The Frog King by Adam Davies

Author:Adam Davies
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

at your service

I am the janitor.

Whenever Evie is hit with the endo I clean everything. This is no small thing for me. I am not domestic. The only other time I recall ever really cleaning the apartment was the first time Evie came over. I remember sweeping (well, I don’t own a broom, so: toweling, really) and mopping (wet-toweling) the entire apartment. I tidied up my room and killed as many of the fruit flies as I could. I scrubbed out the toilet (don’t ask with what) and since for some reason I thought blue toilet water would be really impressive (and because I didn’t have actual blue toilet cleaner) I dumped a packet of Darrell’s blueberry Kool-Aid in it. Stylish and seductive, no?

I wanted to be hygienic and organized. I wanted her to see me as the kind of guy who was clean and together, who knew how to handle the small responsibilities of daily life and ergo the larger ones as well—an adult, in other words. During the endo I do even more. I become the janitor. I tidy up the place, true, but I also clean up the wrappers from tampons and pads. I deal with the bathroom. I wash soiled underthings, if necessary. You get the picture.

I am also the bellhop. And the delivery boy. And the laundry guy and the doctor and the counselor. I am everything. I know exactly what to do, from how much Percocet she can have to what movies to get her to how to administer the perfect cannonball. I am the best at all this.

But today’s endo attack catches me off guard. Evie is not due for another week. She should not be menstruating yet. I am not prepared for this. The place is not clean. There are no T-shirts cooling in the freezer. There may not even be any Tampax or Always under the sink. I had meant to get more but hadn’t gotten around to it yet. I thought I had at least a few days. This is a disaster.

“This is all wrong,” I say as I lower her into bed. “What’s happening?”

“Not bed,” says a tiny voice coming from Evie’s mouth. “Bathroom.”

We limp to the bathroom together, where I sit her on the toilet. “Now go,” she whispers.

I do as she says. Then I implement emergency endo procedures : I towel down bedroom, make bed, put T-shirts in freezer, make sure have juice (check: it’s Darrell’s but oh well, sorry, Darrell), make sure have Evie’s favorite endo CD (check: it’s Madeleine Peyroux, which officially belongs to Darrell, to which I again say, sorry, Darrell), make sure have movie (check: one copy of Australia’s Killer Spiders), make sure have book to read to her (check: Anita Loos, she’ll love it), swat fruit flies (gotcha, you little bastards), move TV/VCR from common room into bedroom (a bold move: Darrell does not know I do this; I normally do this only late at night and then replace it first thing in the morning, making sure it’s replaced without disturbing the dust prints around it).

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