Fred Cleans House

Fred and Rachel's kitchen is a mess. Fred decides to clean up.

Approximately 1600 words

Comment. I wrote this after an exchange with a friend in which I commented that the hard thing about writing a story about doing housework would be to add some tension to it.  I don't know if this works or not, but it was an attempt to do just that.

         

Fred Cleans House

by

Max Griffin

         
         Fred trudged from the garage to the kitchen, his briefcase dragging on his arm.  "Honey, I'm home."

         No answer.  He rolled his eyes.  Figures.

         He wrinkled his nose at the stench of sour milk.  His gaze roved over the stacks of dirty dishes, half-empty pizza boxes, open cans of tomato paste and other garbage that littered the room.  There it was, on the table, an open carton of Borden's.  He dumped his briefcase atop the newspapers stacked on his chair before he picked up the offending container.  While he carried it to the sink, he sniffed at it, squinted his eyes and recoiled at the nauseous aroma.  Hot water sluiced the yellowish glops of goo that plopped into the drain and down the garbage disposal. 

         He crammed the carton into the trash bin, which already overflowed with coffee grounds, egg shells, and something greenish and slimy that might have once been guacamole.  Gnats flitted around the bag, and cockroaches swarmed on the floor where it rested.  He jumped when a mouse scampered between his legs and disappeared under the refrigerator.  Another thing for me to take care of.  His shoulders sagged as he cinched the plastic ties closed and schlepped the trash out to the cans on the patio. 

         When he got back to the kitchen, Rachel slouched at the table, smoking a cigarette. Her frilly pink robe wilted over the folds of her body fat, and grime crusted her fluffy bunny slippers.  She stared at him with dull eyes and announced, "I'm too tired to cook tonight.  You wanna go get Kentucky Fried or something?"

         He blinked and surveyed the room. Like anyone could cook in this rat's nest. 

         Her eyes followed his gaze.  She scowled and tossed her head.  Her oily blonde hair flapped against her neck.  "What?  I've had a headache all day, and all you can do is come home and nag me about housekeeping?  I'm not your slave, you know.  I deserve a life, too."

         Fred sighed.  Here we go again.  "I didn't say you were.  In fact, I didn't say anything."  He tried to keep his voice even, to be the adult in the room.

         "I know you.  You were thinking it." She squirmed in her chair and snuffed her cigarette out on a plate covered with congealed eggs and dried-up pancake syrup.  "It's not like you ever help around here."

         Fred moved his briefcase to the floor, picked up the newspapers from his chair and tossed them into the now-empty trash bin.  "I'm just not up to going out again tonight.  Maybe we should order pizza or something?"

         "We had pizza last night."  As she lit another cigarette, her eyes focused on his briefcase.  "What?  You brought work home?  I guess you'd do anything rather than spend time with me."

         Cutting my throat might be an alternative. Suddenly, the prospect of going to KFC seemed appealing.  He stood and pulled his car keys from his pocket.  "You want white or dark meat?"

         "I changed my mind.  The pizza place will deliver manicotti.  Call in an order of that, along with some of those cinnamon thingees for desert."  She pulled off a slipper and scratched between her toes.

         Escape denied, he put his keys back in his pocket. "Anything else?"

         "Make me some coffee, will ya?"  She replaced her slipper and rubbed her forehead.  "I need to lie back down.  My migraine's throbbing again."

         Fred bit his lip and watched while she waddled from the kitchen back to the sofa in the living room.  Her path meandered around stacks of dirty towels, bed sheets, and bulging trash bags.  The television soon blared with amateur singers who warbled off-tune, and with judges making snarky comments.

         He used his cell phone to call in Rachel's order. He'd had Italian at noon with a client and didn't really want it again.  I'll just have a bowl of corn flakes.  He paused, contemplating what to do next.  He decided to clear off the kitchen table first, so he'd have a place to eat now, and later to work. 

         Of course, the dishwasher was full of dirty dishes.  He started it running and began to stack things from the table.  Cockroaches scampered away as he exposed their hiding places.  His lips turned down and he pulled the bug spray from under the sink.  The loathsome insects had vanished by the time he got to the table, but he soaked it with the insecticide anyway.  That'll get rid of the nasty things.

         The volume on the TV muted and Rachel's voice, now honey-coated, oozed from the living room.  "Where's my coffee, hon?"

         He gave a little start.  "It'll be a second.  I haven't started it yet."

         She exploded.  "What are you doing? How hard is it to fix a god damned pot of coffee?  One little thing I ask you do to for me, and you screw it up."

         "Please, Rachel.  I had to call in your order."  He put the bug spray on the counter while he filled the reservoir on the coffee maker.  "I'm making it now."

         "Hurry it up."  The TV blared again.  At least her voice no longer polluted his ears.

         "Right away, dear," he muttered.  Before long, the homey aroma of coffee filled the kitchen.

         Fred finished clearing the table, pulled down a bowl, and went to the pantry for his cereal.  "Fuck me," he murmured.  There it was, a big, cheery box of corn flakes.  But the mouse had nibbled at the bottom, torn it open, and now flakes and rodent droppings mixed with the dust and dried up stains on the linoleum.  No cereal for me tonight.

         Fred returned to the sink and peered into the cabinet underneath.  He was sure that what he needed was somewhere down there.  He grunted to his knees and started pulling out detergent, Brillo pads, furniture polish and other unused cleaning materials.  There it was: rodent poison, with a big skull and cross bones on the package.  He'd teach the damned thing to eat his cereal.

         While he baited the trap, the coffee maker gurgled and hissed as the brewing cycle finished.  Fred put the poison on the counter, next to the roach spray, and rinsed out a coffee cup.

         The volume on the TV muted again.  This time Rachel screeched. "Where's.  My. Coffee?"

         "I'll be right there."  He poured a cup.  Rachel liked hers with lots of sugar and creamer.  He loaded it up and and stirred it.  He paused for a second, then added an extra dollop, just to be sure, before weaving his way into the living room.  "Here you go, dear."

         "It's about time."  She took a sip and scowled at him. "It tastes bitter.  Did you put sugar in it?"

         "Three tablespoons, just like you like.  I tried a new blend of coffee.  Maybe that's it."

         "Well, it's drinkable."  She waved him to one side while she slurped more down.  "Get out of my way.  This guy's cute, but he couldn't sing his way out of a paper bag."

         "Have a good time, dear.  I'm going to do the dishes while we wait for the delivery."

         "Whatever.  Shush, now."

         For the first time since he got home, he let a little smile play with his lips.  "Yes, dear."

         He filled the sink with hot, sudsy water and started in on the plates.  A few swishes, and a miracle occurred: they transformed from foul, food-crusted monsters to gleaming pottery in the purest white.  Satisfaction welled in Fred at accomplishing the simple task. 

         He wiped down the table, mopping roach corpses onto the floor, where he swept them up and dumped them into the trash.  Something scrabbled in his trap, and, sure enough, a tiny mouse corpse lay inside.  It lurched in its death throws, with pink foam frothing its lips.  Another task accomplished.  The sight of the poor creature brought some guilt, but it was a pest, after all.  It had ruined his corn flakes.

         The doorbell rang.  Fred wiped his hands on a towel and muted the sound on Rachel's television show before he answered the door.

         The delivery guy gave him a gap-toothed smile.  "Manicotti and an order of cinnamon crisps, sir?"

         "That's mine."  He glanced at the receipt and handed the man a twenty.  "Keep the change."

         "Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir."  He tipped his hat and trotted back to his battered delivery van.

         Fred carried the order back to the kitchen.  He set the table with clean plates and flatware.  Before he sat down, he paused and thought for a moment.  He returned to the living room, turned off the television, and retrieved Rachel's coffee cup from where it had fallen to the carpet.  He wiped a small trail of pink vomit from her cold lips with the edge of her robe, returned to the kitchen and rinsed the cup in the sink.

         The manicotti did smell pretty good after all, and it wasn't like Rachel would ever be eating it.  With a little chuckle, he sat down at the table and dished pasta onto his plate. 

         He'd clean up the mess in the living room when he was done dining.



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