Max Booth III - We Need to Do Something

On the floor next to the tub Bobby plays cards with himself. Some fake game he’s probably made up which consists of several dozen nonsensical rules nobody could possibly understand, including himself. We both look up as Mom rises from the toilet and approaches Dad next to the sink. It’s been hours since any of us have actually moved. Or maybe days. Or five minutes. Who knows? Time moves in surreal strides here in this bathroom. Now that our phones are MIA, none of us have any way to tell time. I remember, at one point in time, there being a clock hanging from the wall next to the toilet in our parents’ bathroom. Perhaps another casualty of my father’s alcoholism. I can easily imagine him coming home in the middle of the night from the bowling alley, stumbling in here to pee, and knocking the clock off the wall with a careless shoulder bump. He probably didn’t even notice what he’d done, leaving it for Mom to clean up the following morning. Or maybe it had simply stopped functioning.

Dad’s been leaning against the counter, fooling with his cell phone and growing increasingly frustrated with its lack of results. He stops thumbing the screen and acknowledges Mom’s sudden closeness with a sneer.

She points at the thermos behind him. “We need that.”

Not bothering to follow her gaze, he says, “Need what?”

“It’s the only container in here that can hold water. We need to stay hydrated.”

“I’m not finished with it yet.”

“Well, can you be?”

Dad doesn’t react for a moment. His jaw twitches. Contemplating saying something ugly, lashing out, making a horrible time somehow worse. Instead he exhales over-dramatically and chugs the thermos until whatever contents remaining inside disappear down his throat. His face seems to sink into itself as it reacts to such a heavy dose of alcohol, then relaxes a little. He ignores Mom’s out-stretched hand and sets the thermos back on the sink, smiling at her, clearly trying to start another argument. Her own expression says everything she needed to say, that she is absolutely disgusted with the man she’d married, that she regrets ever marrying him or having his kids. I do not blame her for this disgust, as I too share similar thoughts.

He chuckles and maneuvers around her toward the toilet, groaning as his knees bend and crack. Mom washes the thermos out under the sink and fills it with water, then brings it down to Bobby and tells him to drink it.

Bobby smells the top of the container and grimaces. “Gross. It smells! It smells just like Sissy’s butt!”

“It’s okay. I washed it out.”

“From the sink? But I only like bottled water, Mom!”

“Bobby, does it look like I have any bottled water? If you don’t drink this, you’re going to get sick. Come on now. Please.”

“But Mom—”

Behind them, Dad slaps the wall, startling the rest of us into giving him his full attention. Still seated on the toilet, he starts stomping his feet on the floor like a great beast attacking a city.

“ Bobby, god dammit, drink the fucking water and stop acting like a little… god… damn… baby. ”

Tears had broken through Bobby’s ducts before Dad finished screaming. He grabs the thermos from Mom and takes a long chug, trying not to choke on the liquid between sobs. Mom ends up having to pry the thermos away from him after a minute, giving Dad a side-eye of rage and fear, then hands it over to me.

After witnessing my father’s tantrum, I do not need any further instructions. I drink the water and try not to gag on the lingering odor of whiskey, then return it to Mom. She gulps the last of it and turns toward the sink to set it back down, but Dad is already up, yanking it from her grasp. He attempts to take a sip, only to realize it’s empty. Frowning, he holds the thermos upside down. “So, what, I don’t get any now?”

Mom pauses, treading lightly, and gestures at the sink. As if to tell him, You’re a big boy. You can do it yourself.

The silence between them is sharp enough to puncture flesh.

Then Dad smiles. “Relax. I’m just fucking with you. Jesus Christ. You can’t take a joke now, or what?”

He refills the thermos, sips it, then sets it back on the counter, smacking his lips. He starts screwing around with his cell phone again, as if this time it will finally work for some reason. Bobby and I exchange brief eye contact, communicating telepathically the way only siblings can, telling each other that we oughta count ourselves lucky for avoiding what could’ve been a massive fight between our parents. The longer we stay in this bathroom, the tighter the tension grows. It will not hold forever. Sooner or later, something is going to break.

Something or someone.

Mom suggests we take inventory of the bathroom, which we all agree is a good idea, but none of us get up to help. Instead we sit and watch her go through the medicine cabinet and various drawers below the sink. I don’t know where she’s found the energy. I barely have enough strength to keep my eyes open. I barely have enough strength to breathe.

She pulls out everything and lines them up along the top of the counter. Once in a while Dad makes snide remarks about the amount of hair products she digs out, stuff like, “ Why do you need all this shit, anyway ?” and “ Good to see my paycheck hasn’t been going to waste ,” as if Mom doesn’t also work, as if he’s the sole provider for this family, which is of course a lie and we all know it, but god help the poor soul brave enough to point it out.

This is what she found:

• Two toothbrushes, along with half a tube of toothpaste;

• Mouth wash;

• Hydrogen peroxide;

• A box of Batman-themed Band-Aids;

• Various hair products (gel, spray, shampoo, conditioner, etc);

• Hair dryer;

• Deodorant;

• Soap (body wash, hand foam, several bars);

• Razors;

• Shaving cream;

• Beard trimmer;

• Makeup (eye shadow, mascara, eye liner, blush, foundation, lipstick, powder);

• Body lotions (vanilla, baby powder, lavender, coconut, strawberry, rose, black cherry);

• Skin care products (toner, lotion, soap, etc);

• Tampons;

• Pads;

• Alcohol wipes;

• Nail trimmers;

• Ibuprofen;

• and NyQuil.

The last item twists my stomach into a knot. Amy loves NyQuil, says you can trip balls on it if you take just the right dose. Sometimes she tries getting me to do it with her, but I can’t stand the smell of it, much less the taste. If Amy was here right now, I would try whatever she wanted me to try. But she’s not. I don’t know where she is. If she’s not also trapped, then why hasn’t she come over to check on me? After everything she and I went through, it doesn’t make any sense. She would be concerned. She would want to know I’m safe. Just like I’m concerned. Just like I want to know she’s safe.

And, if not her, then somebody should have checked on us by now. We don’t live in the middle of nowhere, shut off from society. Plenty of neighbors surround us on either side. Can’t they see a tree has crashed through our roof? Can’t they see we need help ?

“Maybe we should try shouting again,” I suggest. “Someone might hear us now.”

“I don’t think anyone’s going to hear us, Mel,” Dad says.

“No, she’s right,” Mom says. “We can’t just give up. There has to be someone, somewhere. There has to be.”

One thing none of us can agree on is how to scream. Either we all stand against the door at the same time and let loose, or we each take turns. Option A) guarantees maximum volume, while option B) promises a stronger longevity. It’s impossible to shout for help longer than five minutes, and that’s being generous. After so long, you need to rest your lungs. Especially when in poor health, like the four of us. Nobody in this bathroom feels energized. Our muscles are atrophying. Everything is dizzy and confusing and the last thing any of us really wants to do right now is shout.