The Stooper

Episode 13

Larry arrived for work at the diner the next evening feeling rested and refreshed . . . but also a bit anxious. He had spent his day off from stooping at OTB getting a haircut, buying some groceries, and having two pairs of worn-out shoes resoled. Larry strolled along the pedestrian greenway hugging the shore of the Hudson River to WagnerPark at the southern tip of Manhattan. He sat in the bleacher-like seats and watched the low-slung tug boats pushing barges fight the powerful harbor currents. His attention quickly moved to the girls strutting along the promenade wearing short skirts over skinny slacks. Then, without warning, a nasty cold front clipped in across New York Harbor, chopping up white caps and clearing out the majority of the park's visitors.

Back at his dismal apartment before departing for work Larry removed the stack of 700 lottery tickets from the paper bag and formed a thick, squared-up stack which he riffled like a cartoon flip-book. He admired them lovingly before experiencing a pang of remorse for his inchoate decision. What if this bunch of stubs isn't worth the paper they're printed on? Larry returned the tickets to the bag and slid it between his lumpy mattress and sagging box spring, and headed out the door for the bus stop. On his way to work, straddling the line between wild optimism and crushing pessimism, he tried to calculate the odds of winning back at least his initial $700 investment, but quickly gave up. The task was too complex, the combinatorics too vast, the lottery payout scheme too dependent on numbers chosen by other wagerers. He tried to cheer up. Hell, 700 tickets is a lot of tickets – I've gotta hit at least one of them.

Larry was in the kitchen draining the sink when Pablo came through the swinging doors with a container full of dishes and announced with a snicker that a toilet in the men's room had overflowed. "Listen up, old man. Some ruco took a shit in the baño and threw too much paper in the bowl. It's all plugged up," he reported, struggling mightily not to burst out laughing.

"What the fuck do you want me to do about it? Do I look like a plumber?"

"No, but you look like a dude who's good at mopping up shit."

"Fuck you. Tell Arturo to get his lame ass in there and clean it up."

Abandoning any effort to restrain himself, Pablo guffawed, "Arturo is off tonight. Haw, haw! It's your job now, pendejo."

As low man on the totem pole Larry was the go-to guy for such systemic calamities. Displaying no sign of disgruntlement – what's the point? – he filled up a yellow, four-wheeled pail with hot, soapy water, and clamped on a squeegee. He removed a string mop from the rack and using the worn wooden handle Larry push-rolled the pail to the men's room. As soon as Larry walked in he was brushed back by an olfactory assault. As if stumbling upon an open mass grave he clasped his hand across his nose and mouth and looked on in wide-eyed horror at the volume of feces dribbled down the toilet, smeared on the walls of the stall and blasted across the floor. Larry quickly blocked the entrance to the men's room with one of those folding, yellow signs emblazoned with the words "danger" and "peligro" and illustrated with a stick figure man slipping and falling on his pointy ass. Then Larry staggered back to the kitchen like a mortally wounded soldier.

"Done already?" inquired Pablo with mock surprise.

As he sprayed Lysol onto a towel, Larry demanded, "Why didn't you tell me a rhino escaped from the zoo and stopped in to take a dump before skipping town? Jesus H. Christ." He wrapped the towel around his face to contravene the stench of gangrenous bowels. Pablo laughed his ass off at the sight of Larry the ashen-faced Bedouin, Lawrence of Diarrhabia.

Like Hercules in the Augean stables Larry labored for an hour to vanquish the mess, gagging repeatedly over the gruesome crime scene. With each squeeze of the mop the water grew browner until it looked like coffee. Larry stepped out into the dining area every few minutes to catch his breath and steady his stomach. And while he took repose, he scanned the floor for the vile culprit who had so thoroughly defiled the men's room. He narrowed his eyes at a geezer enjoying a hot fudge sundae. Has to be that alter kaker in the corner – the one who looks like Abe Vigoda's grandfather. A few puzzled patrons stared at Larry's shrouded face and the mop he held like a scepter. The only thing missing from the scene was Omar Sharif's camel.