CHAPTER TWELVE Cole

My pool water was turning green. The grass was four inches too tall, and the last time I flushed the downstairs toilet, it wouldn't drain. My house was too big for me.

"Shit!" I exclaimed, backing away from the splattering water.

I'd never used a plunger in my life and couldn't figure out how to unclog a toilet. The more I plunged, the more the pissed-in water splashed on me and my tile floors.

"Fuuucccckkkk!" I yelled, slamming the plunger hard enough into the toilet bowl to break the wooden handle, nearly stabbing myself with the sharp broken end.

Like a baby, I began to weep uncontrollably, leaning against the wall and sliding down it until I found myself sitting in my own urine and toilet water. What the fuck was I doing? I was a grown man, for God's sake. I couldn't help but see the plugged toilet as a metaphor for my life. I was stuck and couldn't seem to move forward.

There was nothing in the damn toilet when I'd flushed besides my pee. Which meant there should be zero reason I was now sitting in a flooded bathroom. And then I began to laugh at my situation. Slow at first, but then laughter erupted from me as I stretched my legs out in front of me, soaking them thoroughly as well. Why the fuck not?

"Fucking toilet," I said, kicking at it. "Fuck you, bitch."

The more I cussed, the better I felt. The better I felt, the funnier the situation became. It wasn't funny that I was sitting in my own pee water, but that didn't stop me from laughing hysterically.

"Plug all you want, fucker. Flood the entire house. I don't give a shit," I maniacally raged, venting but still laughing.

The more ridiculous the situation became, the happier I became. This was actually fun. I looked around the small space, realizing I didn't have a clue how to care for a house. Funny thing was, I didn't care.

"I know they say they're flushable, but they really ain't," the plumber said.

I was staring at the man the local plumbing company had sent to my rescue. While waiting for a plumber to arrive, I'd fantasized a thousand times to Sunday about how hot he might be, having watched one too many porn set-ups. Not so much as it turned out.

"I guess I didn't know that," I replied. "The box said they were, so I did."

He waved me off, kindly dismissing what he assumed was just another idiot homeowner about to pay him three hundred bucks for snaking a clogged toilet. I'd been too busy fantasizing about snaking the unseen plumber prior to his arrival, so I guess we were even.

"Happens more than you think," he added, packing his tools of the trade away. "Women mostly. You know, the pads and things, but the so-called flushable wipes are the latest culprit. They build up in your pipes over time, and then, bam, you're screwed."

I didn't know, but grunted like I agreed with him a thousand percent. "I won't flush anything like those again," I agreed.

He scratched his balls in front of me and grinned. "Make sure to tell the little lady," he advised. I could've told him there weren't any little ladies in this house, but after he tugged at his nuts again, I decided he wouldn't understand why.

"Here's my card. Call me with anything you need," he said. "Well, not anything," he laughed, winking at me like we shared a secret. "The missus keeps me on a tight leash."

"I'm sure she does," I agreed, sliding past him and into the hallway. "She'll be pleased today's customer was a man."

He followed me into the hall. "You'd be surprised how many men are interested in me too," he boasted, sticking his finger through a loop in his low-riding jeans. At least I thought he'd done that. The belly overhanging the belt hid most of my view.

"Wow," I replied, unsure what was appropriate to say after that shocker of a statement.

"Yep. The gays like me," he began. "And ya know somethin'? I like ‘em too. Nice people, I find."

"That's very accepting of you…" I paused to look at his name on the card. "Hank," I added.

"My brother is gay," he announced, looking at me eagerly.

"Well, that's really something," I said.

"Good-looking feller. Just like you, Mr. Hicks," he stated. "Real clean and nice smellin', too."

"Thank you for the kind words," I said, nervously looking around for the quickest escape route.

I was in my own home but suddenly felt trapped. Hank studied me carefully, like he had something additional to say. I dreaded what that was.

"Harry would take a real shine to ya, Mr. Hicks. I don't suppose you're one of those gay men, are ya?"

I could have told the truth, but why do that? "Sounds like I'm missing out, but no, I'm not gay," I lied.

"Darn shame," he responded, removing his filthy baseball cap and running his hands through sweaty hair. "Lemme show you a picture of him just the same," he began, scrolling through his phone. My mind was preparing for the anticipated shit-show brother. "I took this over the Christmas holiday," he said, turning the face of the cellphone toward me.

I damn near shit myself. His brother, Harry, was a stunning man. The man in the image was tall and chiseled. Dressed immaculately with a mega-watt smile that could light up Broadway during a power outage.

"You're correct," I mumbled, staring at the hunk on the phone. "Quite a striking man," I added, wondering if referring to a man as striking was sufficiently heterosexual enough.

Hank pulled the phone away and stared at his brother for a moment. "People say we look like twins," he announced, lifting his eyes to me. "I'm a pound or two heavier, but I can see it for sure."

"Yes. I can see how they'd say that," I agreed, slowly moving toward the front door and thinking of something to say to change the subject. "I gave the man on the phone my credit card information for payment earlier," I added, opening the front door and stepping to the side for him to exit. Hank still had his phone in his hand and was glancing from me to the picture and back again.

He turned the phone toward me again. "He'd like you, Mr. Hicks," he insisted, studying my reaction. "Are ya sure? Goin' once… twice."

"Darn," I said, shaking my head. "If only."

We locked eyes as I held my composure. He studied me for any sign of weakness concerning his hard sales pitch regarding his hunky brother.

"Darn shame," he said.

I slowly moved to close the door as he backed out. I had the distinct notion that he knew I wasn't being truthful. Maybe it was the tastefully casual clothes I wore. Or the cologne, or the expensive haircut, or the eight-foot-tall sculpture of a naked man's torso in the corner of the living room. There were probably a million tell-tale signs that a man with a gay sibling could detect.

I shut the door behind him and turned toward the living room, leaning back against the door Hank had just stepped out of, letting out a long-held breath.

"You are right, though," I mumbled in agreement. "Your bother is a fucking hunk."

I walked toward the picture windows facing east and toward the vast Atlantic beyond. "The problem is this, Hank," I began again, having a full-on conversation with the now gone plumber. "I like my men smaller and prettier than your stud of a brother."

Today was the sixth day since I'd arrived at my new home. The sixth day I'd thought of the smaller and prettier neighbor boy.

I needed to find a way to see him again.