Frugal, fat handyman Harold P. Truffman pulled his head out of the toilet. His whole head was soaked. The grease in his hair began uncrusting from his scalp and trickled into his ears, brow, and the neck of his shirt.
“Oh! I'm so sorry!-”
“Don't-do anything… Please.” Mrs. Winterfoot scurried off.
Harold was having a bad day: a shitty day. Slowly, Harold unclenched his teeth and grabbed a stained, still damp towel from the bathroom's drying rack. Turning back to the toilet, Harold sneered at the assorted hairs along the yellowed bowl. “Fucking bitch.”
*
Mrs. Winterfoot was very upset. Understand: she had tried to do her best, had offered to help, tried to be of service to the handyman.
“Always some way of getting in the way.”
This particular embarrassment was the most recent in a series of accidents: the turkey marinated with hot sauce, the mud tracks on her brother's new carpet, the wrong turn in the YMCA changing rooms, all piling into an awkward exchange with the handyman.
But Mrs. Winterfoot wasn't going to cry. She didn't care if that fat, smelly man ever gave two more shits about that toilet. It could never flush again, and she would not care. Right now, she needed a drink. She played a scene through her head.
“Pour me a glass of your finest, cheap liquor,” she joked to herself.
“Yes, Madam,” she replied.
“Would you like a turkey sandwich with that?”
“Why, no. I happen to hate turkey… no thank you.”
Mrs. Winterfoot laughed and walked to the kitchen to fix her drink. From the other room, her youngest son yelled, “Who the fuck is this grunting?”
“Someone's fixin' the toilet.”
“From the sound of it, he's gonna destroy it.”
“Just ignore him. He'll be gone soon.”
“I'm just saying, it sounds like he's gonna shit all over the floor.”
“Ugh-what?”
*
Harold was laying the floor. His back hurt. His eyes were tracing shapes in the green and white tiles. He traced the movement of the knight, “Two tiles up and one over,” the letter Y, “One tile down, two tiles right, one tile up and three tiles down.”
Harold crossed his eyes. It looked like the tiles were one piece of tile material with a big checkerboard lain on top. Although he did not think it, he believed that this was the case.
“Owww.”
The sink was dripping, but it was not bothersome. The floor was comfortable. He lay on a soft shower mat and imagined he was naked. Harold took a large breath.
“Summer was like this. Lying on the cold floor. The smell was never familiar because it was my smell. The fan buzzes overhead, and the heat is gone. This is much better than swimming. Sweat feels good.”