A STORY by DONALD RYAN
Flushed
More than I’d like to admit, there are times the lone and simple fact of being alive depresses me. This is why my place is spotless. Cleaning, it distracts me; the action of doing. The actions of being 6:30 on a Thursday, having been home from the office for about an hour, of picking at two helpings of a less-than-satisfying, previously baked but tonight microwaved, oven-ready mac ‘n cheese, of now being hunched over an already spotless toilet, scrub brush in my gloved-up-to-my-forearm hand.
I’ve never known much about what comprises this blue stuff, if its color results from combining specific disinfecting compounds or if it’s dye added to show where it has been coated. Either way, there’s a sheen to it. The kind I’d like to associate with happiness. Or if not happiness, at least comfort. Something or anything that isn’t the weight of existence that creeps on like pounds from again half-drunkenly snacking in front of whatever Netflix recommends before asking if I’m still watching, passive-aggressively calling me out for having passed out on the couch. Where’s the devout service between a ritual and a burden? At least I take pride in using a glass for the Chardonnay I tell myself nightly I will not, this time, polish off.
After the toilet I’ll move onto the shower. The showerhead specifically. The chrome shines from being sprayed with mildew repellant after every use. But there’s no way something microscopic isn’t lurking behind those pinprick spouts. Saw a hack on Insta about submerging the showerhead in vinegar with a sandwich bag and some rubber bands. Distilled white vinegar is all sorts of useful when it comes to bringing out brightness. Just as the testimonial of Megan Marcen Williams recommends. Then I’ll double up with a disinfectant, my own distillation, to really feel good about myself.
I usually scroll past Megan’s posts without note. She was a courtesy follow. We went to the same high school, she a few years behind me. Her features, taken individually, are independently cute but clash in the arrangement of her face. Still, she’s a display of confidence. Selfies with one of those new phones that softens the background into foliage. Tips and tricks of a newlywed now homemaker. A puppy, playful in the manicured backyard or at her feet, mischievously after the fringes of a dangling scarf, herself crouched for a one-armed puppy hug, eye freshly mascaraed and teeth obviously whitened sometime between “y’all know me, it’s always coffee o’clock” and “it’s wine time, y’all.”
I know I’m just being petty. I could never have a puppy. The mess it’d make.
So much around my own place alone already needs attending, now that Alex is gone thus validating any or every mess is solely my own doing. So again I start with the toilet because it’s all crap or it’s one less crap to deal with or who gives a crap, anyway? Because the way the bristles rustle along the awned ridge of the bowl, the sound stiff and tickling tickles me. A moment to live for, fleeting, even as life compounds hidden under the edges. I smear the brush harder and harder around the lip’s underside. Focused. Intentional. Like I’m Van Gogh layering drags of paint. Forceful. Artistic. Swooping. Like the brush has a purpose. Like the cleaner has a purpose. Like the toilet has a purpose. Like mine’s polishing this pristine coffee-stain free, red-wine-stain free, piss-and-puppy-and-softened-background-foliage-stain free toilet.
Because sure it’s blue now. But when I give it a flush, get rid of it all, that’s when it will sparkle.
Donald Ryan is the author of “Don Bronco's (Working Title) Shell,” available from Malarkey Books. Donald Ryan solely exists online dot com or @dryanswords.