Fred Wemyss

I had to use the restroom one day at work, so in I went. I was staring at the political grafitti which had been crossed out, re-written, painted over, re-re-written, bleached, re-re-re-written and then expanded upon, when I heard the door open and a voice bellowing "Don't sign the contract!" It was an authoritative voice, designed to make people piss, so it helped me do what I was doing. The voice came closer and the man whose voice it was went up to the urinal next to mine.

"Don't talk to legal until I see the contract!" he said indignantly. Unzipping, he was silent a second. I moved away from him, feeling intimidated and the electric eye detected the shift, causing my toilet to flush. "What noise?" said the man. "I don't hear any noise."

I could hear a muffled voice on the other end of his phone making a noise of protest. "No, I'm not in a bathroom," said the man.

A loud, resonating noise similar to a Slurpee being finished sounded from the stall in the corner.

"What are you talking about?" said the man, walking away from his urinal. It flushed. He ran his hands under the sink and shouted "Keep those sharks out of the office!" He put his hands under the hand dryer. "What?" he said. "What?"

I finally finished and walked toward the sink, the urinal flushing in my wake. I washed my hands and waited for the man to finish his hand drying. The whirring stopped, but he placed his hands under the machine again, causing it to start a second time.

I stood with my hands dripping.

He said into the phone: "Show them the non-binding contract."

The fellow in the stall said, "Hey, anybody, can you see if there's paper in here somewhere?"

I looked in the unoccupied stall. I didn't see any toilet paper. "Um," I said, timidly, "I don't see any."

"Don't let the client see the contract!" shouted the businessman.

"There's no toilet paper?" shouted the occupant of the stall.

"Hang on, please," said the man on the cell phone. "Hey, stall boy, cut out the personal noises. I'm on the phone."

There was a silence, then an ashamed moan followed by the sound of a belt buckle scraping the floor. The stall door opened with a slam.

"I think I've gotta go," said the man. He was still drying his hands, but he was looking at the figure bounding toward him from the stall.

The cell phone man darted out of the bathroom. The other man ran after him.

I stuck my hands under the dryer. A man walked in saying, "Don't worry, I can talk. This is hands free."

An earpiece stick out of one of his ears.

"Nothing to wipe with," I said.

"What?" he said.

"Call for back-up," I said. The door shut behind me.

Mr. Hermner had finally broken a sweat. He was alone, in cut-off shorts, a white T-shirt and old sneakers. The leaves beneath the hedges were now, as a result of his toil, just to the right of the hedges. He wiped his brow after dropping the rake and went inside.

"Honey," he said to no one. "Where are the leaf bags?

By now, reader, you'll hate him as much as I, the narrator, do. I'll let you in on a little secret. Mr. Hermner is not married and he does not live with anyone. Whenever he gets home from work he says "Honey, I'm home."

Mr. Hermner found the leaf bags. He reached in the box, unrolled the spool until the perforation was visible, and tore off a bag. Outside, he opened the bag and, sticking his toe in the opening, pushed little palmfuls of leaves into it. He had to extract a thorny twig before closing the bag.

He had a hard time tying the bag because it was so full it wouldn't twist enough to allow room for a knot. He put his foot in the bag and pushed down the leaves, which kept coming right back up. When he was finished he put the bag at the curb.

He raked under the maple tree, bagged the leaves, tied the bag and put it by the curb.

In the kitchen he drank a glass of water and looked out the screen door.

The reader will have a moment of sympathy for Mr. Hermner, Mr. Hermner being tired.

How did Mr. Hermner come by this house, with its curb and its hedges and maple tree? If the reader is interested in that, the narrator must laugh and say, "I'm not."

By now, of course, the reader will loathe the author. Let me remind the reader that I'm the narrator, not the author. Please don't make your mind up about me yet.

Mr. Hermner paid rent. He worked a five-day week, which often turned into a six-day week, for people he vaguely mistrusted.

The narrator wishes he didn't have to focus on Hermner. The narrator would prefer another assignment.

After putting the two bags of leaves by the curb, Mr. Hermner wondered if he should bag a third. He decided he wouldn't. He took a shower, drove to a supermarket, bought a flank steak and some beer and drove home.

Shhh! The author's tired. Let's stand on his shoulder. He's looking at the manuscript. He doesn't know what to do with it. He's just staring. Okay, I'd better climb down and get back in place.

After putting the flank steak in the refrigerator, Mr. Hermner folded up the shopping bag and put it in the garbage. He went to the couch, lay down and fell asleep.

I think the author's fallen asleep. While we've got a chance, do you want to know what he was going to call this? Wait, wait, wait, I'll tell you later, he's awake.

Mr. Hermner rolled over.

He wanted to call it "The Sis of Mythyphus." It was supposed to be about a blocked writer whose sister does something. The whole thing was created to fit the title. Then he decided this was just ridiculous, so he sumply focused on the frustrated writer.

Mr. Hermner heard a sound in his dream. One arm shot out, adreniline filled his bones and he yielded to slumbers.

I was ringing sales at the bookstore today when a paranoid-looking guy put his purchase in front of me. I rang it up and didn't comment on his T-shirt, which had, in big white letters against a black background (next to a big white Statue of Liberty) the words "Welcome To America. Now Speak English!"
I bet he ordered it from a conservative talk show host. Now that the issue of illegal aliens is a big news item, he's wearing the shirt wherever he goes.
He looked at me suspiciously as my eyes scanned his T-Shirt.
I wonder if his great-grandfather broke into a sweat at Ellis Island while a short-tempered authority mis-spelled his name and stared at his daughter as if she were a leg of lamb.
I wonder if his great-great-great-great-great grandfather disembarked from the Mayflower, hewed the forests and constructed Plymouth.
Did his father's father's father's father shed his blood at Gettysburg?
Does he have a drop of African blood in him?
Does he have an ancester with a loin-cloth reading "Welcome to the New World. Now speak Ojibwe?"

Merriam-Webster, crazy gal that she is, says that "Variorum" is a noun meaning "an edition or text of a work containing notes by various persons or variant readings of the text."

This entry and the previous one form a variorum edition in progress of a story I'm writing. I have given my previous entry the title "Right, Then." The text of the present entry, which is called "Kitchen Sink," includes some of "Right, Then," but it departs from it and goes its own way. I hope Merriam approves.


"Kitchen Sink"

by

Frederick Wemyss


"Right, then, Fred, we're going to see Mister Klipper today."

"What's he?"

"A sharp gent, you might say, as is Mrs. Klipper."

Before Fred could react, his mother cut in. "I shouldn't think she's a gent."

Sissy said, "Are you taking him to get a haircut Daddy?"

"What if I don't want one?" said Fred.

"Well, that's where Mister and Mrs. Klipper come in. The Klippers is a sharp pair, they is."

Bryan came into the kitchen and ran his fingers through Fred's hair. "This is the kind o' hair gets you beat up at soccer matches."

"Sod soccer!" said Fred.

"Did you hear him, Mum?" said Sissy. "He does say 'sod'."

"Don't say 'sod'," said Mrs. Cogwheel.

"An' never say 'sod soccer'," said Bryan.

"Bryan!" said Sissy and Fred, Sissy because Bryan had used a terrible word and Fred because Brian dug his fingers harder into his scalp.

"That hurts," added Fred.

"You could use some shearing, too, my boy," said Mr. Cogwheel. "Come on then, both of you."

"Daddy," said Bryan mournfully.

"It looks like a rat's nest," said Mrs. Cogwheel.

"It's right short, it is!" said Bryan.

"Short compared to quite long," said Mr. Cogwheel.
"It ain't long."

"Long or short, it is a rat's nest," said Sissy.

"Shut up, Sissy!" Bryan said. He looked at his father. "You had long hair when you was a kid."

"I couldn't afford a haircut," said Mr. Cogwheel.

"Well, you think I can?" Bryan said.

"You can when I'm payin' for it. Come on, lads."

"Bugger all," said Bryan.

"Mummy, do you hear him?" said Sissy.

"He said 'Bugger', didn't he?" said Mrs. Cogwheel.

"Well, yeah, he said 'Bugger'!" Sissy said. She gasped, hearing herself, and covered her mouth.

"I'm asking the barber to cut all your tongues out," Mr. Cogwheel said.

"Right, then, Fred, we're going to see Mister Klipper today."

"What's he?"

"He's a sharp gent, you might say, as is Mrs. Klipper."

Lucy looked at her husband. "I shouldn't think Mrs. Klipper's a gent, sharp or not."

Sissy said, "Are you taking him to get his hair cut, Daddy?"

"What if I don't want my hair cut?" said Fred.

"Well, that's where Mister and Mrs. Klipper come in. The Klippers is a sharp pair, they is." Turning to his other sons, Mr. Cogwheel said, "And you lot, too. Come on."

Russell, the oldest, said, "But, Daddy, I ain't got anything saved."

"Then you won't object to my paying," said Mr. Cogwheel.

Russell said, "It's right short."

"Never short enough, lad. No guff, boys."

"Daddy, can we go on the Eye?" Kent was already putting on his coat.

Mrs. Cogwheel said, "Your father says no guff."

"That's not guff."

"You'll be an hour and a half at the barber with your hair such a mess."

"But we never go out for fun."

"You never go out for a haircut, either."

"Tommy Mapham gets his hair cut at home."

"Tommy Mapham's mother can't afford to pay for his haircuts."

"Yes, she can."

"Well, we can't afford to take you on holiday every time we go outside."