Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader Presents Flush Fiction (7 page)

“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.

Johnny Gunn

H
e 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 attention?” 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.

Phil Richardson

H
arry 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

8.   Headset for watching TV and answering phone

9.   Transition from exercise to nap should be easy

10. Comfort will promote longer periods of exercise.

He looked all over the Internet to find an exercise machine that would suit his needs, but they all seemed to have some element missing. The exerbikes looked uncomfortable, the Bowflex things definitely would work up a sweat, and the treadmill looked dangerous, particularly if you were holding a beer can and trying to stay on the mat. No, he would have to build his own machine.

He went to the Salvation Army store and found an old recliner that he tested and found pretty comfortable. The duct tape on the arms added character, and he loved the purple plaid cover.

While wandering around the store he found two arms scavenged from some old exercisers and added those to his plunder. Other necessary parts he had to buy from the hardware store and Pier 1 Imports.

Helen was not exactly thrilled when the stuff was delivered and “suggested” he move it all to the garage, as the chair didn’t quite match the decor of their house. Harry knew when to give in and, anyway, the garage was a better place to work. He made another trip to the store and bought a small refrigerator that he modified to hold a keg of beer, with a tap built into the door. He felt proud of this since he would save energy by not opening the door, and he wouldn’t have to throw away any cans.

After completing this essential part of his design, he began working on the exerciser, which he had decided to call “The Harry Crunchner.” He affixed the two arms to the sides of the chair, then rigged them to a chain that turned a generator that was hooked to the flat-screen TV he had hung from a frame on the front of the chair. He cut two large holes in the arms of the recliner to hold the beer glasses (having only one glass would
mean he would have to interrupt his exercise more often).

The next part of the project involved putting several new e-books on the computer so they could be displayed on the screen. This way he would not have to turn the pages of a book (interrupting his exercise) as the page would turn automatically on his voice command. His phone was hooked through the computer and would be answered automatically, so he would not have to interrupt his exercise and pick up the phone.

“This is going to be great,” he thought. “I will lose weight, my heart will be healthier, and Helen won’t keep nagging me about exercise. I will start tomorrow, as I’m too tired after doing all this work.”

The next day, he told Helen he was going to begin his program. “The computer will keep track of my minutes and email them to me once a month so I won’t have to worry about that while I’m working out.”

“Most people think it’s a good idea to know how much you’ve done every day,” she replied. “I guess if you want a report once a month, it’s one way of doing it. I don’t suppose you set it up so that it emailed me a copy?”

“I’ll probably do that,” he said as he headed toward the garage.

Eager to begin, Harry grabbed a bag of potato chips he had stashed in the trunk of the car, filled two chilled glasses with beer from the keg in the refrigerator, turned on the computer, and settled into the recliner.

“First a sip of beer, then a few chips, and then I’ll begin.”

The beer tasted fine, so he finished a glass. Then, grasping the arms of the exerciser, he began to pull back and forth. “Just like rowing a boat, only more comfortable.” He was a little stiff, but he thought that would soon go away. “Turn the page,” he told the computer as he finished reading the first page of his book. The pages kept turning however, indicating a glitch in the program. Harry got up—he had to refill his glass anyway—and fiddled with the computer keyboard for about 20 minutes and
then resumed his spot in the chair.

“Maybe I should redesign this. Run the tap over to the chair so I don’t have to get up to get a beer and interrupt my exercise,” he thought.

As he was sitting there, he remembered he was supposed to be pulling the arms on each side of the chair. He resumed pulling and then realized he was sweating. He hated to sweat.

“I know,” he thought. “I will just reverse the wires, plug in the generator, and the handles will move themselves. No sweating. Life will be good. Now, if only I could convince Helen to bring me my dinner out here…”

Adrian Dorris

I
don’t know how far I need to think back to figure out why I’m at Professor Kievit’s house condo thingy with a 9¼-inch, pearl-handled chef’s knife in my hand. You might say something like: You saw the ad posted in the union and responded and now here you are, cutting through a Coke can to demonstrate the razor sharpness of the new Infinity line. And I would say right back to you: That’s, like, so obvious. Nancy tells us we have to look deeper at the events that make up our lives so we can
maximize potential
, which I think means sell more knives. So, let’s see…I’m at Professor Kievit’s house condo thingy because I came to State, did okay in the first semester, flunked calc in the second, lost my financial aid in the third, maxed out my credit card, and now I can’t afford my sorority’s social fees. But that’s probably not even deep enough. The ad said “Make $500 a week,” so I attended the orientation session where Nancy told us some students
on this very campus
were making
upwards of
$1,500 a week because they
created and controlled their destinies
. To buy the demo set (the Gourmet Ultimate with a solid oak block and an antibacterial cutting board) and start controlling mine, I sold plasma and hawked my CD collection at Re-Run Records and borrowed fifty bucks from Rebecca, whose dad is upper management at a Fortune 500 company in the Midwest. I practiced my pitch around the house, even selling paring knives to a couple of girls whose boyfriends drink too much. I drove home to do my spiel for family and friends, anyone who would listen, and they were so impressed with the product and my demonstration (Nancy calls that part of the job
creating need
), I ended up selling
two Infinity sets, three sets of steak knives, and one Meatinator, our biggest and spendiest cleaver.

And now I’m at Professor Kievit’s house condo thingy, standing over a card table, smiling at shredded aluminum and saying the great thing is Cutcare knives never need to be sharpened. He’s a cool guy, for an anthropology professor. He wears Aéropostale shirts, Gap jeans, and a pair of Blundstone boots that are in desperate need of replacing (IMHO). His place is small, so I guess young professors don’t get paid very much. There are books everywhere, and his breakfast nook is piled with papers and tests that need to be graded. Professor Kievit is one of those teachers who wants to understand you so he can help you learn. He plays music at the beginning of class and high-fives us like we’re all friends. We talk about the
cultural implications
of nose rings and how bungee jumping started as a
tribal rite of passage
. He lets me come over and sell him knives because he’s
not traditional
.

He tells me the knives are very impressive and that we’ve come a long way since primitives first sharpened animal bones into makeshift blades.

I say that Cutcare knives are precision forged from stainless steel as one solid piece, no stamping.

He looks at me and smiles, but not happily. His eyes are bloodshot and baggy. For the first time, I notice gray in his hair. I think that he can’t be more than thirty and already old—poor thing.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says, then stops and thinks and says, “No, actually, I’m not.” He tells me that the university isn’t renewing his contract, that they disapprove of his methods, that only tenured staff can make the kind of major modifications to the curriculum that he’s made, that he’ll finish out the semester but won’t be back in the spring. Professor Kievit looks like he’s about to cry.