I Will Bring You Good Fortune

The Clock Stops
5 min readJun 20, 2021

I’ve heard that most people love Saturdays. Not me. For me, Saturdays are my least favourite day of the week. The filth from the previous week accumulates in every corner and crevasse. The dark areas underneath get grimy, my surface loses its shiny sheen, hairs always seem to collect in various places, and my own odour even starts to bother me, especially in Summer. Guess it’s just part of the territory, though.

But yeah…Saturdays are not my day.

I understand that it’s totally the opposite for the two people who live in this apartment. The husband works from Monday to Friday, and Saturday is always a rest day, a Sabbath. He stays up later on Fridays and has happy hour drinks with colleagues...now online, due to the coronavirus. While this practice may be fun for him, for me it’s the total opposite, and I just have foreboding dark anticipation as I hope that he doesn’t go overboard with his TGIF celebration. Drinking alcohol is usually accompanied with eating various unhealthy snacks. Recently, he likes to experiment with different flavours of potato chips, as well as the various beer options offered at the local 7–11. This week, for example, he bought brandy duck flavour Lays potato chips. They may taste like brandy duck (whatever the hell that is) going in, but they certainly don’t smell like it going out if you get my drift.

I suppose that the hardships I go through during the week, and especially on Friday evenings, are all worth it because I know that Sunday morning is just around the corner. Sunday mornings are a totally different story, and I wake up knowing that I’m going to feel refreshed not long after the Sun is shining high in the morning sky.

The husband will come in at some point in the morning to relieve himself one last time. He’s pretty “regular” and I can count on him to make a deposit just after he finishes his breakfast. The wife is a bit less predictable, and I’m unable to gauge her digestive rhythms with any sort of regularity. Regardless, I’m sure to be the recipient of some degradation in the early Sunday hours. But what’s the big deal about a few more hairs and a bit of excrement sloshing around in the morning? I don’t really even mind the feeling at this point. Although I don’t actually have any teeth, I imagine it’s like going to the dentist, and having the pleasure of enjoying some chocolate candy prior to a thorough cleaning.

My two best friends, Siimon MagicClean and Sally Toiletclean side by side ready to serve!

Usually around 10:30 or 11:00 on Sunday it finally happens. The husband walks in and flips up my lid and I belch a sigh of relief. He’s finally going to give me some TLC. He grabs the Simon Brownbrush’s holder to his left, picks it up and dumps the few drops of water that have accumulated from the previous week’s cleaning. He then opens up the cabinet to pull out one of my two best friends, Arnold MagicClean, and uses Arnold to give me an ample spraying, usually five or six times around my bowl.

“Looking good this week Caesar,” he says to me.

“Thanks Arnold, same time next week!” I reply quickly before the husband puts Arnold away again. It must get humid in that cupboard under the sink, I think to myself. Seems like Arnold enjoys this brief bit of “fresh” air as well.

Next, he takes the Simon in his hand and vigorously moves the sudsy run-off around my entire interior. Simon is pretty quiet and just goes about his work. Most of the week he just sleeps. I’m always impressed that the husband doesn’t seem to miss a spot, even getting those hard to reach places. Finally, he flushes and holds the brush in the flowing water. I can feel days of grime and filth give way to freshness.

He then opens up Sally Toiletclean, takes out one of her wet tissues and proceeds to get on his hands and knees and scrub away at my porcelain. I always feel bad for Sally at these moments as her children are sacrificed one by one and thrown inside of my interior, only to be flushed away after their one use.

“It’s really not a sacrifice,” she told me one Sunday. “It’s their calling, and they want to do it. Besides, they’re all grown up…they need to go out in the world.”

Unable to imagine what the world looks like past my flush, I try not to think about where they are going too much. I just hope they aren’t mixing too much with some of the mess that’s been flushed out of me.

The husband uses 3–5 sheets each time. Each of the wet sheets squeal as they are scraped over my interior, across the porcelain, over the lid, behind the seat, over the “Caesar” insignia.

“Wheeeeeeeeeeeee………” they yell as they pick up hairs and wash over stains. I chuckle to myself.

Ah, the carefree spirit of kids.

The husband gets off his hands and knees and flushes the sheets off to their unknown destination. He takes Sally in his hands and puts her underneath the sink where Simon waits for her. He puts down the lid and takes a very austere spray bottle of antibacterial, who I only refer to as Mr. S and gives me two shots. I never talk with Mr. S, but I thank my stars for his existence. He has a job to do, and so do I.

I straighten up as much as I can and prepare myself for another week of work ahead, already looking forward to the next Sunday. Before the husband leaves, I bless him with happiness and good fortune.

Bless you good sirs and madams. Bless you.

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The Clock Stops

American residing in Asia since 2004. Blogs focusing on life observations, improv, food, creating a learning organisation, management, and stretching time.