Cross-posted from my new blog, 365 Jobs:
Sunday, January 28, 1990
A few days ago Leanna, one of the La Honda Poets, asked me to repair her leaking toilet. "No hurry. Whenever you have time," she said. "The door doesn't have a lock. Just go right in." Today is Sunday; I have time.
Leanna lives alone in a tiny house at the end of a long muddy driveway, one bedroom teetering over a creek. I can only drive the truck half way up the driveway. Through the mud I carry a toolbox, a ballcock, a flexible riser. A knock on the door brings no response. I step inside - and hear the sound of lovemaking in the back room. I back out, quietly.
That night, Leanna calls: "Did you come to my house today?"
"Yes."
"Thought so. Tire marks. The thing is, the toilet still leaks."
"Of course it leaks. I didn't fix it."
"Why not?"
"You were - uh - busy."
"Yes I was busy. I was gone all day. What are you talking about?"
"Somebody was there. In the bedroom. I heard them."
"Them? Nobody comes here except Amy to feed the cats."
"How old is Amy?"
"Fifteen. Oh crap. And she was in the bedroom? I told her two rules: always use birth control and never use my bed. Did she at least feed the cats?"
"I have no idea."
The next day Leanna stops by my house. "I really want that toilet repaired. Here. You'll need this."
She hands me a key.
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