Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part Two
The Gal in Twenty
Manager Larry says, "The gal
in Twenty is crazy.
I hate her. She’s throwing a fit.”
"What should I do?"
"Humor her. Fix something.
It's the same old shit."
A towel rack is loose,
the shower head dribbles,
a door latch won't catch,
so many quibbles;
the vent fan rattles,
she can't switch on the light,
the phone has no tone.
She's entirely right.
Mucking
Mucking with a garbage
disposal as the young woman
applies make-up in her slip
— lush lips! —
ignoring me
while her roommate showers,
emerging damp-haired,
wrapped in a towel.
I exist as a handy
not as a man.
Note: Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the on-call handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental units — or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story dwellings in a subdivision of Sunnyvale, California. It's steady money. As a minor league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize the experience in prose, but verse seems to work best. Most of the events took place in the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is Part Two of a series.
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