The workweek that followed our road-trip adventure was such a drag. Or maybe it just seemed that way because I was dragging ass. I couldn't seem to recover from that one awful night and the nightmares it inspired weren't doing me any good either. And during the day, there was always more to do than I had time or energy to finish.

On top of all of the filthy jobs I had acquired, we were finally catching some "lobstah." This was good news for my paycheck. Bad news for just about everything else. With longer than usual hours, I never seemed to make it home before dark.

It didn't really matter anyway because Skylar was still recovering. I didn't mind the coughing as long as I got to see her, but she claimed I had "suffered enough."

She spent most of the week in Boston, in and out of work, not able to shake off whatever it was that she had caught on the road. By our phone call Friday morning, though, she said she was feeling better and would come to see me after school.

All day, my mind was on her, and the weekend ahead—the last one in April—sure to be full of rest and relaxation. This, in turn, led to a couple of fuckups on my part. My desire to be elsewhere, plus bad luck, plus impatience were a disastrous combination.

It all began with a finicky lobster trap. Some rookie dropped it in an area known to be rocky and it happened to be my responsibility to lift it. It was bent out of shape when I finally got it up and I couldn't get the trapdoor open.

With lobster inside, it was worth opening, but the more I fiddled with it, the more damaged it became. Before long, one of the hinges snapped. There was little hope it could be repaired, ever, and definitely not by the end of the day. And since Brady was still peeved at me for missing a week of work and being late on Monday, I suddenly became the scapegoat for all of his financial woes. He concluded the first ream-out session of the day by stating that I was on "thin ice" and a "useless piece of shit" too.

And when the day ended for everyone else—around 6:30—Brady handed me a flashlight, a wrench, and told me to fix the toilet in the latrine.

"What's wrong with it now?"

He gave me a sarcastic smile and a hard pat on the back. Then he left too.

Before I went in, I took a deep, aggravated breath and was glad I did. It was the last breath of fresh air I would have for a while. The toilet was clogged, as usual, with a shit the size of a baby humpback whale. And there was enough toilet paper on top of it to keep it warm at night. But that was the least of my problems. There was also water spraying out of a pipe behind the toilet in a very inconvenient spot. I had to lie down on the floor in a puddle of boot sludge, pipe runoff, piss, vomit, and who knew what else.

I inched as close as I could to the wall with the flashlight between my teeth. I could still barely reach the calcified nut that appeared to be loose. With pipe spray in my face, I leaned and stretched until the wrench had a better grasp on it.

Twist after twist, I wasn't making any progress. I stopped to rub some of the grime off with a rag and realized the thread of the pipe was stripped bare. I should have admitted defeat and suggested a plumber instead. But I kept at it and persistence, in my case, didn't pay off. Neither did magic. It was too strong for this problem.

As a result of fatigue and a coating of slime, both getting worse by the second, the wrench bobbled out of my grip. It ricocheted off the wall and nicked the pipe underneath the nut, which proceeded to burst.

The first face that came to mind during my moment of reckoning was that of my ex-wife. If she knew I was lying in human excrement, about to lose my job, she'd want me to live a little longer solely for her entertainment.

I'm still happier than you'll ever be, my mind retaliated. It was my only recourse, but in no way did it drown out the sound of her cackle.

Soaked to the bone, even with my slickers on, I stumbled over to the water source. After a few minutes of trial and error, I finally figured out how to shut off the water. Then, with plumber's tape, I patched up the disaster as best I could and started mopping up the inch of water on the floor. I didn't get very far before Brady appeared in the doorway.

"What the hell happened, MacRae?"

"The pipe burst," I started, and no matter what I said to defend myself, the cost of the plumber, parts, as well as the lobster trap replacement were all coming out of my paycheck. Plus, I had to call him before coming to work the next week. So, in essence, the long hours and hard work for the week were for nothing. And my spotless work history didn't seem like it would save me come Monday morning.

~~~

Eric Clapton. Double Trouble (1976).

https://youtu.be/SqHIryshgF4