Taking Back Sunday, Part the First

Bill pushed against the wrench hard, with no luck.


"Damn this stupid thing," he said. "I can't get it to move at all. It's like its glued on."


"You're just a sissy, that's all," replied Gordy. He stood there, looking down on Bill, as Bill hunched over the toilet, trying to get the casing free so that they could pull it out and replace the obviously, and now disgustingly, faulty wax ring. He had to contort himself out over the cheap laminate vanity in the tiny bathroom.


Bill looked up. "Yeah, and you're just stupid. You think you can get it? You try, asshole."


"Maybe I should call my sister to help you out - she'd get it," Gordy replied. "She'd do it in no time, like that," he said, snapping his fingers. "In fact, maybe I ought to ask her to walk you home tonight, too - it's getting kind of late." He turned and looked out the door, past the old shag carpet, through the nearly perceptible haze of ignorance and nearly achieved poverty emanating from the apartment's occupants, over an ugly room covered with ugly things, to a tiny window, shiny dark. "Man, I hate being here this late. What a waste."


"No, it's awesome," Bill replied. "I love to fix leaky, filthy toilets in the middle of the night. Now you get can get down here in this muck and try to get this bold off."


Bill picked himself up awkwardly, trying not to place his hands on the linoleum slick with he didn't want to think what and awkwardly traded places with Gordy, the men sliding by each other, trying to touch as little as possible in the dingy space.

Gordy got down, hefting his not inconsiderable mass even more snugly into the tripartite spot between the toilet, tub, and wall. He pushed and pulled and jimmied the wrench back and forth. Still nothing.

"What's the matter? Do I still need to call your sister?" Bill snickered.

"Shut . . . up . . . you . . . muh . . . ther" Gordy grunted, locking his knees against the wall and using them to push all his body and arm into the wrench.

Wham! The nut came loose suddenly, Gordy's pressure and momentum swinging wildly into the vanity, then caroming into the porcelain throne, breaking the opposite, unloosened nut free and propelling it into the tub. The toilet burst into a thousand pieces, as Gordy knocked after it, cutting his forearm and greasing himself nastily across the filth-contaminated wax ring underneath.

"Shit!" he yelled.

The tenants from the next room came running to the door to gape slack jawed at the commotion. "What's goin' on in here?" asked one, expectantly, with some resentment, as though a common repairman, paid well in advance for his services, were trying to slink away without doing the job.

"What the hell does it look like?" Gordy barked.