December 1, 2024

Drips

The sink constantly drips in room 6.

Every twenty seconds, a flit in the light and a metallic plunk.

I wonder how much water that is over a year. Do all drippy sinks drip at the same cadence? How many drippy sinks are there in the world? I search on my phone "how many doctor's offices in Calgary?" 450, huh. Nice, round number. If even half of those have a leaky sink in their room 6, that's 225 drops every twenty seconds. That's a steady stream. My mind wanders.

Knock, knock, knock

"Oh, Mister Spencer!" He has never seemed happy to see me before. Something is different. "How are you?" He asks.

"Good, good. How are you?"

"I am good, yes. Yes, and how are you?" Oh, no. He's broken.

"Uhh... yes, good." Do I keep it going, or do I stare awkwardly? "Just need some refills."

He taps away on his keyboard for a long time. The rhythm starts to synchronize with the plunk of the sink to my right. It's almost soothing. Dependable. Maybe room 6 is the room they use to comfort people.


I tuck my prescriptions under my arm as I go through the door to Subway.

"Hey there!" A taller man behind the counter waves with a salute-like gesture. His white apron is covered in smudges of sauce. As soon as his hand lowers, he's on the move. A small woman is revealed where he was standing. She smiles. Her apron is clean.

"Hey there! I'll do two foot-longs, both on herb and cheese, please."

Pivot, 180, bread, bread, 180, pivot, cut, cut, smile.

"One a pizza sub, and the other egg and cheese, please."

"Pizza?"

"Pizza."

The man moves around gracefully behind her as he preps other orders.

"Egg and cheese?"

"Egg and cheese."

Pivot, meat, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, more meat, slap, slap, slap. She turns, her entire being slowing. Her hand slowly reaches for the lid of the sauce, preemptively cautious. The lid follows under the spoon, but nothing drips. Smearing across the top of the meat, a larger pool at first, then trailing across, ensuring equal distribution. She quickly glances back to the sauce container and reconsiders– it's the perfect amount.

"Cheese? Toasted?"

"Yes, please. Both toasted with cheese. I'll actually upgrade to the, uh, special mozzarella."

She squints, looking at the mozzarella container—thick, white medallions. I can tell she's judging like I did if there's enough there. The man pirouettes behind her, his foot scuffing smoothly on the floor. "We don't have any more of that," he says, even though the woman is halfway through adding it to the first sandwich.

"That's alright, there's enough," I say as she finishes. It is enough, but I can see her judging it.

"A little more. This type?" She's recommending, not asking permission, as she reaches for the thinner-sliced white cheese.

"Sure. Thanks!" She shuffles the fresh mozzarella over and adds three cheese slices to the end of one of the sandwiches. She smiles out of the corner of her mouth mischievously. I follow the straight line from the cheese to the man's judging eyes. They move to look at me, pleased with her, and he shrugs and continues what he is doing.

She turns and puts them both in the oven. The man and the woman ignore me, quietly coordinating their next tasks. Another customer comes in, a short woman with a trendy-looking olive jacket. The man does his wave and hello, pirouettes gracefully, and does a silent confirmation that he will handle the new customer if the woman handles my order.

Olive Jacket says what type of bread she wants to the man under her breath, glancing to her left toward me as she does, as though she doesn't want to disturb me. She selects some meat and cheese in the same fashion but declines to have her sandwich toasted. The man behind the counter crosses behind his coworker with Olive Jacket's sandwich, just as my own finishes in the toaster. The woman waits awkwardly as Olive Jacket chooses her vegetables.

"Sauce?"

"No! I. Am. Allergic." Olive Jacket stammers, the clearest and loudest she's spoken since arriving.

The man looks frustrated for a moment and then shrugs. As he takes Olive Jacket's payment, I continue to work with his coworker.

"Tomato, cucumber, onion." And wait.

Expectant glance and nod.

"And pickles."

"Sauce?"

"Just yellow mustard for that one."

Second sandwich. "Lettuce, cucumbers, onions." And wait.

Expectant glance and nod.

"Banana peppers and pickles."

"Sauce?"

"Jerk sauce."

"What?"

"Jerk sauce?"

She looks through the sauces in front of her.

"What sauce?"

"Uhh... Jerk sauce?"

"We don't have that."

The man grunts to get his coworker's attention and looks annoyed. He walks to the fridge behind her while she watches, opens it, and grabs a sauce bottle from a set of several. "We have it; they just don't all fit in the tub together."

He attempts to hand the bottle to his coworker, but she reaches just slightly too slowly, and he turns to put the sauce on the sandwich himself, realizes she is about to take it from him and repeats attempting to hand it to her. They do this two more times before he gets frustrated again. He shakes the bottle and tries to squirt the jerk sauce, but nothing comes out. He shakes again, harder. Still nothing. He shakes it again, this time even harder.

There's a splat, and then a crude sound a schoolchild would laugh at. They both look at what's happened. As they stare, the bottle drips on the counter beside the sandwich. One. Two. Three. She grabs the jerk sauce from his hand, gently shakes it with forward momentum, and then easily squirts it onto the rest of the sandwich.

She wraps things up; I choose some additional snacks and fountain pop to make meal combos and ask for a bag. I pay as she bags things up. I eye the brown paper bag. Oh no. The feeling of seeing an old rival after a long hiatus overwhelms me. I finish paying, thank her, and attempt to lift the bag off the counter. She looks at me, waiting as I weigh the bag. Huh. Maybe this time–The woman's eyes widen. Riiiiip. I flail, passing my entire arm underneath the brown bag, catching things before they can hit the floor. The man and woman are leaning over the counter, looking down at me. They nod, impressed.

I fill two cops at the machine, balance them awkwardly with the brown bag under my arm, and press my back against the door to open it. The woman is smiling at me and nods as the man sweeps the floor behind her.


It's been two days since the first snow. It was thick and heavy, partially melted, packed over again, and compacted into big, slick ruts around the neighbourhood. The sounds of cars honking and tires spinning out disrupt every other moment.

I'm just finding my focus on writing a lengthy document on product delivery when the doorbell rings. I check the doorbell-camera's app on my phone. A large, suitcase-sized package is delivered. I run out and pull it in. As I do, I notice a darkened spot on the front step where it had been sitting.

I'm too busy to open the box and go back to writing. It's just after one in the afternoon, and I've got a lot more to get through before the next virtual meeting at two. I begin writing, make it two sentences, and my mind drifts.

I remember when we bought this house seven years ago. After only a few months, we realized we needed to stop using the bathtub above the front door. I had stepped out to grab the mail after a bath and realized the doormat was wet. I stood there, looking around, wondering what could have caused the wet, when a drop landed in front of me. Plip. Sigh. Just what we'd needed. I stood there, contemplating. Plip. Maybe it would be a quick fix? Plip.

We called a plumber to come and check things out, and he suggested we not use the tub if we couldn't afford a remodel since they'd have to rip it out just to see what was wrong. It seemed that whoever built the house had done quite the bang-up job on the upstairs bathroom.

The tub sat unused for six and a half years until we could afford the exploratory work required to diagnose and fix the problem. It turned out that whoever did the original construction hadn't insulated under the tub. When they removed it, you could see the light passing through to the area overhand area in front of the door.

It took almost three months to complete the repairs and remodel the bathroom. We thought we'd better end up with something we'd love if we couldn't afford anything significant again for a long while. I think about all the noise, the dust, how scared the cats were when the men were working on the house.

A car horn honks outside, and I return to the present to continue working.

It's half past four, and my wife is coming home while I finish work. She's surprised by the large package and asks about it, but I can't answer since I'm still in a meeting. She wanders about, continuing her home routine. Another package arrives, and she goes out to get it. The rest of the meeting feels longer than others. I'm finally able to greet her and we chat about our days.

"Did you notice the spot on the front step?"

"Yeah."

"What do you think?"

"Yeah, better fucking not be."

We both go, open the front door, and peer out at the spot.

"Doesn't line up," my wife says.

"Oh, yeah. Good point." I notice the spot is closer to the edge of the steps, nowhere near the original wet spot from years ago, possibly due to exposure to the elements the last few days.

"I don't think it's the same thing as before."

"It doesn't seem to make sense to be. God, I hope not, anyway."

We close the door and commit to keeping track of the spot. Later that night, I debate having a bath but can't bring myself to go upstairs.

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