It was a hot, sticky day, but because the pretty woman from upstairs was standing in the elevator with him, Tom did not dig his underwear out of the crack of his ass. He suffered for fifteen floors in silence, wincing slightly as the moist, twisted fabric slowly pulled out his butt hairs one by one.
At last the elevator arrived at his floor. He waddled out painfully, trying to avoid uprooting anything gender-specific. When the door closed behind him, he desperately dug between his asscheeks, spreading his legs slightly to improve access.
"Ah," he said as the knotted briefs reluctantly tore free. "Thank God, thank God..." He looked up.
His neighbor Mrs. Chintz was standing in her doorway, staring at him with blended horror and contempt. A half-smoked Camel hung from her slack lower lip.
Tom froze. He dimly realized that whatever meager molecules of dignity he could salvage from this situation were best served by the truth. "I... my underwear bunched up..." He tried a grin, then remembered that his right hand was still crammed halfway up his ass. He withdrew it slowly. "Sorry..."
"Heathen!" hissed Mrs. Chintz. She slammed her door, leaving a faint cloud of cigarette ash hanging in the air.
After cranking the air conditioner to high, Tom tossed his briefcase onto the coffee table and flopped into his recliner. Maybe I should quit my job, he thought. Under the best of circumstances the customer complaint switchboard was a tough gig, but ever since the new product hit the shelves in March it had been a nightmare. A book of discount coupons doesn't do much to smooth over a series of accidental decapitations.
Nah, he thought, I'll think about it tomorrow. Lemme just relax in front of the tube tonight. He clicked the remote. The television sprang to life.
"-- can become wealthy in just six weeks by following my guaranteed formula for success! Political Action Committees are easier to set up than you might --"
Ugh. He hated infomercials. Tom clicked again.
"-- ...ble in stores. Call now to reserve your limited edition Fantasy Island collector's plates, carefully hand-crafted from the finest china --"
Click.
"-- can help fight illiteracy in your community by calling 555-READ. That's 555-Read --"
Sighing, Tom opened the television schedule and checked the grid listings. From six o'clock until dawn, there was nothing but "Paid Program" on any channel.
Tom turned the set off and looked around the room. What was the best way to kill the long, uneventful hours between now and when he went to bed? He frowned, trying to remember what he had read about entertainment before the invention of television. Something about gladiators.
His eyes lighted on a colorfully-printed box on the top shelf of the bookcase. Of course! he thought. I'll work on the model!
He pulled the box down and looked at the front illustration with satisfaction. It depicted Old Ironsides, the USS Constitution, plowing majestically through a white-flecked sea, her cream-colored sails and spiderwebs of rigging snapping in the brisk Atlantic wind.
All those sails.
All that rigging.
He put the box back on the top shelf. At least the shrink-wrap is still intact, he thought. It's never been opened. I wonder where I put the receipt? What year was that?
The search for the model kit receipt took over an hour, and by the time Tom surrendered to the mysterious forces of entropy and gave up he was getting hungry. A tour of the kitchen turned up nothing but a box of macaroni & cheese and a drawer full of condiment packets. Tom briefly considered making a run to the grocery store, but that would mean leaving the air-conditioned apartment and running the risk of spontaneous combustion.
"I'll just have to make do with what I have," he said. He filled a saucepan with water and put it on the stove. "I'm a resourceful guy..." He eyed a packet of hot-dog relish speculatively. "Hmmm... I'll call it Chef's Surprise."
Oh my God I'm going to die here, thought Tom as he watched a drop of sweat fall from his nose into the toilet. A faint metallic taste in the back of his throat told him that another batch of "Chef's Surprise" would soon be on its way back up. He suddenly remembered that the condiment packets had been in the kitchen drawer when he'd moved in six years ago. A wave of cramps washed over him.
The doorbell rang.
I better get that, Tom thought. It might be something important.
He stood up unsteadily and checked himself in the mirror. It looked like he'd been eating oatmeal without utensils. He grabbed some toilet paper and wiped his mouth.
The doorbell rang again.
"I'm coming!" he called.
He looked through the peephole. It was the pretty woman from upstairs. She was smiling. Wow! he thought, forgetting his problems momentarily. I wonder what she wants?
He was about to fling the door open when he remembered that he reeked of vomit, spoiled relish and American cheese. Damn!
"Yes?" he shouted through the door.
"I'm Millie from upstairs," she called back. "I was wondering if I could borrow a can opener? I only have an electric one, and it just burned out."
"Uh, sure. I think I've got a spare you can have."
"Really?" She even sounded pretty. "That'd be great. I'm sorry to bother you, but you're the only person in the building that I've met."
"No problem," Tom yelled. "I'll go get it now. Pardon me if I don't invite you in. I'm not dressed. I'll be right back." He ran to the kitchen and scrambled through the drawers. Where was it? He had lied about having an extra can opener. What the hell, he could just buy another one tomorrow. The dishwasher!
He opened the dishwasher, and there, sure enough, was the can opener. He bent over to grab it -- and an uncontrollable surge of Chef's Surprise violently spewed from his mouth and nose, hosing everything with undigested pasta particles and pickle bits.
Tom straightened up. He blinked. "It's around here somewhere!" he yelled, picking the opener out of the sea of puke. He rinsed it off in the sink. "Ah, here it is! I'll just slide it under the door."
"Ummm... okay..."
Maybe I'll wait a couple of weeks before asking her out, Tom thought.
Tom threw half a box of detergent into the dishwasher, slammed the door, set it to "sandblast", and hit the power switch. Something somewhere went "foomp". The air conditioner died.
"Oh, no..." Tom ran to the air conditioner in panic. "This isn't happening. No. No." Glaring at the machine, he suddenly screamed, "You bastard! How could you do this to me?" He dropped to his knees in front of it. "Look, I'll do anything you ask, just come back on, okay? Please?" He fiddled with the knobs. "Oh, God, this is the worst day of my life..." He sniffled, fighting back tears. "Oh, well," he said, "I guess I'll just have to open a window."
Every window in the apartment was painted shut.
Tom lay naked and sweaty on the floor. The temperature in the apartment was 106 degrees. Somebody was kicking him in the ribs. It was Mr. Clean.
"What's the big idea?" asked Tom.
"You're dehydrated because of all the spewing you did," said Mr. Clean, "and now you're hallucinating from the heat."
"Oh. That explains the earthworms in my hair."
"If that makes it easier for you, yes," said Mr. Clean. "I think the best thing you could do for yourself right now would be to open the door and get some air. Otherwise you'll die and end up in the Weekly World News."
"I guess you're right." Tom stood up, swaying. He made his way to the door. "Say, there's something I've always wanted to ask you."
"Fine, as long as it's not about the earring."
"Oh. Never mind."
Tom opened the door of his apartment. A cool breeze washed over him as he staggered into the hall. "Ahhhh," he said. "Yes yes yes yes..." He danced a little delirious jig. Then he stopped.
Millie was staring at him. She had dropped the can opener she was returning. Her chin was quivering.
"Oh, hi," said Tom. He picked at some dried vomit on his right nipple. "You want to go out with me sometime?"
Mrs. Chintz opened her door and screamed.