Note: This is the second prompt in a series of five prompts we
are working through at Write On. The first story is linked here: What Lies Ahead: Write-On Prompt: WD 1 - Rob Calls It Quits (whatliesaheadblog.blogspot.com)
Nobody ever thought about Wendall unless the crapper backed
up, an unusually common malfunction in the men’s room at Castella Services. Only
seventeen males worked at Castella, well sixteen since Rob’s outburst about an
hour earlier, and Wendall had his suspicions on which one of those seventeen
couldn’t clean their rears without using half a roll of TP and clogging the old
pipes of this aging building. Wendall was twenty-nine, and he’d already spent
more time on his knees in front of a dirty stool with a plunger in one hand and
a clothespin over his nostrils than most people would spend in three lifetimes.
Not only didn’t they think of him, but they also didn’t know
his real name. “Captain Crapper,” that’s what most of the khaki-wearing
bastards called him.
“Captain Crapper” they called when the toilet clogged,
“Report to the deck for another voyage on the brown sea.”
Wendall had thought about quitting, just like Rob had, a
thousand times. But what would happen then? He lived with his mother, who
retired early from a career in doing nothing to spend her golden years doing
less, and his grandmother, who was ninety-six and still walked three miles a
day, but who hadn’t held a job since Jimmy Carter was in office. Both were
dependent on his meager salary.
Wendall played the scene of Rob quitting over and over in
his mind. The suddenness of it, the brisk way he waltzed from the office,
shoulders back, head held high. He was cool, just like a rockstar.
The tickets, the thought of them rang like a tornado warning
in his head. Seven hundred bucks down the drain.
Clearly, Rob had forgot that Wendall had a surprise waiting
for him. Wendall had only mentioned it to Rob three times that day. Of course,
Rob had barely acknowledged it.
“Hmmmm,” Rob mumbled, while the two smoked during a break
that morning. Rob lived in his own head sometimes. That’s one of the things
Wendall liked about him. The guy could exist without talking and that calmed Wendall.
Wendall had wanted to wait until the end of the day to
spring the tickets on Rob, that way maybe they could go down to Bump’s Tap and
split a pitcher of beer talking about it. Metallica. Third Row, center. Rob
would have probably high-fived him or something because Rob loved music, and
for whatever reason, Wendall just wanted to do nice things for Rob. He wasn’t
like the rest of the assholes at this hellhole. He was a daydreamer, sure, but
he wasn’t arrogant. Hanging out with a janitor wasn’t below him, and he didn’t
call Wendall “Captain Crapper.” Just Wendall. Sometimes, he’d even say, “Hey
Buddy.” Can you believe that? Buddy. Wendall hadn’t had a buddy or a friend or
a pal since grammar school. The tickets were an impulse buy, he didn’t even have
Rob’s phone number, but they were buddies, pals, friends, right? Buddies, pals,
friends, go to concerts together.
Now Rob was gone for good.
“Ahoy!” Cal Pickens called. “There’s a storm on the brown
sea! Calling Captain Crapper!”
There was a chuckle around the cubicles. The cubicle where
Rob sat was quiet, this time because Wendall’s friend was gone and not because Rob
found the nickname stupid and thought Wendall was a good guy.
Wendall grabbed the plunger and sighed.
