Patients, Have Patience.

Having been trained right
by my mother
I lifted the seat
even though I was at a man's office
which he paid to have cleaned;
not his nightly castle
where doing so was one of the chores.
It slid halfway along the bowl
as I raised it
the screws in back
clearly in need of a good tightening.
When my business was finished
I went to my truck for a screwdriver.
There were still a few minutes
before my appointment
and the noise machine near
the door of the room where he held sessions
was still running so I knew someone else
was on a roll and in the thick of it.
What better way to kill time
than fixing a man's toilet?
Aside from the charitable aspect of the gesture
there was the selfish motive:
I'd already paid this person hundreds of dollars
to sit, twitch and show body language that implies listening
while I spewed out anecdotal half-truths
for forty minutes to an hour, depending on our moods.
If someone were to sit on his carnival ride of a toilet seat
slip to the side, fall off and injure themself
then find some sue-Jew lawyer to milk my shrink dry
all of the time and money I've spent
explaining the wreckage of countless gallons of rum
and sixty college credits would be wasted.
I pondered this potential catastrophe as I turned the screws
and secured the seat, making sure to use the antibacterial soap
provided on the rim of the sink afterwards.
The prior customer, dare I say patient
had wrapped up his pityfest in the interim
and when I walked back down the hallway, tool in hand
the good doctor looked at me as though his time had come.
"Don't worry. I was only fixing your toilet," I assured him.
"Really? Thank you. That thing's been broken
for over a year," he replied.
"It wasn't broken," I began
to correct him, then quickly changed my course.
"It's amazing how much can be accomplished
with a simple screwdriver," I said, trying not to make
him feel like the typically useless male homeowner
who comes pre-neutered and lacking common sense
at your nearest mega shopping center. I went on:
"Bukowski said it's the little things
that drive a man to madness: the toilet seats, the broken
shoelaces, the roommates that don't replace the roll."
He looked at me and asked who Bukowski was.
I absorbed the blow on behalf of my literary anti-hero
and moved the conversation along in a safer direction
like the wonderful drunken weekend I'd had with my friends
and a day of reconciliation that had come for my love and me.
When it came time to pay at the end of our long talk
my services were not reflected in the bill. I was not one bit
surprised since any Joe can turn a screw without having
a framed piece of parchment paper on his wall-- any Joe
that is, but the one with too many letters after his surname.
I handed over the check and rose to shake his hand.
My payment came in the form of sick satisfaction, a forced
acknowledgement that I was onto his rouse and no less a man.
"Ya know, Doc," I said, one hand on the doorknob, "I won't
tell anyone what your toilet proved tonight..."
He looked at me quizzically, praying for a punchline.
"I'm not the only one in town with a few screws loose."


Currently reading:
"Across the River and into the Trees" by Ernest Hemingway.