center in Palm Springs, where he dried out and straightened up. While there, he worked with a nutritionist, a psychologist, and spa technicians, as well as a hypnotherapist. He has continued with the hypnotherapy for smoking cessation and weight loss as well as emotional issues. He also gets his tea leaves read regularly.

  When the waitress comes by with a plate of complimentary appetizers, he waves his hand and says, “Wontons? Not now.” Just over a year ago, he tells me, he probably would have eaten the entire plate and then smoked a pack of cigarettes like he did after every meal, and maybe do a line of coke after that.

  After we discuss the state of food and drug addicts the world over, I ask him about the new book.

  “So, what is Nate Bit a Tibetan really about?” I ask.

  Phlattwaire leans back and taps his fingers against his newly shaved head and yawns. “Racism, drugs? I guess. I don’t really know. It’s about a lot of things. I was basically in a hypnotic trance when I wrote most of it.”

  “What was the idea that started you on it then?”

  “I had a dream about this guy—I called him Nate—who was a cocaine addict, like me. He carried it around with him in these special sugar packets he made and put them on the tables at fancy restaurants he went to. Then one night as he was leaving some party, really out of it, he walked into a man wearing all these robes and watering a plant. He looked like a monk, you know? Nate tripped over the guy, and the guy dropped his watering can. The water ruined all these sugar packets that had fallen out of Nate’s pockets. That was basically the dream. So I thought, Yeah, well, I’ll bet this dude wants to get even. So he goes around looking for the guy who ruined the coke.”

  Dream analysis, Phlattwaire explains, was a big part of his treatment at the unnamed center. He worked very closely with his therapist to uncover the hidden meaning behind even his most mundane dreams. Through this practice he was able to make connections between his subconscious mind and his behavior to give him a better understanding of himself. He saw why he had been making bad choices and how he could heal himself. He continues to analyze his dreams, writing them dow
n in a lime-green notebook he carries everywhere. He is still working on overcoming his desire to go on safari again.

  “It would be so easy to slip back into that. I really gotta be careful right now. This is a crucial time. It helps to just focus on my writing. I’ve been writing a lot of poems, mostly about elephants.”

  When I ask Dick about his influences, he is quick to answer. “Definitely the Village People!” he exclaims, leaning forward. “In Fleece Elf, I quoted a line from ‘In Hollywood (Everybody Is a Star)’ at the beginning of each chapter. In my third book, Solo Gigolos, I mentioned ‘Just a Gigolo.’ Their music really speaks to me, you know? I try to live my life with that optimism they present.” As for literary idols, Phlattwaire cites Bernard Malamud’s The Magic Barrel (the winner of the National Book Award in 1959) as a huge inspiration for its “amazing use of the semicolon.”

  With his extraordinary fourth novel, Nate Bit a Tibetan, Phlattwaire once again manages to capture a series of strangely transcendent moments and package them in glitter and in dirt. He offers them up to the reader in a way few writers can, preaching from his knees. There is no doubt that he will continue to write one madly intriguing, creepily beautiful book after another. Just give him time to finish eating his tabnab, please. This man does not like to be disturbed while he eats.

  “It’s all about just sitting and savoring the meal, the moment,” he says with a sigh, dropping the fork with a victorious bang.

  And the sun sets on the city as Phlattwaire takes out his notebook to write down what otherwise would have been a thought passing like the wind.

  Two Urinals from Death

  James Sabata

  Andy stood two urinals from Death with no idea what to do about it. While he usually made a practice of staring directly at the wall in front of him, he found it increasingly difficult not to sneak a glance at the hooded figure standing at the other urinal or at the scythe leaning upright between the urinals. He watched as the scythe began to move, sliding down the wall. The Reaper caught it just before it fell. “Sorry. It’s always doing that.”

  Andy zipped his fly, staring at the ground. He did not want to make eye contact, particularly with someone who didn’t have any eyes. “Not a problem.”

  He began to move toward the sinks as the Reaper said, “You’re Andrew Singleton, right?”

  Andy stared at the hooded figure, deciding the best way to answer. “Um. Yeah.”

  The Reaper laughed as Andy washed his hands. “Don’t worry, that’s not why I’m asking.” He watched as Andy scrubbed. “Get it all off. Those pesky germs will kill you.” Andy’s eyes grew big. “Sorry, just a figure of speech.”

  Andy washed again, in case there was any truth in that joke. He looked over at the Reaper. “So you’re—”

  “I am. Do you know Malory Jacobs?”

  “Sure. She works on third.” He gasped, realizing what he had just done. “Are you gonna…I mean… She’s going to—”

  The Reaper grabbed his scythe. “Indeed. It’s her time. I’m sure they’ll say it was burgers or cigarettes or whatever, but in reality, when it’s your time, it’s your time.”

  Andy toweled off. “Does she know?”

  “Most people don’t.”

  “That seems harsh.”

  “Death is just a part of life, Mr. Singleton.”

  “Will she see you coming?”

  “Some do. Some don’t. It’s always hard to tell ahead of time.”

  The Reaper started to head toward the door. Andy’s voice stopped him. “Can I ask you something?”

  “You mean, what happens when you die?”

  Andy nodded.

  The Reaper’s hand came up as he did his best Mafioso impression. “If I tell ya, I have to kill ya.” He howled with laughter and then abruptly stopped.

  Andy shivered. “I can’t believe I’m in the bathroom with the Grim Reaper.”

  The Reaper’s hand shot out, pointing at Andy, “Don’t call me that. I hate that name. Why does everyone assume that just because I go around taking people’s lives all day that I have to be grim? It’s actually kind of a fun job. I meet new people every day. I get to travel.”

  “I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

  The Reaper placed his scythe against the wall again. “I know. It’s one of the downsides of the job. I have the same conversations every day, and the misinformation has come to really annoy me.”

  “I’m sorry.” Andy shuffled his feet. “Man, I can’t believe you’re going to off Malory. She’s such a nice girl.”

  “How you act only affects where you go, not how you get there.”

  Andy paused again. “So, you’re really not here for me? I’m not, like, already dead or anything?”

  “Heavens, no. You’re just as alive as you’ve always been.”

  “Good. You had me worried. I have a lot to accomplish before I die. I mean, I feel bad about Mal—”

  Death moved over to the sink to wash his hands. “You know, I get that a lot. Everyone knows they’re going to die at some point, but they always think there’s more time. You guys need to just start doing whatever you’re doing.” The water ran through his bones and onto the floor. The puddle grew more as he wiped his hands on his robe.

  Andy nodded his head. “You’re right.”

  The Reaper stuck his hand out. Andy shook it. “Well, Mr. Singleton, it was good to meet you.”

  “No one is ever going to believe me.” The Reaper opened the bathroom door. Andy pointed. “Don’t forget your sickle thing.”

  “Scythe. Yes. I’d be lost without this. I’m just so busy, I’m always forgetting stuff.”

  “Can I ask you one more thing?”

  “Yeah, I guess. But then I really need to go.”

  “Do you get to pick how people die or is it like predetermined?”

  The Reaper laughed. “For the most part, people pick how they die. Every now and then, when I get to do it, I try to be as creative as possible. I’ve helped win six Darwin Awards. I really should go now.”

  Andrew smiled. “Now I’ll never know the meaning of life.”

  The Reaper reached for the door. “Oh, fine. That’s an easy one.” The Reaper leaned in. “Do you have cable?”

  “Satellite.”

  He threw his hands out. “Even better. How many channels do you get?”

  “Three hundred something. They claim 450, but some don’t come in right. And there’s all those music channels I never use.”

  “So you don’t watch them all, right?”

  Andy shrugged. “Of course not.”

  “Why do you have it then?”

  “To watch the ones I want to watch.”

  “Precisely, Andrew. God doesn’t have television. He has you guys. Humans, I mean. You know, and the others.”

  Andy’s eyes grew. “Others? Like aliens?” He smiled broadly. “I knew it.”

  The Reaper opened the door. “You said Malory is on third, right?” Andrew nodded. The Reaper’s right hand waved goodbye.

  Andy stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, practicing his “surprised” face. He knew he’d have to use it when he heard the news about Malory’s unfortunate demise.

  As he stepped away, his shoe slid on the water puddle. Andy’s head bounced against the automatic hand drier and then against the linoleum. By the time they found Andrew Singleton, the Reaper had moved on.

  Cold Is My Love

  Johnny Gunn

  He stood just across the driveway, agonizing over the distance, unable to make his love, his passion, understood. “Oh, to dance about, grasp those lovely hands, plead my feelings.” She’d arrived in the neighborhood just a few days after he had, and he had not been able to keep his dark, dusky eyes off her radiance. “If only she would look this way, just once.”

  Romance as sincere as this only comes once in a lifetime, he realized, and he was well aware of just how short his time had become. “How will I let her know my thoughts, and what will I say when I get her attent
ion?” Inside, deep inside that old, cold body, he understood this one great truth: A snowman cannot have a relationship with such a beauty as this wooden idol, this replica of Sacagawea. “After all, she at least was once a living and beautiful thing.” Were those tears that coursed down his cheeks, forming deep rivulets creasing the surface, loosening that which holds his smile, or simply the ravages of today’s sun? “So frail, but I must continue to gaze on her beauty.”

  He was well aware he could have this love only until spring, barring of course those rowdy Anderson children, the ones that stole his nose.

  No Sweat

  Phil Richardson

  Harry was bored. He had bought all the latest electronic gadgets—a GPS, an HDTV, an iPod, a satellite radio—and mastered their capabilities. He had a new truck and a new car and they never seemed to break down so he really couldn’t justify working on them. He had, reluctantly, filled in his fishpond after he accidentally killed all the fish by breaking the winter’s ice with a sledgehammer; Helen would not let him forget about that.

  So, he was bored.

  “Maybe I’ll have an affair,” he thought. “Something to get me out of the house. No, Helen would know right away. Maybe I should start exercising. Wow! That’s a really good idea.”

  As was his usual mode of operation, Harry went on the Internet and looked up the consumer data on exercise machines. It was confusing, all about calories per minute and stress tests and stuff he didn’t really care about. He decided to make a list of things he wanted from an exercise machine, which he thought would maybe help him make a decision. He set up the tables program on his computer so that there were neat little squares he could fill in and began making his list.

  1. Exercise should be fun

  2. Exercise should not hurt

  3. I don’t like to sweat—no sweating

  4. No calorie counting

  5. No timer

  6. Place for glass of beer within reach—no, two glasses

  7. Clip for holding potato-chip package within reach