The Toilet Museum

“I work in a toilet museum,” he said, bracing himself for the inevitable.

He expected puns. Puns were usually what most people went for. And he hated puns.

They would say: “I think I need a little time to let that sink in.”

Or, “I guess you don’t really like to talk about work shit on a date.”

“I’m sorry, Vinnie, but it’s just, right there, you know.”

His name was Vincent, but friends called him Vinnie and like many of his dates had gleefully explained, Vinnie the Poo was just right there. So he had good reason to expect puns, just plain derision or a gargantuan attempt at self-restraint. What he didn’t foresee was cool indifference. And for that to turn him on so much.

She hadn’t even batted an eyelid when she heard it.

“Oh!” she said, finally, her face expressionless.

It was as if he had told her that he was an accountant or a clerk. When she went on to speak about the possibility of good weather in the coming weeks, he felt a little offended. That had hurt his ego a tiny bit. He had an interesting job. It deserved some reaction, even if it was muffled laughter.

The woman was tall and willowy, like a supermodel. But her face lacked the adequate amount of cruelty for her to break through to the top, he supposed. Not at all his type in normal circumstances, but these were not normal circumstances. He hadn’t been on a date in ages and his last steady girlfriend had been over a year ago.

They sat in a Mexican restaurant that he’d picked for its boisterous crowd and spicy food. His friend Claire had strongly disapproved of his choice.

“You don’t have a chance in hell to hold a conversation and even if you are lucky afterwards, the spicy food might mess with your game,” she’d warned him.

But his logic was different. He didn’t want to “get lucky” on the first date, anyway. A night with good food and fun vibes laid the foundation for a stable, long term relationship. Not that it had done him any good previously, but Claire was kind enough not to mention that.

His date ate her taco in a single gulp without flinching while he was sweating buckets half way through his enchilada.

Impressive.

“Do you like puns?” he asked her, shouting to be heard across the din.

“I despise puns. They’re too easy,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye.

His heart beat faster.

“Easy, Vinnie, easy!” he thought to himself.

But that was easier said than done. His brain was now on overdrive. Her fiery red hair and the freckles that dotted her face, the fact that she hadn’t smiled yet, and the Japanese (maybe it was Chinese, who the hell knew?) tattoo on her left arm; all of this indicated that she was way too cool for him, Vinnie the Poo.

“What do you do for work?” he asked, in a desperate attempt to humanise her.

God, please let her be a hairdresser or an HR Rep. Or even better if she worked in IT.

“I’m an astrophysicist, ” she said.

Fuck. He groaned on the inside.

She laughed for the first time that evening as she saw his face. It was magnificent.

“I’m only kidding! I’m a private detective,” she said.

“That’s even worse!” he said. “What do you actually do?”

She grinned. The proverbial ice had broken.

She had this aura about her that would have come across as arrogant for just about anyone else, but for her, it just added to her allure. It took him a while to adjust to it and she helped him by actually making an effort. She explained that she was always deliberately aloof for the first five minutes of a date, to weed out the weirdos and the egotists.

“It works like a charm,” she said, smiling.

He had to agree that it was actually a pretty solid strategy.

An hour passed. The music had gone up in volume, now playing South American Reggaeton. His ex had been a fan, but he absolutely despised it. The crowd began to thin and soon, it was just the both of them and a group of people who’d moved to the gap between the bar and the tables to start an impromptu dance-off.

She was looking on, a half-smile on her lips, swaying her body ever so lightly to the music. He was already obsessed with her; obsessed with a capital O. Scratch that, the whole word in caps. She hadn’t once asked him more about his job. Maybe she was the one. He took a few deep breaths to calm down.

“What?” she asked, cocking her eyebrows.

He shrugged and then grinned. He was already on his third beer. He was no lightweight but he was already feeling it.

“So,” she said, smiling mischievously, with the air of someone who’d waited for as long as civility had permitted.

“You want to know more about my job?” he asked, eyeing her carefully.

She was wearing a red sweater and she carefully removed it, exposing her thin, pale arms. It wasn’t a sexual act by any stretch of the imagination, but he looked away, gulping.

“Your work at the toilet museum sounds fascinating but that’s not what I’m interested in, to be honest. It’s your hobby that interests me.”

Vinnie slumped back into his chair. He hadn’t anticipated this. How had this happened?

“I don’t remember telling you about my hobbies,” he said finally, trying to seem unbothered.

“I’m a private detective, remember?” she said. “ It’s my job to know things.”

“Is that so?” he asked, trying to smile.

“Ok, fine, Claire told me.” she said, grinning.

He felt anger bubbling up, but he’d have to deal with Claire later.

“That’s so cute, though!” she said, still grinning from ear to ear. “A doll collection! I would have been so jealous of you twenty years ago.”

He laughed, but he couldn’t hide his annoyance. She caught that and it made her smile even wider.

“Well, we all need a hobby, don’t we? Mine’s just more interesting than most,” he said, sighing.

“Are all of them Barbies?” she asked, and he could detect a hint of teasing in her voice.

“No,” he said, his face serious. “I think of them as historical artifacts. They say quite a lot about the time and place in which they were created.”

She suppressed a grin and nodded seriously.

“But yes, I do have some Barbies.”

She burst into laughter.

It was all going so well. Claire had bloody ruined it. It was tough enough to date, with his job and all, but now this too.

She stood up, looking apologetic, but with a twinkle in her eye. “I think, earlier, I might have judged puns too harshly. Maybe I should give them another chance.”

“No. Please don’t!” he pleaded.

“Ken you please be a doll and get me another drink while I go for a wee?” she said, in what he assumed was an Australian accent. “And I’ll be sure to give the loo the respect it deserves, mate.”

That does it. He was going to kill Claire.

When she had insisted that she’d wanted to go to the Toilet museum, he was a little thrown off, but he didn’t object. They got off the subway and walked to the museum hand in hand.

She couldn’t stop giggling when they’d finally reached the museum.

It was built in the shape of a big toilet with an open amphitheater where the bowl was supposed to be. It was truly ridiculous; wherein lied its appeal. He doubted if many who visited were actually interested in the history of toilets, except maybe for plumbers, who were for the most part a bit too serious about it.

He took her in through the service door in the basement so that he wouldn’t have to use his key card. The security system was just half a dozen cameras near the entrances. His boss had been trying to get management to beef it up, but he doubted if protecting a few vintage toilets was high on their list of priorities. They moved quietly through service corridors and ascended the stairs to get to the ground floor. He turned on the dim lights they used while hosting late night tours in the summer.

“Welcome,” he said in a dramatic British accent, “to Wipe-arsic Park!”

It was lame and he regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth but she was gracious enough, and maybe, drunk enough, to let out a chuckle.

For the next half an hour, they wandered from one section to another. She was fascinated by the crude mediaeval European ones, especially a reproduction of a French Garderobe with intricate carvings on it.

“Imagine admiring the art, as you are sitting over this in a castle in the French countryside, your shit falling ten feet into a pit as your buttocks freeze over. Can you think of anything more romantic?” she asked as he doubled over in laughter.

When they’d finally moved from medieval to modern, it took her a while to recover from the fact that the man who’d designed efficient flushing systems in the late 1800s was called Thomas Crapper. Ironically, she had to go just about then and when she’d realised that no amount of pleading would let him let her pee in one of the vintage toilets, she stomped off in mock outrage to the visitor’s toilets. He followed, as he suddenly felt the call. When he returned, she was already sitting on the floor, looking a little peaky.

“Too much to drink,” she explained.

They called it a day and sneaked out without further incident. They said their goodbyes on the steps as her taxi arrived. He leaned in for a hug but she surprised him with a lingering kiss. He hadn’t felt as warm and fuzzy in ages.

He texted Claire the next day to thank her for setting him up.

“I forgive you for telling her about my doll collection.”

He reached the office a little later than usual after picking up his usual soy latte. What he wasn’t prepared for was an agitated crowd of co-workers talking in hushed voices in front of an exhibit.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“One of the Queen Victoria pieces is missing, ” said Nigel, from HR. “The one with the diamonds.”

It was one of the most valuable toilets in the museum as the lid was encrusted with actual diamonds from one of the first De Beers mines in South Africa. In short, as invaluable a toilet seat as there ever was.

His phone vibrated. Nigel was still looking at him as if expecting a reply.

So he said “What the fuck! How?”

“They couldn’t find anything on the CCTV. It looks like it’s an inside job.”

His phone vibrated again.

It was Claire.

“What are you on about? I didn’t set you up with anyone.”

Suddenly, it all went quiet for Vinnie. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a toilet flush, as the room began to spin.

Oh shit!

Stations in the Multiverse

A world exists as close as your next breath,
Where a baby’s cries are met with tired laughter and
Hushed lullaby mumbles.
Where every step glitters with magic, and
The rising sun surprises a forest
With saffron pools of delight.
Our necessary work is
Mending and building and lifting and
Joining and healing, and
At the end of the day,
My strong body smells of
Honest sweat.
You laugh, and tell me to take a shower, and
When I emerge, new-minted, glistening in the
Comfortable kitchen light,
You ask (knowing the answer, always, always)
If I would kindly be your sous-chef.
I found these mangos at the market, you say,
And they’re as soft and round as an
Unexpected kiss.

But this morning, the
Dopamine box rattles with a billionaire’s
Laughter, and the hollow shape of where you aren’t
Stabs me in the throat.
I claw my riven boulder head awake.
Impossibly far away, a toddler screams in the smoking rubble.
The sharp-edged sun boils an ancient ocean of
Bitter tea.
I wade through the surprising thicket of unpaid bills, and
My job this always morning is racing the Red Queen
Through the lying plastic strip malls that grind at
The heart of the world with their insatiable shiny teeth.
A dead-eyed mother waits (standing, always standing)
For a rusted train on shredded tracks that will never arrive.
My skin sighs blistered dreams in
Drifts of desiccated leaves and I wonder:
Why can’t I
Breathe?

The Ventriloquist’s Daughter

Ola decided to fly the same year her father quit his job to become a ventriloquist. Since she was born, ten years ago, Ola’s family had lived in an enormous Victorian house with floors that creaked and groaned like an old woman moaning over her aching joints. The interior was a patchwork of abandoned renovations, smelling of old sawdust and freshly dried paint, the doorknobs all mismatched: rusting metal globes, weightless stainless steel with a fold of lock in the middle, glass knobs like giant diamonds with sharp corners and a gaping keyhole clogged with paint. Ola had always imagined that if she found the right way to turn them, the doors would open into the past.

But when her father quit his job, they moved to the edge of town into a tiny mobile home balancing on a foundation of cement blocks. A pyramid of more blocks led up to the rickety screen and peeling door. Ola discovered she could squeeze through a gap into the bare dirt belly of the house and lay listening to the creak of feet moving above her, face to face with the gray tomcat who lived there. He had a torn ear and dirt in the corners of his nostrils. He didn’t like to be touched, but sometimes he rolled onto his back to look at her upside down with his bright golden eyes. He’d only bitten her once; Ola thought that meant they were friends.

The house sat on a square lot of dust and dead yellow grass. Every few weeks the landlady came to mow the dust, wearing sunglasses like bug eyes and a floral scarf tied over her untidy hair. The mower spat brown clouds that covered everything with a layer of grime. Usually, the landlady went away again with a wrinkled, yellowed check in her hand; sometimes she went away with nothing, grumbling.

Ventriloquy didn’t pay the bills.

Ola hoped that one day the landlady might take her as payment instead, plop her onto the worn Navajo blanket that covered the front seat of her sedan and give her a half-melted lozenge to suck as they bounced away down the rutted road, kicking up more clouds of dust.

Ola’s father used to work the information desk at the local Amtrak station: selling tickets, giving directions to the nearest burger joint, handing out paper schedules or finding lost luggage. He was good at his job. When the information desk was replaced with a shiny new kiosk, he was offered the position of station manager. He quit instead.

“It’s boring, that’s all,” he’d said to Ola’s mother when he broke the news. She was pale and clutching a washcloth like she might wring it in two. “This was as good an excuse as any to do something different.”

The insides of the Victorian house didn’t fit into the new, smaller house. Boxes were stacked floor to ceiling, making new walls, a maze that Ola had to find her way through. Once, she’d come around a corner to find her mother sitting on a stool and crying, her face an unhappy red. Ola crept away and tried to forget that.

There was a room with bunk beds for her, a bathroom with a pink plastic toilet, a kitchenette with a stove that ticked like a bomb when her mother lit it. At the back of the house, past the boxes marked “kitchen” that wouldn’t fit into the kitchenette, was her father’s ventriloquist studio. A sheet adorned with curling vines of pink flowers hung from the ceiling to make a wall. From behind it wafted the sharp smell of paint or wood glue and her father’s voice saying things like, “Good day to you,” or “How about that?” in a hollow monotone through lips that didn’t move.

He leaned the mirror that used to hang in the hallway against one wall and practiced with his reflection. But soon he was bored of practicing and sat them down to be his mirror instead, to clap like a row of windup monkeys when he’d finished his routine. Ola wasn’t allowed to ask questions because he might not know how to say the answers. So, she listened while he recited the alphabet and sang a song about frogs, then clap-clap-clap.

His mouth moved, she noticed. She sat as if hypnotized, staring at the blank look his face took on when he threw his voice, as if he were startled, at the tiny spasms in his lips and the red stain of beef stew in the corner of his mouth.

The idea to fly had come to Ola when she was watching her mother hang laundry. Shirts and linens and panties, all in a row on the line strung between two rusting T-posts, writhed and snapped in the breeze until finally a faded pea-green bath towel wriggled free of its pegs and flapped upward like an ungainly bird straining for the sky. A moment later, it crumpled and fell into the grass, a towel again. Ola picked it up and hung it back on the line, but not before she held it out and coaxed it to fly, to sweep her along with it. The towel fluttered halfheartedly and went still.

Thinking she needed something larger, Ola tried again with an old sheet. It had cowboys and bucking horses printed on it and a large tear in one corner. The sheet caught the wind, blossomed open like a sail, then it yanked out of her hands and twisted through the air until it snagged on the bare branches of the cottonwood tree in the corner of the yard. There it hung, too high to reach, and slowly shredded apart in the sun and rain. That spring, the bird nests were woven with white and brown and gray threads.

Her father used dummies when he practiced. His first dummy was a wad of socks who had lost their matches, stuffed into a pillowcase and cinched into a ball with string. It looked like a small lumpy ghost or a cabbage in a bag. Her father drew eyes and an open mouth on it with a paint marker, but he soon grew bored of a dummy whose mouth didn’t move. He left it stuck on the end of the broom handle, a severed head on a pole.

His second dummy was an old pressure cooker turned upside down so the hinged lid could open and close like a wide toothless mouth. He glued on mismatched buttons for eyes and handfuls of yellow yarn for eyebrows and hair. But this dummy was too heavy, he complained. It hurt his arm to hold it up. One day the hinge on the lid broke; after that, it lay forgotten in the dusty corner, its mouth hanging open like a broken jaw.

Sometimes he pulled Ola up onto his knee instead and told her to open and close her mouth when he touched her back just so. She flapped her lips and let her eyes glaze like a doll’s eyes, turning the world into smears of color and light. She woke much later to find that her body had hopped off his knee, brushed its teeth, and put itself to bed. Laying in the dark, she blinked her eyes over and over; they stung from being kept open.

Her father’s third dummy was beautiful. It had thick lashes and lids that blinked, painted red lips and downy black hair. It wore a lime suit jacket and a paisley skirt. The dummy improved his ventriloquy too. It told Ola things across the dinner table like, “Did you wash your hands?” or “Don’t pick that scab,” without her father even touching it.

After dark, it came into Ola’s room to tuck the blankets around her with its stiff wooden hands, pressing a kiss to her forehead with its hard rigid mouth. Too terrified to sleep, Ola lay on her stomach and watched the crack of yellow light around her door, so she’d know if the dummy came back. Most of the time it sat on a stool outside her father’s studio, staring ahead without blinking. Its painted skin looked so soft that Ola never dared touch it. She stayed outside and thought about flying.

Kites didn’t need much fabric to fly. They only needed wind and a running start. She tried sprinting around the yard, leaping like the gazelles she’d seen on a documentary about the Serengeti, the corners of a dingy red tablecloth clenched in her fists. When that didn’t work, she climbed up the creaking shutters onto the roof of the house, ran along its length, and threw herself into the air. Right before she crashed into the dirt, the tablecloth pulled taut, filling with a balloon of wind, yearning against her grip. Ola skinned her knees and bloodied her elbow; a nasty purple bruise formed on her chin. The house wasn’t tall enough, she reasoned. She would climb the cottonwood tree next.

But her body was beginning to change. Her arms and legs stiffened and cemented themselves in strange angles that made it difficult to walk. Her eyelids clicked when she blinked. When she poked her middle, instead of the soft hardness of her insides, her fingers sank into soft fluff.

“Smile, for goodness sake,” her father and his dummy told her, so her cheeks were always pulling her lips into a painful grimace. Soon her mouth didn’t move at all unless her father lifted her onto his knee and put words into it. She could move her eyes, back and forth, back and forth, like a swinging clock pendulum. All the dummies, lined up on their chairs, clapped their hands. How marvelous! How fun! What a pretty little doll!

Her hair was twisted into two stiff braids that stuck out over her shoulder joints, and she was dressed in a puffy pink skirt that hid her stiff legs and the ventriloquist’s hand that he used to move her mouth. When she managed to walk outside, swaying back and forth with her unbending knees, the gray tomcat pinned his ears and hissed at her.

Her thoughts were sleepy doll thoughts, sluggish and labored like a clock winding down. She sat and felt them drift past, not knowing what they meant, until one night when the wind growled and rocked the house on its crooked foundation. Somewhere in the dimness of the house, the ventriloquist murmured the Gettysburg Address and sang the alphabet out of tune.

A window had been left open. The sheer curtains floated and snapped. Then the doll who had once been Ola thrummed with wakefulness and remembered she wanted to fly. With her flat wooden hands, she pulled herself up onto the windowsill and tumbled through.

And because her dress was large and could catch the wind, because there was nothing left of her but fluff and yarn, her skirt billowed out, and away she flew.