Page 5 of Deep Gap

Waylon has shown up to fix my sink, which wasn’t broken until he was here without my consent to fix something else. I’m not a plumbing expert, though it would be slightly more believable that he was if he had a toolbox. He is only carrying a bent flat head screwdriver that’s been kicked around on the sidewalk.

No lie. I kicked it myself several days in a row for shits and giggles this fall. About the time I was going to dispose of it so that no one got tetanus, the screwdriver disappeared.

I carry a pocket knife in my pants that’s better suited to Waylon’s current impulse. There’s a butter knife in the closest drawer. A steak knife fell between the backsplash and the dish strainer. I left it there, within reach, for just such an occasion.

Waylon’s insistence on being Mr. Fix-it for everything in my hole of an apartment has creeped me out for two years. I’ve caught him here “making repairs” on more than one occasion. I returned the small television my mom gave me when I noticed stuff going missing.

“Aaah, you got big plans I’m interrupting you from. What you doing with all this chemicals? You making meth? Need water for that.”

I bite my tongue before asking if he’s an expert. He’d likely offer to help. Waylon’s clothes habitually reek of cigarette smoke with a recognizable hint of pot.

Cautious not to roll my eyes, I remove the bottle with “LYE” written in bold across it from my landlord’s grip and put it back in the plastic tub he snuck it out of with my wax, oils, and molds.

“I don’t use drugs.”

“Yeah baby, but maybe you makin’ them? What’s all this shit for?”

“Soap,” I deadpan.

Waylon pins my thighs against the counter.

“Feeling a little dirty, girl? I can help you with that. What you say you ‘an me get dirty together?”

“No, thanks.” If someone else wasn’t in my apartment, cold dread would fill my veins and I’d be panicking.

“Get on your knees if you want that bathroom sink fixed.”

“No.”

The water is the right temperature in the shower and I’ve taken to washing my hands that way. Sometimes the water sprays on my shirt. But it’s better than grumbling and giving Waylon the reason to go into my bedroom that he’s looking for. Besides, I’m pretty certain my landlord will just mess with something else, anyway.

“Bitch, you want me to tell your parole officer about the strange bottles of chemicals I found when I is fixin’ shit in here.”

Byron clears his throat. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Who dis?” Waylon backs off, tossing a perturbed chin in Byron’s direction.

“I work with him.”

“You clean dog shit, too?” Waylon bares his teeth.

Byron crosses his arms. His hard-toned biceps stretch the limits of his shirt. “I train service animals for disabled military veterans.”

“You clean up dog shit.” Waylon releases a bitter laugh.

“When necessary.” Byron points to the door. “You were just leaving, right?”

“Yeah man, have at her. Not that you gettin’ very far.” Moving toward the living room, Waylon bangs Byron’s shoulder. “Greer’s stingy with affection. Not like dogs, who lick… your face,” he adds sarcastically, sniffing the air.

Good grief, the posturing I witnessed during six years in the women’s prison was more entertaining than Waylon is. Byron seems to feel the same way. He shakes his head. The scruff on his chin disappears when he brings his thumb and index finger to his lip to stop from cracking a wide grin.

“As you can tell, my landlord is a gem,” I remark after Waylon leaves.

“Yeah—Um, does he normally…” Byron runs a hand into his cropped brown hair.

“Demand sexual favors in return for fixing things that I should be reporting him to Housing and Urban Development for? It wouldn’t be a rainy day if he didn’t.” I push off the counter, thinking Byron’s not interested in staying.

I wouldn’t stay if someone offered me an out.

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