Old Pennies
Jerk put up the ‘Back in 10 minutes!’ sign, locked the door, and grabbed the cleaning supplies. Cleaning the bathroom didn’t bother him—it was part of the job. At least this catastrophe hit during a slow stretch.
“I’ve seen worse,” Jerk announced as he went inside. “Well, a few times,” He said quietly to himself once the door closed. Based on the mess, the toilet had dodged from side to side as Kid retched—and maybe during another type of expulsion. The smell had the tang of bile, stomach acid, and something metallic that Jerk couldn’t place.
Tiny had taped multiple layers of electrical tape over the 2nd switch on the wall plate that controlled the lights, and Jerk thought he knew why. The tape didn’t stand a chance against the key he sawed through it with. Jerk flipped the switch, and the ancient vent fan sputtered to life, coughing the stink into the alley with a dying whine.
Kitty litter was a lifesaver with messes like these. The clay bound to all sorts of liquids and semi-solids, then you swept or shoveled it up. Kid’s output was pushing shovel territory. Jerk wasn’t going to be able to eat his usual for a few days after this cleanup.
The metallic smell grew stronger near the trash. As Jerk moved to dump the kitty litter and defiled meal, he saw the source—wrapped in blood-soaked paper towels, hitting him with a stink like a sock full of old pennies.
“No way.” Jerk was imagining things. Had to be. He tied the bag shut, sealing the cacophony of stinks inside.
The secret to cleaning The News’ bathroom was the drain in the floor. Once you dealt with the semi-solids, you could just rinse the rest down the drain. Tiny once joked that he could kill someone in it and wash all the evidence down the drain. Jerk reckoned he was speaking hypothetically—but Tiny’s father might have had some practical experience.
Jerk unhooked the hose hanging from under the sink and unrolled it. Spraying down the bathroom took no time, the mop after that was as easy as wiping down a table you were cleaning for the third time in a row.
Jerk used the mop handle to pry the door open and speed up the floor drying. He turned off the fan. It’s whine was getting louder, and a fan like it had caught fire in a tenant’s apartment just a couple weeks ago. Tiny also had a really strict no-fires-on-Jerk’s-shift rule.
“I’m throwing this in the dumpster in the alley.”
The rain was over and it was dark and quiet, except for the sound of distant thunder. City stank, but it always did after rain. In the alley, Jerk heaved the bag into the dumpster and stood there a minute before heading back inside. Thought about what he saw, and that old pennies smell.
Kid was up and on their feet, putting new bag into the bathroom trash. “I’m feeling better, might as well help.” Jerk realized he saw the wince and not Kid, that first time. Kid had real talent at wincing, and making themselves smaller. They were nearly as tall as him, but slighter.
“You gotta tie the bag just how he likes it or Tiny yells at me.” He showed Kid, it wasn’t hard, and got a chance to size up some things. Kid truly stunk and needed a bath the way Tiny needed his orthopedics. One of the stinks was the old penny smell, but very faint.
Jerk headed back and got another coke for himself, a ginger ale for Kid. He put Kid’s drink down on the counter. Kid hurriedly finished their current one and cracked open the next. “Thank you.”
Kid leaned the stool back, still tired, oblivious to the sweat stain they’d left on the papers taped to the wall. Jerk stood on the customer side of the counter.
“So, I didn’t realize you were a gi—”
“Am not. Shut your face.” Kid’s bright eyes flashed—irritation, anger, fear.
That first syllable was stuck in his throat for a moment before he spit it out and continued. “Are not. Shutting face.”
Jerk spun on his heel, resumed his habitual pacing of Aisle C.
“How did you figure it out?” Kid was the one staring at the hyperbolic mirror now.
“Old pennies.” Jerk kept pacing. Kid was silent, and looked quizzical. Jerk tried to explain. “Trash stunk.” Still nothing. “The pad?”
“Oh! Oh.” Kid looked toward the open bathroom door, embarrassed. “I didn’t know.”
“I’ve got a good nose.”
“And you clean the bathroom?”
“It’s a gift not a weakness.” Jerk had conquered his reverse peristaltic reactions years ago.
“Guess this means the offer of the room is rescinded.” Kid’s head hung.
Jerk stopped, turned to look at kid. Puzzled. “Why would I rescind the offer?”
“People rescind offers all the time.” A matter of fact.
“So I’ve heard.” Not that Jerk knew a thing or two about that. He resumed pacing. Looked at the time. Cursed Late. “Kid, the only thing that changes is now I understand better why you asked about locks.”
“People… want things.” Kid crossed their arms tight, shrinking in on themself. “They give you a couch, warm food. Then at 3 a.m., they’re standing over you, rubbing themselves. That’s when you realize what the food and dry place are really costing you—unless you want their ‘kind offer’ rescinded in the middle of the night. It’s hard to trust.”
“Kid I—” Jerk grasped for what to say next. “Assholes.” He stared at the coolers for a minute. When he turned back around, he saw that Kid had slumped forward, resting their head on their arms, snoring softly.
Jerk paced Aisle C, glanced at the time, then back at Kid. Their breathing was slow, steady. He let them sleep.