The Victorian Fixer-Upper
I'm visiting potential in-laws for the first time. Who would live in a house where the main bathroom is adjacent to the dining room? I go searching upstairs ...
Hidden behind a tilted chair in the 'remodeled' bedroom, I find this less conspicuous john. Can't find the light, but I find my way all right. And so I sit, all nervous. It's good to get off of these new shoes -- where's the light? All this gas has been building up. I'm just beginning to relax --
Someone's coming.
I peak through a crack in the partition. It's the five year old-- Rachel's pink-frocked granddaughter, Janey, entering the bedroom carrying her Sesame Street music contraption.
"I'm in here," I announce. "Hi!" she says, "you wanna play?"
"Not right now." Do I have to be more specific? This gas is exhausting. "Why don't you go play, Janey."
"Okay," says Jane.
Instead of leaving she sits on the crumpled, pea-specked dropsheet next to the windsor-green paint cans and starts rendering a variation of "Happy Birthday" on her mini keyboard.
Jane and her newly divorced dad -- it's their house, their in-the- process-of-renovating house. They planned this ‘party’ for Rachel and me, two smitten retirees who happened to hit it off late in life. Rachel keeps pushing us to get married. I don't want to deal with it. This combination getting-to-know-the-family/ belated birthday party is torture. Too much at once.
First, I'll let the kid know, "It's not my birthday really." That was three weeks ago. They want to surprise me anyway. She keeps playing the song, absorbed in artistic expression.
Crackles on the staircase. Someone else is coming. It's Rachel, my silver-haired siren.
"What are you doing, Jane?" Rachel asks the obvious. Jane keeps bopping birthday notes like a trained seal. I feel a need to volunteer more information, "I'm in here."
Rachel pats Jane's proud head, and sizes up the situation, at least I think so, "Oh, you're entertaining Walter? That's very nice, sweetie -- Isn't it, Walter?"
Rachel flips on the light switch. She's good at these basic needs stuff. "What are you doing in the dark?" she asks through the door.
Do I have to spell this out? Privacy. I want privacy. I let her know, "Shouldn't you be doing something else? Somewhere else?"
"Well, don't get my present wet," Rachel jokes about new loafers, these 'hush puppies' which are quietly biting my big toes. She takes the kid's hand, "Come on, sweetheart. -- Walter, we'll be downstairs." She accents the 'downstairs'.
What, is the roof an option? Sometimes she's so obvious.
Rachel and Jane exit hand in hand. I can hear them talking, laughing. Something about my age. Do they think I'm deaf? This is a hollow house, can hear everything.
I rest, try to relax, and do my thing. Shouldn't have had that whopper for lunch. Showing off for Jane. Dumb move. The Burger King is boring right through my lower caverns.
Footsteps. Someone else is coming. It's Zane. He looks like a younger version of Rachel with whiskers.
I'm rather forceful this time, "I'll be right out."
Zane decides not to interrupt me; he turns and leaves without saying a word. Good. Him using this house to remodel his life... What a family. I think Rachel pushes this marriage thing with me to set an example for Zane. What am I mixed up in?
So nervous I can barely squeeze out the pain -- but ah... there it is, barely.
Now to quietly rid the unwanted part of myself -- way more than it seemed -- I flush... I peer out through the porthole crack. They're both standing in the hallway. Zane conferring with Rachel. There is grumbling. Zane's relaying some important message, beyond my strained ears...
Zane, to Rachel, "... anyway, you'd better tell him."
"He's nervous," Rachel responds.
Must be talking about me.
Jane appears, interrupts, loudly, "Is he my new grandpa?"
Zane stymies this comment by covering Jane's mouth. Hush-a-bye baby.
"Go downstairs," Rachel instructs them, "I'll take care of it." Zane and Jane disappear. Rachel's pondering something.
We have different attitudes toward things. I like things loose, like clothing and schedules; she likes things tight, like budgets and relationships. Other than that we're okay, her and I. The anxiety of meeting her family, Zane and Jane, that dynamic daddy-daughter rhyming duo, and her pushing the commitment stuff must be getting to me.
Oh, no. Figures. Alone in here and still my face blushes. Walter can't take care of a simple bodily chore. A floater. Again... Flush. Everyone's listening; everyone knows. It won't go down. A boomerang of ineptness. What to do? A flash, an idea-- wrap it up and bring it out to the trash can when no one's looking -- but --
It's Rachel moving in closer to the partition, her footsteps nail me to the cross of embarrassment. She's reluctant to announce herself again.
I intercept, "I'll be right there."
Whatever happened to privacy?
Rachel throws up her arms in dismay, not knowing what to do, like she's frustrated. What's her problem? She's certainly not obvious now.
Wish I was back in my own Arms.
And there it is again, the damn buoy. Up it bobs. At least it doesn't... I sniff, staccato-like, a hunting dog... No more fast food. I try to crack the window. It cracks. Zane, the home repair expert, has left his mark everywhere.
Luckily, there's the Lysol spray, deliberately put here for such an occasion -- a beacon of camouflage. Turn on the faucet, start a little tune, and spray away. Pshsss... The diversionary tactic helps to muffle the next -- (I spy with my little eye, no one's in the bedroom) -- Flush...
Unbelievable. This thing ain't going anywhere.
Someone's coming. Scratch that -- someone's already here. Rachel's been sitting beside the door partially out of view. Damn her. She is determined to communicate something at this particular time.
"The bathroom up here doesn't work properly, Walter--" No kidding. "-- so don't fuss."
"I'm just trying to fix it," I explain calmly. Is this the start of the lies? It's human instinct to rid ourselves of waste. Please don't interfere with this process Rachel. It isn't going to get us to the altar any sooner.
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle... I wiggle the metal handle just enough to be heard. Then I pry open the heavy slab top of the basin and reach down in and jiggle, jiggle, jiggle the rods inside -- as if that'll help, as if I'll fool anyone into believing this massive cover-up.
I pray. And flush... A four-flusher.
Oh, come on.
The brush. Poke it with the brush -- that's what they're for - - well, one of the reasons anyway. I pierce and detonate the tubular torpedo. Sink! Go down, damn it! GO!
Now it's broken in pieces, some cling to the white bristles. Ah, the vulgarities of everyday life.
"I'll be right there Rachel." I place a net of toilet paper over the --
"Never mind," Rachel insists, "come on."
"Be right there," I tell her. She's getting to me -- at this moment I'd trade her in for a roto-rooter. "Let me make one more adjustment. I think I can fix it."
"You don't have to," she continues to persist, and drops back down in the chair out of my limited view. She leans forward, The Thinker, contemplating what to do next. This is unbelievable.
"Rachel, are you still out there? I'll be right down. I'm pretty good at this kind of thing." You bet I am. One more minute and out the window it goes! Blame the dog.
Let's see, I need to clean the brush, clear the toilet, then get the hell out of here. The situation is practically over. I'll close the seat cover and quietly twirl the handle of the brush and the unseen bristles will get a proper rinsing down below inside the whirling waters. I'll just swirl the brush and flush. The rushing water will take care of the rest. Ingenuity.
I listen. Ear to the door, waiting for the silence. I peak-a- boo, no one's there. Rachel's gone. Good. Shh... I close the cover to mute the execution. Flush... for good measure, I manipulate the basin rods so that the water flows continually. Good bye trouble.
Rachel leaps into the bedroom, startled to hear the non-stop flushing.
This time there's gurgling sounds in the covered cauldron. The end. I hope.
"Walter! Walter!" Rachel is shouting, "Walter, the toilet is ... Didn't you notice? What are you doing for godsakes??"
Zane's downstairs laughing. He hears Rachel's criticism of my toiletry. Ha ha ha.
The gurgling continues... I let go of the brush, release the water rod in the basin. Something's happening.
Rachel: "I don't know how to say this -- I think it's kinda funny. When my son used the john this morning he clogged it up! ...That's why he put the chair in front of the door!"
You mean, it's not mine? It's not even mine!
Rachel, laughing, "Zane didn't know Jane had tried to flush a paint rag last night."
Right.
Gurgling continues.
-- gurgle gurgle gurgle --
The gurgles breach the rim, the toilet swells and upchucks all over my god damn hushpuppies -- dear God almighty -- "What the fuck Rachel!"
What a house. What a family. What a fool.
We all need a little fixin'.
The Victorian Fixer-Upper, © 2000 by John Kirkmire, © 2011 Kirkworkshop. All rights reserved.
return to sample works page
I'm visiting potential in-laws for the first time. Who would live in a house where the main bathroom is adjacent to the dining room? I go searching upstairs ...
Hidden behind a tilted chair in the 'remodeled' bedroom, I find this less conspicuous john. Can't find the light, but I find my way all right. And so I sit, all nervous. It's good to get off of these new shoes -- where's the light? All this gas has been building up. I'm just beginning to relax --
Someone's coming.
I peak through a crack in the partition. It's the five year old-- Rachel's pink-frocked granddaughter, Janey, entering the bedroom carrying her Sesame Street music contraption.
"I'm in here," I announce. "Hi!" she says, "you wanna play?"
"Not right now." Do I have to be more specific? This gas is exhausting. "Why don't you go play, Janey."
"Okay," says Jane.
Instead of leaving she sits on the crumpled, pea-specked dropsheet next to the windsor-green paint cans and starts rendering a variation of "Happy Birthday" on her mini keyboard.
Jane and her newly divorced dad -- it's their house, their in-the- process-of-renovating house. They planned this ‘party’ for Rachel and me, two smitten retirees who happened to hit it off late in life. Rachel keeps pushing us to get married. I don't want to deal with it. This combination getting-to-know-the-family/ belated birthday party is torture. Too much at once.
First, I'll let the kid know, "It's not my birthday really." That was three weeks ago. They want to surprise me anyway. She keeps playing the song, absorbed in artistic expression.
Crackles on the staircase. Someone else is coming. It's Rachel, my silver-haired siren.
"What are you doing, Jane?" Rachel asks the obvious. Jane keeps bopping birthday notes like a trained seal. I feel a need to volunteer more information, "I'm in here."
Rachel pats Jane's proud head, and sizes up the situation, at least I think so, "Oh, you're entertaining Walter? That's very nice, sweetie -- Isn't it, Walter?"
Rachel flips on the light switch. She's good at these basic needs stuff. "What are you doing in the dark?" she asks through the door.
Do I have to spell this out? Privacy. I want privacy. I let her know, "Shouldn't you be doing something else? Somewhere else?"
"Well, don't get my present wet," Rachel jokes about new loafers, these 'hush puppies' which are quietly biting my big toes. She takes the kid's hand, "Come on, sweetheart. -- Walter, we'll be downstairs." She accents the 'downstairs'.
What, is the roof an option? Sometimes she's so obvious.
Rachel and Jane exit hand in hand. I can hear them talking, laughing. Something about my age. Do they think I'm deaf? This is a hollow house, can hear everything.
I rest, try to relax, and do my thing. Shouldn't have had that whopper for lunch. Showing off for Jane. Dumb move. The Burger King is boring right through my lower caverns.
Footsteps. Someone else is coming. It's Zane. He looks like a younger version of Rachel with whiskers.
I'm rather forceful this time, "I'll be right out."
Zane decides not to interrupt me; he turns and leaves without saying a word. Good. Him using this house to remodel his life... What a family. I think Rachel pushes this marriage thing with me to set an example for Zane. What am I mixed up in?
So nervous I can barely squeeze out the pain -- but ah... there it is, barely.
Now to quietly rid the unwanted part of myself -- way more than it seemed -- I flush... I peer out through the porthole crack. They're both standing in the hallway. Zane conferring with Rachel. There is grumbling. Zane's relaying some important message, beyond my strained ears...
Zane, to Rachel, "... anyway, you'd better tell him."
"He's nervous," Rachel responds.
Must be talking about me.
Jane appears, interrupts, loudly, "Is he my new grandpa?"
Zane stymies this comment by covering Jane's mouth. Hush-a-bye baby.
"Go downstairs," Rachel instructs them, "I'll take care of it." Zane and Jane disappear. Rachel's pondering something.
We have different attitudes toward things. I like things loose, like clothing and schedules; she likes things tight, like budgets and relationships. Other than that we're okay, her and I. The anxiety of meeting her family, Zane and Jane, that dynamic daddy-daughter rhyming duo, and her pushing the commitment stuff must be getting to me.
Oh, no. Figures. Alone in here and still my face blushes. Walter can't take care of a simple bodily chore. A floater. Again... Flush. Everyone's listening; everyone knows. It won't go down. A boomerang of ineptness. What to do? A flash, an idea-- wrap it up and bring it out to the trash can when no one's looking -- but --
It's Rachel moving in closer to the partition, her footsteps nail me to the cross of embarrassment. She's reluctant to announce herself again.
I intercept, "I'll be right there."
Whatever happened to privacy?
Rachel throws up her arms in dismay, not knowing what to do, like she's frustrated. What's her problem? She's certainly not obvious now.
Wish I was back in my own Arms.
And there it is again, the damn buoy. Up it bobs. At least it doesn't... I sniff, staccato-like, a hunting dog... No more fast food. I try to crack the window. It cracks. Zane, the home repair expert, has left his mark everywhere.
Luckily, there's the Lysol spray, deliberately put here for such an occasion -- a beacon of camouflage. Turn on the faucet, start a little tune, and spray away. Pshsss... The diversionary tactic helps to muffle the next -- (I spy with my little eye, no one's in the bedroom) -- Flush...
Unbelievable. This thing ain't going anywhere.
Someone's coming. Scratch that -- someone's already here. Rachel's been sitting beside the door partially out of view. Damn her. She is determined to communicate something at this particular time.
"The bathroom up here doesn't work properly, Walter--" No kidding. "-- so don't fuss."
"I'm just trying to fix it," I explain calmly. Is this the start of the lies? It's human instinct to rid ourselves of waste. Please don't interfere with this process Rachel. It isn't going to get us to the altar any sooner.
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle... I wiggle the metal handle just enough to be heard. Then I pry open the heavy slab top of the basin and reach down in and jiggle, jiggle, jiggle the rods inside -- as if that'll help, as if I'll fool anyone into believing this massive cover-up.
I pray. And flush... A four-flusher.
Oh, come on.
The brush. Poke it with the brush -- that's what they're for - - well, one of the reasons anyway. I pierce and detonate the tubular torpedo. Sink! Go down, damn it! GO!
Now it's broken in pieces, some cling to the white bristles. Ah, the vulgarities of everyday life.
"I'll be right there Rachel." I place a net of toilet paper over the --
"Never mind," Rachel insists, "come on."
"Be right there," I tell her. She's getting to me -- at this moment I'd trade her in for a roto-rooter. "Let me make one more adjustment. I think I can fix it."
"You don't have to," she continues to persist, and drops back down in the chair out of my limited view. She leans forward, The Thinker, contemplating what to do next. This is unbelievable.
"Rachel, are you still out there? I'll be right down. I'm pretty good at this kind of thing." You bet I am. One more minute and out the window it goes! Blame the dog.
Let's see, I need to clean the brush, clear the toilet, then get the hell out of here. The situation is practically over. I'll close the seat cover and quietly twirl the handle of the brush and the unseen bristles will get a proper rinsing down below inside the whirling waters. I'll just swirl the brush and flush. The rushing water will take care of the rest. Ingenuity.
I listen. Ear to the door, waiting for the silence. I peak-a- boo, no one's there. Rachel's gone. Good. Shh... I close the cover to mute the execution. Flush... for good measure, I manipulate the basin rods so that the water flows continually. Good bye trouble.
Rachel leaps into the bedroom, startled to hear the non-stop flushing.
This time there's gurgling sounds in the covered cauldron. The end. I hope.
"Walter! Walter!" Rachel is shouting, "Walter, the toilet is ... Didn't you notice? What are you doing for godsakes??"
Zane's downstairs laughing. He hears Rachel's criticism of my toiletry. Ha ha ha.
The gurgling continues... I let go of the brush, release the water rod in the basin. Something's happening.
Rachel: "I don't know how to say this -- I think it's kinda funny. When my son used the john this morning he clogged it up! ...That's why he put the chair in front of the door!"
You mean, it's not mine? It's not even mine!
Rachel, laughing, "Zane didn't know Jane had tried to flush a paint rag last night."
Right.
Gurgling continues.
-- gurgle gurgle gurgle --
The gurgles breach the rim, the toilet swells and upchucks all over my god damn hushpuppies -- dear God almighty -- "What the fuck Rachel!"
What a house. What a family. What a fool.
We all need a little fixin'.
The Victorian Fixer-Upper, © 2000 by John Kirkmire, © 2011 Kirkworkshop. All rights reserved.
return to sample works page