Sanitation

You might think this ad is made up, but it isn't. It appeared in a magazine. And it consumed me. This is my story:

I ring the doorbell three times in quick succession. RingRingRing! Like that. My trademark.

Waiting. Look around: Average bungalow with blue eaves and fake blue shutters. Newish brown four-door Buick parked in the short gravel driveway. Nice flowers and a green brushcut lawn. No dandelions or dogshit. Quiet residential street; no kids playing -- they are in school. A dog barks in the distance, punctuating the soft background drone of city traffic.

RingRingRing!

Door's got three little rectangular windows: Peer in through the leftmost pane and look down the hall. See a few black-framed photos hung on the white walls.

She enters from the left -- hurrying, dabbing at a stray curl of hair. Reaches for the knob...

"Hello. Yes?"

See the housewife with plucked-and-painted eyebrows; thick plaster of pink powdery makeup failing to cover the lines and pores and sags of middle age. See the home permanent, home dye-job, and home-grown bellyfat from home-made cooking. See the burgundy lipstick, brown cotton slacks and nondescript pinkish-white blouse and faded blue fuzzy slippers. See it all. Yes. Yes! Smell warm clean smells of Swedish meatballs and fabric softener, cheap perfume and body lotions and soap. Listen to this:

Me: "Yeah, uh... Are you Pat? Pat Mayo?"

"Yes. Yes... What do you want?"

It is too much! My need will be revealed too soon! But I must proceed. I can only answer her with truth:

"I want to smell your toilet."

She freezes, mouth partly open, a centerfold for Incredulity Monthly. Count with me: One. Two. Three. Now:

"You... Want... To smell my TOILET???"

I stare into her eyes. Stare! One must be upfront about these things! Her eyes are brown and cowlike. Moo.

"Yes. In the advertisement, you SAY you have the cleanest and nicest smelling bathroom in the neighborhood. The advertisement says that if I don't believe you, I should ring your doorbell and smell your toilet. I don't believe you. I'm here to smell your toilet."

One. Two. Three. I put my right hand in my right pocket and scratch my leg. My keys jingle. I feel her judge me. She thinks I am insane.

"Advertisement??? I... Who are you?" Not waiting for an answer, she tries to push the door shut. I swiftly jam my foot in the door (*klunk* -- it is good that I have these heavy boots!) and her face grimaces in alarm.

The magazine is in my left hand. I withdraw my right hand from my pocket, and use both hands to hold the mag open in front of her. I show her that page; hold it up to her. "This," I say.

Look: There's a picture of her and her mighty porcelain toilet. A cascade of gray curtain falls behind her and she holds a box of cleanser and she proudly, PROUDLY proclaims, "I have the cleanest and nicest smelling bathroom in the neighborhood. If anyone doesn't believe me, ring my doorbell and you can smell my toilet."

There's her name -- Pat Mayo -- and where she lives -- Hometown, Illinois. That is a lie, because she really lives in Bismarck, North Dakota and I spent a year, A YEAR, finding her. The toilet is raised on a pedestal and the lid is closed. It is pure white.

Look at it again: Look at her face. She is proud. Her commode is perfect and holy -- Madonna and child rendered as Housewife and toilet.

"That isn't me!" she lies. I force the door open, and try to push myself past her. She blocks my way with her matronly bulk, so I grab her face with both hands, jamming my thumbs into her eyesockets and squeezing until she screeches. Each eye collapses with a sharp plastic *snap!*, like crushing wet ping-pong balls. I shove her down and crash my knee into her soft belly; her breath rushes out -- Whuf! I twist her head until her tendons crack, and she slumps down beside the door, sitting upright and gingerly wiping at her eyesockets with her hands, weeping. As she whimpers and moans, a trickle of bright blood -- thinned with tears -- runs from her right eyelid down her cheek onto her lip. I kick her breasts and chest repeatedly; with each kick, she grunts involuntarily. On the third kick, I feel something crunch and give, and pink foamy spittle wells from her lips and nostrils. She falls sideways with her head on the doorsill. Her breath catches with a wet slippery rattle, but she does not move.

"Where is it?!" I yell. "WHERE IS IT???" I yell again. Perhaps I was a little harsh, but one must do what is necessary. I run down the hall, turn to the left. Kitchen. No! Back up and turn to the right. There's the living room, and AH! There it is!

In the middle of the living room is the toilet, raised about a foot on a black iron pedestal at the center of the polished oak floor. The room is otherwise empty, and the gray curtains are drawn. I kneel before the sweet white shrine and raise the lid. Inside, a single perfect brown fecal bolus, lightly speckled with embedded corn and annointed with rose petals, gently floats in an oily translucent blue fluid. The heavy meaty aroma invades my yearning nostrils, and I inhale deeply deeply deeply, not wanting to ever exhale but must QUICKLYExhaleExhale!!! then inhale and inhale again, breathe again and again taking it all in oh! oh! oh! sating my desire my need my self I... Oh! OH!

One. Two. Three.

I am filled. Close the lid.

Now I must visit the other houses, for I do not believe that her toilet is the nicest smelling one in the neighborhood.