ducking stool, why don’t you? All you need is that gayboy Senator and a pile of
Victoria’s Secret undies and you could have a lingerie party!”
Curtis’s back was wet, too. He realized the Port-O-San must have landed in or just
bridged the water-filled ditch. Water was seeping in through the holes in the door.
“Mostly these portable toilets are just thin molded plastic—you know, the ones you
see at truck stops or turnpike rest areas—and you could punch right through the walls
or the roof, if you were dedicated. But at construction sites, we sheet-metal the sides.
Cladding, it’s called. Otherwise, people come along and punch holes through them.
Vandals, just for fun, or gayboys like you. To make what they call ‘glory holes.’ Oh
yes, I know about those things. I have all the information, neighbor. Or kids will come along and huck rocks through the roofs, just to hear the sound it makes. It’s a popping sound, like popping a great big paper bag. So we sheet those, too. Of course it makes
it hotter, but that’s actually an efficiency thing. Nobody wants to spend fifteen
minutes reading a magazine in a shithouse as hot as a Turkish prison cell.”
Curtis turned over. He was lying in a brackish, smelly puddle. There was a piece of
toilet paper wrapped around his wrist, and he stripped it away. He saw a brown
smear—some long-since-laid-off construction worker’s leavings—on the paper and
began to cry. He was lying in shit and toilet paper, more water was bubbling in
through the door, and it wasn’t a dream. Somewhere not too far distant his Macintosh was scrolling up numbers from Wall Street, and here he lay in a puddle of pisswater
with an old black turd curled in the corner and a gaping toilet seat not far above his heels, and it wasn’t a dream. He would have sold his soul to wake up in his own bed,
clean and cool.
“Let me out! GRUNWALD, PLEASE!”
“Can’t. It’s all arranged,” The Motherfucker said in a businesslike voice. “You came
out here to do a little sightseeing—a little gloating. You felt a call of nature, and there were the porta-potties. You stepped into the one on the end and it fell over. End of
story. When you’re found—when you’re finally found—the cops will see they’re all leaning, because the afternoon rains have undercut them. They’ll have no way of
knowing your current abode was leaning a little more than the others. Or that I took
your cell phone. They’ll just assume you left it at home, you silly sissy. The situation will look very clear to them. The evidence, you know—it always comes back to the evidence.”
He laughed. No coughing this time, just the warm, self-satisfied laugh of a man who
has covered all the bases. Curtis lay in filthy water that was now two inches deep, felt it soaking through his shirt and pants to his skin, and wished The Motherfucker would
die of a sudden stroke or heart attack. Fuck the cancer; let him drop right out there on the unpaved street of his stupid bankrupt development. Preferably on his back, so the
birds could peck out his eyes.
If that happened, I’d die in here.
True, but that was what Grunwald had planned from the first, so what difference?
“They’ll see there was no robbery; your money is still in your pocket. So’s the key to your motor scooter. Those things are very unsafe, by the way; almost as bad as ATVs.
And without a helmet! Shame on you, neighbor. I noticed you set the alarm, though,
and that’s fine. A nice touch, in fact. You don’t even have a pen to write a note on the wall with. If you’d had one, I would have taken that, too, but you don’t. It’s going to look like a tragic accident.”
He paused. Curtis could picture him out there with hellish clarity. Standing there in
his too-big clothes with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his unwashed hair
clumping over his ears. Ruminating. Talking to Curtis but also talking to himself,
looking for loopholes even now, even after what must have been weeks of sleepless