Death by Toilet Paper

by Donna Gephart

  While I’m lying there, having my eardrums blasted by Zeyde’s seismic snores, a word wiggles into my brain and brings a mountain of worry with it: “eviction.” I wish I could stop thinking about it, but I can’t. No matter what else is going on, the worry hangs over it. Mom and I never really talked about what Mr. Katz said about filing eviction papers. We never talked about what we were going to do to keep that from happening.

  I look at the lump that is my snoring zeyde.

  If we get kicked out now, we’ll have Zeyde with us, too. I dread the thought of the three of us having to live with Aunt Abby and her fourteen cats. Barkley might end up a fish feast for one of her furry felines! But then I relax a little, because I realize Zeyde will probably be able to help pay the rest of what we owe for rent. At least, I hope he can.

  I look at Barkley in the dim light from the streetlamp and say, “Must be nice to have someone take care of you all the time and never have to worry about anything.”

  Barkley doesn’t answer me.

  Fish are stubborn like that.

  When I wake in the morning, I’m too tired to lift the dry-wall that my eyelids have become. I want to lie in bed until they return to normal eyelid weight, but the alarm under my pillow won’t stop jangling. It’s not loud, but it’s annoying, so I reach under and turn it off.

  It’s Monday, the twenty-eighth of September. That means I have to get up for school.

  It also means we have three days until the rent is due again. On October 1, we’ll owe another $1,200 in addition to the $1,450 we already owe! I can’t deal with those numbers right now.

  Five more minutes, I think, but I know I need to get up, so I reach for my eyeglasses. When I don’t feel them, I take it as a sign I shouldn’t get up yet.

  I was awake for hours last night with Zeyde’s snoring.

  Lying facedown, I realize two things: Zeyde has stopped his seismic snoring—thank goodness!—and I’m so thirsty from the pizza last night that I could stick a straw in a bathtub full of water and suck down the entire thing.

  I force my eyelids open. I’m glad I do, because I notice a glass of water on the edge of my desk. Zeyde must have left it for himself last night. I’ll just drink it now, then refill it later for him. I’m sure he won’t mind.

  Sitting up, I grab the glass and gulp down the contents, thinking I’ll need a dozen more of these before my thirst is quenched.

  Mental alarm bells clang as I’m drinking. Something’s wrong. Bad wrong! Before my brain can make sense of what I just did, I’m lips-to-dentures with Zeyde’s false teeth. And the liquid I gulped was not plain water. It tasted like baking soda, which I tasted once when Toothpick’s mom was making cookies. The glass must have been filled with Zeyde’s denture cleaner and all the crud that came off his teeth last night, while they were soaking.

  “Ack! ACK! ACK!”

  The gagging won’t stop, and the frantic thought My lips just touched Zeyde’s false teeth. Does this mean I kissed his dentures? “ACK!” I swipe at my tongue like a maniac and do what any self-respecting seventh-grade guy would: I hurl partially digested pizza chunks onto my comforter in a long stream of vomit. Kirk’s Pizza sure doesn’t taste as good coming up as it did going down. “ACK!”

  Zeyde shoots straight up. “What the—”

  I’m sputtering and wiping my mouth on the edge of the comforter. “Ugh,” I moan.

  “What the— Where am— What’s that smell?” But Zeyde’s words don’t sound right. I focus on him, squint and see his lips collapsed over his gums. His mouth looks too small for his face.

  I slide the glass containing his teeth toward his side of the desk.

  He pops his teeth into his mouth without washing them off, even though they touched my lips. I feel like I might hurl all over again.

  “What happened?” Zeyde asks, fumbling for and finding his eyeglasses.

  “Please,” I say, “don’t ever—ever!—EVER!—leave your dentures near my bed. Keep them in the bathroom or something.” I swipe at my lips with the back of my hand.

  Zeyde slaps a palm over his mouth, and his shoulders jerk. At first I think he’s having a seizure or something, then I realize he’s laughing. At me! I’m sitting with a stinking pile of pizza vomit in my lap, and Zeyde is practically hysterical.

  “Thanks,” I say, capturing the vomit in my comforter by folding over the edges.

  “Sorry, Ben,” Zeyde says, his shoulders still bobbing. “Did you really drink my … Oh my!” He wipes the corner of each eye to keep tears of laughter from streaming down his cheeks, I guess. “That’s funny.”

  “This,” I say, holding the bunched-up comforter, “isn’t funny.” My mouth tastes like acid, and my throat burns.

  “No, it’s really not.” Zeyde’s still chuckling, though. He stands, stretches and yanks his green Eagles sweatshirt over his head—being careful of his eyeglasses—then gathers my comforter and pillow in a heap. “I’ll take this down to the laundry room.” He pokes his gnarled feet into bedroom slippers while I find my own glasses.

  “You don’t have to,” I say. “I can get it.” But really, I think Zeyde should clean it because it was his fault I hurled.

  With the bundle under his arm, Zeyde looks back over his shoulder at me. “Get yourself to school,” he says. “That’s more important. I’ll take care of this.” Then he looks at my desk. “Hey, Barkley. How you doin’, old pal?”

  Barkley, oblivious to my trauma, swims happily around his tank, in and out of the castle Zeyde bought him.

  I let out a breath, happy Zeyde knows who Barkley is this morning. He must have just had a bad day yesterday. Maybe traveling made him a little confused or something. I’m glad he’s better now.

  “Hey,” Zeyde says. “Maybe I’ll meet that Mrs. Schneckle while I’m down there. She’s a good egg. Isn’t she?”

  “Yup,” I say. “And she makes a mean peach kugel.” I try to make Zeyde smile so he’ll know I forgive him for leaving his dentures within drinking range.

  “I like kugel,” Zeyde says, rubbing a hand over his stomach. “Your aunt Abby wouldn’t let me eat anything like that. Said it wasn’t good for my cholesterol level.” Zeyde waves his free hand dismissively. “Eh! Farkakt cholesterol!”

  “Zeyde!”

  He shrugs. “ ‘Cholesterol’ isn’t a bad word.” Then he winks.

  Secretly, I’m glad Zeyde talks to me like he would a grown-up, but I’m also glad Mom’s at work and doesn’t hear. I grab Zeyde a packet of laundry detergent from the shelf in the bathroom. “It’s the cheap stuff, but …”

  He pushes his glasses up on his nose and examines the packet. “It’ll do the job.”

  I look at Zeyde—wearing sweatpants, an Eagles sweatshirt and slippers—starting his day by carrying my vomit-filled comforter to our gross laundry room, and I know he’s a good guy, even if he does snore like an earthquake and have combable ear hair. “Thanks, Zeyde.”

  “Thank you, Benjamin.” He nods. “I’m sure it’s not easy having an old fart like me share your bedroom.”

  “It’s no big deal,” I say. “Just keep your teeth in the bathroom from now on.”

  Zeyde nods. “Teeth in the bathroom. Or in my mouth.”

  After Zeyde leaves the apartment, I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth about ten times, but still, while I’m walking to school, my mouth tastes like acidy pizza vomit.

  It’s not until I’m in the cafeteria for lunch that I realize I haven’t eaten anything this morning. My stomach grumbles loudly as I take a tray and load it with mashed potatoes, string beans and a slab of meat loaf.

  I pass some kid selling Golly Pops, and it makes me angry that I’m not allowed to sell candy bars. He’s trying to earn a trip to Hershey, and I’m trying to save our apartment. It’s not fair!

  Back at our table, I let out a breath and nod as Toothpick passes me a corn muffin from his lunch. It’s moist and delicious. For some reason, watching Toothpick chow down on a thermos full of warm chili and a bag of
clementine slices that his dad prepared makes me miss my dad.

  To keep from getting teary, I pull out my Royal-T slogans and get to work. “Superior for your posterior.” I tap my pen on the table. “Pamper your superior rear-e-or. Your superior posterior. Pamper your …” It makes me feel better to work on them and imagine winning the grand prize.

  Toothpick pulls a movie makeup magazine from his backpack.

  “The best thing for your posterior, your rear-e-or, is Royal-T, I swear-e-or.”

  “That’s so cool,” Toothpick says, and I think he’s talking about my slogan until he shoves a photo in my face of what appears to be a jawless zombie. “I could totally do that with the right supplies.”

  “Totally,” I say, but I’m not really paying attention. Jawless zombies are fun, but they’re not going to win me ten thousand dollars in the Royal-T contest. Giving my slogan extra pizzazz will. And I have a real chance to win, because it’s a skill contest—coming up with a clever slogan in twenty-five words or fewer—and most people don’t bother entering contests that require a skill.

  “I’m going to win the ten grand,” I tell Toothpick. “I just need a little something extra to make my slogan stand out.”

  Toothpick looks at me and says, “You’ll figure it out.” Then he says, “It will be amazing when you win.”

  This time I know he’s talking about me, and it makes me feel great.

  After school, I find a letter from Ed Chase in our mailbox. He enclosed another coupon for a free four-pack of toilet paper. Note to self: Continue correspondence with Royal-T. The free toilet paper is definitely worth the price of the stamps. Besides, I like getting the letters.

  There’s also an envelope from the National Association of State Boards of Accountancy in our mailbox.

  I put it on the table so Mom will see it when she comes home. The envelope makes me feel like we’re moving in the right direction, toward Dad’s Grand Plan, even though I’m still worried about Mr. Katz’s threat of eviction. I could tell he was serious, and that would blow apart Dad’s Grand Plan for us.

  Zeyde asks, “What’s that? Something good?”

  “For Mom,” I say. “She needs this to register for her final accounting test.”

  Zeyde nods. “She’ll make a good accountant.”

  “She will,” I agree.

  After a delicious snack* of plain Boaty Oats oatmeal, Zeyde and I play a heated game of War. Zeyde’s pile of cards is way higher than mine when someone knocks at the door.

  “I’ll get it,” I say.

  Zeyde tilts his head. “Nu?”

  Zeyde stays at the table, tapping his hefty deck of cards with his too-long fingernails.

  This time, I remember to ask who it is, but I’m sorry I do.

  “Mr. Katz.”

  I open the door, feeling like I’m inviting the grim reaper into our apartment. “Hello.” I swallow past my tight throat.

  Mr. Katz taps his foot. I can tell his shoes are the expensive kind—the kind people wear at funerals. “Is your mother here?” He looks past me and waves at Zeyde.

  “Hello,” Zeyde says, shuffling his cards. “I’m going to get some crackers to munch on till your mom comes home with dinner.”

  “They’re in the cabinet,” I say to Zeyde, then turn to Mr. Katz. “She’s still at work,” I say quietly, even though I know that’s a lie. She’s studying at the library to prepare for the CPA exam. Her work closes at three o’clock, which was a couple hours ago.

  Mr. Katz bites his bottom lip, like he’s thinking about something. Then he pulls a bright orange piece of paper from his briefcase. He peels off the backing and presses it onto our front door—right next to where I’m standing.

  “I’m really sorry, Ben,” he mutters, then jogs down the steps and leaves.

  I’m standing there looking at a bright orange eviction notice. TEN DAYS TO PAY, it says in bold letters.

  Terrific!

  I know exactly what happens if Mom can’t pay in ten days, because I read about it at the library. Mr. Katz will file a motion—whatever that means!—to take Mom to court, like she’s some kind of criminal. By then, we’ll owe a total of $2,650.

  Maybe with Mom’s salary and tips, the social security benefit of $600 for me we get each month, and help from Zeyde, we’ll be able to pay in time. Maybe.

  I pick at the corner of the notice, trying to get it off so Mom doesn’t see it when she comes home, but the entire thing is stuck on there pretty good, and I can tell it’s going to make a big mess if I keep picking.

  When Mrs. Schneckle’s door opens across the hall, I hurry inside and shut and lock our door, leaning my back against it, breathing like I just ran a mile in PE.

  I squeeze my eyelids closed and hear Mrs. Schneckle’s footsteps, then her breathing on the other side of our door. Heat races through my cheeks. I can’t stand that she’s reading that notice. Everyone from the upper apartments will see it, too, when they walk by, and any visitors who come in. Mr. Katz might as well have tacked up a flashing neon sign: THE EPSTEINS ARE LOSERS WHO CAN’T PAY THEIR RENT!

  Dad would have hated that notice on our door. Hated it!

  “That Mr. Katz is a shmendrik,” Mrs. Schneckle mutters.

  I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing on my side of the door.

  “A big s-h-m-e-n-d-r-i-k!”

  When I hear her footsteps recede, then the downstairs door creak open and closed, my shoulders relax.

  “Boychik, come here,” Zeyde says.

  I startle and look over.

  Zeyde’s patting my chair.

  He was so quiet, I’d forgotten he was sitting at the table.

  “Who was that nice man?” Zeyde asks. “A salesman?”

  A salesman? I can’t tell Zeyde the truth. He’ll feel even worse about moving in with us. Maybe Mom can figure out how to get that notice off the door before Zeyde sees it. “No one, Zeyde,” I say. “Mind if we play cards later? I forgot about some homework I have to do.”

  “Of course,” Zeyde says, gathering all the cards into one deck, but his eyes look sad.

  I hurry into my bedroom, feeling bad for deserting Zeyde, but I’m not up for cards. I slide under my comforter, appreciating that it smells like laundry soap now instead of pizza vomit. I feel ashamed to look up at the galaxy, but I do anyway. “What am I supposed to do?”

  Of course my ceiling is silent, as ceilings are.

  “I’m trying to stick with the Grand Plan,” I say to him. “Tell me what else I can do.”

  Tears attempt to muscle their way out of my eyes. Some succeed and dribble down my cheeks. I brush away the wetness and go into Mom’s room.

  It’s quiet in there, and everything’s organized. Mom’s bed is carefully made, with a blue smiley-face pillow leaning against the headboard. Her books are in two crates along the wall, sorted from smallest to tallest. There are no clothes sticking out of her closet or drawers. Even the small table near her bed is clear of papers and junk and has only a framed photo and a small pencil holder with three pens in it, capped and leaning in the same direction.

  Mom is so neat and precise she needs to be an accountant. She was made for the job, not to serve greasy bacon strips, endless cups of coffee and stacks of pancakes to inconsiderate people who sometimes leave lousy tips in puddles of syrup.

  The framed photo next to Mom’s bed is one of Dad. I hold it, push my glasses up on my nose and examine the image of my father. He’s standing on a beach, probably in Florida, wearing swim trunks and pretending he’s Mr. Universe or something, flexing his biceps. I flex my own right biceps, but nothing much changes. Same with my left. “Someday.”

  I take a deep breath but can’t steady my insides.

  The memories are too much. I put down the picture of Dad, grab my jacket from my room and tell Zeyde, “I’m going out for a little while.”

  “I thought you had homework to do,” Zeyde says.

  “I’m doing it at my friend’s house,” I say, even though he
must know I’m lying, because my backpack is on the couch, right where I left it when I came home from school.

  “Have fun,” he says, absently shuffling the cards we were playing with.

  “I will,” I say, even though it’s weird to tell someone to have fun after they say they’re doing homework, even when they’re lying.

  When I step out of our apartment, a weight lifts off me. The weight of memories. I actually feel physically lighter until I close our door and see the bright orange paper plastered to it, with two words in bold letters: EVICTION NOTICE.

  Terrific!

  I rocket out of the apartment building into the cool air and kick through crispy leaves all the way to Toothpick’s house.

  Mr. Taylor opens the door, and I’m hit with a wave of delicious smells.

  “Just in time,” he says, looking genuinely happy to see me. “Since I’m off tonight, I made veggie stew with home-made biscuits.” He pulls me inside by the elbow. “Go up to Michael’s room, and I’ll call you guys when dinner’s ready.”

  It sounds weird to hear Toothpick called Michael, even though I know that’s his real name. I’ve just been calling him Toothpick for so long.

  “Thanks, Mr. Taylor.” I unzip my jacket and jog upstairs.

  In Toothpick’s room, Psycho rubs against my ankles, which makes me feel welcomed. Pick shows me some new scar wax he bought and pictures of what he can make with it.

  “Gross,” I say.

  “Right?” he says, super excited.

  I never saw anyone so jazzed about creating fake bodily injuries.

  “Want me to give you a neck wound?” he asks.

  I rub my neck. “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

  “Come on,” Pick whines. “I can make it look like a nail is coming out of it. Imagine your mom’s face when she sees that!”

  I wish Toothpick hadn’t said that, because I imagine Mom’s face, but not her seeing some dumb fake neck wound. I imagine her seeing that lousy bright orange notice plastered to our front door when she comes home from studying at the library. I imagine her sinking down in her chair at the table and putting her head in her hands. I imagine her throwing out the letter she got today from the National Association of State Boards of Accountancy and taking the $190.35 Grand Plan money and giving it to that shmendrik Mr. Katz, all while wearing her stupid paper piggy hat.