You’ve just brushed your teeth and stand before a basin of cloudy water. The cause of blockage is head hair. Your spouse washes her hair in the sink. You can fix this. Don’t get in a tizzy. You won’t be late for work.
Needed:
Steel wool
Plunger
Patience
Hands
Five minutes
Not needed:
Worry
Blame
Anger
Untwist the top of the drain stopper. If the water level doesn’t recede, proceed to the next step.
A flexible hose snakes from the underside of the porcelain basin to the floor drain. Unscrew this hose. But before you do, stand back to avoid what just happened, splash-back.
Congratulations. All the water that had been in the sink is now out and on the floor and on you.
Now, pull the hose up from the drainage hole. Dark sludge should and does come rolling out, transporting odors of rubber and mildew.
It’s only natural you feel sick to your stomach. Plus it’s been a terrible week. Not two days ago, you received a letter from academic affairs notifying you your supervisor submitted a document informing them you failed teaching renewal. You knew the day would come. Your supervisor has wanted to fire you since you ignored her RSVP to potluck at her home and drink beer with her at her neighborhood pub. She’s vindictive, after all.
Run the faucet through the hose.
Brace yourself for disgust as large, dark-green chunks discharge onto tiles and toes.
Your impulse was to be angry at your wife, but apartment stress is not as bad as department stress, is it, when work relations are wastewater. Now that you’re on your supervisor’s bad side, your coworker LM, who sits next to you in the shared office, has already started ignoring your text messages, even your cordial, corporeal greetings. God, how people turn.
Long, black hairs hang thickly from the hose like streamers. Tug.
Jam the steel wool down the hose, ramming it through with the handle of the plunger, and watch it plop out the other side, a swamp-wig.
Rinse the tiles with the showerhead, bag up all this detritus, and wash your hands.
Dry your feet on the mat on the floor outside the bathroom.
As you prepare to leave for work (jacket, planner; put on socks), your wife wakes to the sound of you stepping into your shoe. She comes to the front door, rests an arm against the refrigerator, and yawns into her shoulder. You lean forward and pinch her cheek. She rewards you with a smile. Your wife will stand beside you when the whole world hates your guts. “I’m going to be a great teacher today,” you say.
“As always,” she says. “Fuck the haters?”
“Fuck the haters.”
Billie Pritchett is a writer.
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