Dude Wipes Out
When the toilet clogs yet again, stay-at-home dad Mitch decides to finally get to the bottom of who’s responsible by interrogating his wife and two daughters.
Unsplash image by Giorgio Trovato
In 3 days, I wrote this 2,000-word story with the randomly assigned topics of comedy, underappreciated, and interrogator during Round 2 of the 2022 NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge.
Dude Wipes Out
Mitch Bergson lifted the lid, wafting aromas of homemade lamb stew. He whispered, “Really amazing job, Mitch,” rhetorically patting his own back. He set four places at the table, opened a bottle of cabernet, wondered when he’d started talking to himself, and waited for the chaos to begin.
At 4:30pm, his daughter Alena announced her arrival by slamming the door, dropping her bags and locking herself in the bathroom. Sophie, two years younger and a step behind, also slammed the door, ran after her sister screaming, “Hurry up!” Ten minutes later, Cora kicked off her heels and danced toward the bathroom humming, “My turn.”
In the kitchen, Cora accepted the glass Mitch handed her, taking two great gulps before unloading her day on her husband. Once upon a time their arrivals and departures had been demarcated by a kiss and embrace, back when Cora asked about Mitch’s day. Certainly tonight his wife would notice how he’d tidied the house, filed their taxes, folded laundry, mowed the lawn, outdid his own culinary achievements…
Instead Sophie yelled from the hall, “Dad, something’s wrong with the toilet.”
Mitch turned off the burner and stepped around the corner. “Two squares, ladies. How many times must I say it.”
“That’s insane, Dad,” Alena said. “This isn’t the pandemic.”
Mitch grabbed the plunger. Sure he had regrets. But when his career shifted from legal scholar to investigative reporter somehow morphing into part-time leisure magazine writer, taking the role of housedad was never something he regretted. Believing he could live amiably in a house with three women and only one bathroom was.
“I specifically told you not to flush things other than human waste,” he lectured. “Don’t you read the sign?” The poster he’d designed, printed and hung beside the flusher read: Don’t flush tampons, PERIOD! He thought it was clever.
“Don’t lie to me, girls. Did you flush a tampon?” Yellow water was swiftly rising. Mitch worked the plunger.
“No!” cried Sophie.
“It wasn’t me,” Alena said.
“Damn it. I can’t hold it off. Cora, call the plumber.” Mitch glanced at his oldest daughter. “In fact, call Dupont Plumbing.”
“No.” Alena’s eyes widened. “Mom, please. Call anyone else.” But it was too late. Cora was on the phone, flinging beach towels from the closet, sopping up urinated dilution seeping across the tile. “Yes, hi, our toilet’s clogged…again.”
Twenty minutes later, seventeen-year-old Liam Dupont knocked on their door. “Hi Mrs. Bergson. My dad said you called?”
“Yes, Liam. You know the way,” Cora said.
Liam lugged his toolbox inside, squeezing past Sophie and pausing at Alena in the hall: “Oh, hi Alena.”
Alena melted into her room. Liam was tall, fit and skinny. His arms were long enough to reach awkward spaces, ensuring his spot as star lacrosse player and his family’s plumbing business as the best in town. Last summer, his dad bought him a truck outfitted with two bench seats and a rack for his tools. Liam was smart, charming, handsome, handy. Alena was mortified.
Before tackling the toilet, Liam politely asking Mitch to hover somewhere else. “Good idea,” Mitch said, “I’ll find out what we’re dealing with.” And he herded his girls onto the couch.
“We’ll know the cause soon,” Mitch said. “So I’ll give you each one chance to tell the truth. Who clogged the toilet?”
“Mitch,” Cora said. “Is this really necessary? I’ve been in court all day. Can’t we just let Liam take care of it and eat?”
“No.” Mitch crossed his arms. “No one gets stew till I get answers.”
Cora covered her laugh with the back of her hand. “You expect a confession? Mitch, darling, you were terrible at this in law school. You’ll never get them to confess.”
“You’re not clear of this either, darling. Just because I didn’t pass the bar, doesn’t mean I don’t have same degree as you. You forget how observant I am. For instance, at 4:32pm Alena was in the bathroom for seven minutes. At 4:40, Sophie entered, but was interrupted by you. At quarter till the bowl overflowed, so I can only conclude that someone one is using more toilet paper than their permitted two squares, or you’re flushing foreign objects down the toilet! Why else has the toilet clogged three times this year. Please explain what I’m missing!”
Alena snorted. “You won’t get a confession from me.”
“Nor I,” said Sophie.
All three women crossed their arms. Mitch took a step back. “Oh no, you won’t gang up on me this time.”
He set up his interrogation room in the kitchen, where overhead lights cast harsh shadows and the smell of stew had faded. He adjusted his favorite apron and gestured for Cora to sit.
“Let’s begin,” Mitch said, slipping a coaster under her glass. “As a woman, you obviously know which of our daughters is currently menstruating.”
Cora choked before swallowing.
Mitch continued, “Isn’t it true that women can tell these things through psychosis?”
Cora restrained her smile. “Honey, what’s this really about?”
Mitch glanced at the table set for four, the lukewarm lamb getting chewy. You hardly notice me, he thought but said, “It’s about paying that plumber one twenty an hour when we should be saving for Alena’s tuition.”
“I told you I’m taking care of that,” Cora said.
“Of course you are,” Mitch muttered.
“Excuse me?” Cora set down her glass. “You know, this is precisely why you never made it as a lawyer. Your tactics are all wrong. Sarcasm? Intimidation? It doesn’t work. It never has. If you want them to open up, you need to build rapport.”
“Reports, I know.” He unmagnetized his whiteboard, usually reserved for meal planning, and pointed to three names and timestamps written there.
“No, honey, the t is silent.”
“No, it’s not. Report-t-t-s,” Mitch said, jutting his jaw for emphasis.
Cora sighed. “Maybe I should talk to the girls.”
“No!” Mitch lurched forward. “No,” he said more calmly. “You don’t need to do everything for me, fix everything for me. I wish you’d be on my team here. I wish you’d appreciate what I’m trying to do.”
“And what are you trying to do, exactly?”
“I’m trying to understand why you girls keep clogging the toilet.”
“Us girls?”
“You know what I mean.”
Cora leaned forward. “You think I don’t know what can and cannot go down a toilet? I’m a fifty-nine-year-old woman, or haven’t you noticed? If you’re so observant, you’d know about my night sweats, hot flashes, the fact that I wear more layers than I can count and suffer terrible mood swings.”
“Well, I have noticed those.”
“Mitch! I’m menopausal. I haven’t had my period in seven years. I’m getting acne for Christ’s sake. I’d love to explain how shifting hormones affect the body, but you never ask. You don’t want to participate in this part of my life because that’s not the sort of plumbing you’re interested in!”
“Honey, I—” Mitch stuttered.
“Forget it. Have your stupid mock trial. I’m getting more wine.”
Cora stormed off, leaving Mitch dumfounded in the kitchen. When she rejoined her daughters, she winked and smiled. “Your turn, Alena.”
Alena sat on the stool, arms folded, watching her dad neurotically scrub drops of wine off the counter. In one swift movement, he aimed the overhead pendant light into his oldest daughters eyes. “You entered the bathroom at 4:32, correct? But didn’t exit until 4:39. What can you possibly do in there for seven whole minutes?”
“Dad, are we really doing this?” Alena slouched in her seat.
Mitch circled behind her. “Having Liam here makes you giddy. You like him. You have every reason to clog our toilets so your mother has to call him. You know this breaches my no-boys-in-the-house rule.”
“Dad, you’re the one who insisted we call him. I begged Mom to call someone else.”
Mitch changed his tone. “Let’s talk about prom. Has he asked you yet? Do you want to go with him? Do you keep shoving tampons down the toilet so he’ll come over?”
“What? Dad, first of all, I’m a seventeen-year-old woman who has successfully not been clogging toilets for years. If I wanted a date for prom, I’d probably choose another way to get a boy’s attention than having him plunge my toilet?”
Mitch stopped wiping the counters. “What? Nobody will be plunging anyone’s toilet around here. Not on my watch!”
Alena smirked. “You know he uses his snake to—”
“Stop.” Mitch gripped the counter. His face blanched white.
“Are we done here?” Alena stood up.
Mitch nodded.
She sauntered to the couch and said, “Your turn, sister.”
When Sophie arrived, Mitch was scrubbing the stovetop again. She said, “How does a man this obsessed with cleanliness manage to wipe his ass with only two squares?”
Mitch threw down the sponge and said, “Language! Now, is it true that you’ll capitalize on any opportunity to embarrass your sister?”
He slid a chocolate bar across the counter. Sophie snatched it and ate ravenously. Mitch noted this on his whiteboard. “How are your moods today?”
Sophie put down the chocolate bar. “I’m not on my period, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Mitch cringed. “Nobody seems to appreciate how disruptive this clog is. Do you know how expensive plumbers are?”
Sophie leaned forward. “Do you appreciate how disruptive having your period is? Can you imagine layers of your organs peeling off every month then falling out from inside you?”
“Oh god,” Mitch gagged on his own saliva.
“I don’t even use tampons, Dad. They’re so bad for the environment. I couldn’t live with myself knowing I contributed that much waste to landfills. I’ll show you what I use. It’s called a diva cup. You simply pinch the sides and shove it up your—”
“Nope.” Mitch held up both hands, shielding himself from whatever Sophie was extracting from her purse.
Thankfully Liam appeared from the hall. “All done, sir.”
“And?” Mitch rushed over. “Who’s the culprit?”
“I’d rather not say, sir. It doesn’t really matter.”
“Oh, it matters,” Mitch said. “In fact, everyone in the living room.”
“Mitch,” Cora hissed. “You’re embarrassing all of us.”
“Embarrassing? How do you think I feel when the neighbors see this damn truck here every month? The neighbors are talking. They say, Oh that Mitch can’t keep his plumbing straight. That Mitch does whatever his girls tell him. That Mitch cooks and cleans and folds laundry without a thank you or smile or hint of appreciation. I’m the one keeping this house in order and you three just clog, clog, clog. I can’t take it anymore! So, yes Liam, please tell us what in the world is clogging the toilet.”
“Dude Wipes, sir.”
“What?”
“Dude Wipes. I know they say flushable on the package, but they’re really not.” Liam handed over a bright blue box.
“But,” Mitch whispered. “They say one wipe replaces ten full squares.”
“That may be true, sir. But they’re doing a real number on your pipes, sir. You need to throw them in the garbage.”
Mitch crumpled into his chair. Humiliated, silent.
Liam paused before hauling his toolbox to the door. “Actually, while I’m here sir, I was hoping to ask Alena something.”
Alena leapt from the couch.
Cora did too. “Not now, Liam. This really isn’t good timing.”
“But with so many house calls lately, I’ve finally saved enough for a limo!”
“Do you mean…?” Alena started
“Later,” Cora hissed, pushing Liam out the door.
Mitch sat with the box against his forehead. When the door latched and Liam was gone, all three women burst into hysterics.
“Oh Mitch…” Cora started but the rest was drowned in laughter.
Alena keeled over, holding her stomach. “Amazing job, Dad…” but she couldn’t finish.
Sophia wiped tears from her eyes, reaching for the box of tissues. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll only use two squares.” She laughed and cried. And for the first time ever, she patted her dad on the back.
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