Archie's Fix

Archie hates to be a stereotypical senile loon. Every morning he rises to a slumped 90 degree angle, hauls his legs over the edge of his bed, plants his flaccid feet in his shabby slippers, and hikes the same fifteen steps to the bathroom. Today, it is sixteen steps. His first order of business, always, is to splash water on his face. This washes away any exhaustion hiding between the accordion creases of his eyes. He reaches towards the towel rack. Eyes sealed with water, his hand flails in search of his usual drying rag. It is further to the right than he would like, but it is still there. After mopping up the cool droplets on his cheeks, eyelids, and forehead, he braves his reflection and notices something.

The mirror is crooked. Only, it had been straight last night while he brushed his teeth, not crooked. Had an unknown force moved it in the twilight hours? Archie tries to ignore the asymmetry, focusing on his freshly-mowed shadow and bloodshot eyes. His skin looks particularly droopy, almost ready to melt, like the mirror. The mirror. It’s slanted down, just a centimeter, but enough for Archie to notice. Enough that it bothers him. But is it crooked? Archie tilts his head for a second look. Self-confidence is low in stock these days after he threw away the TV remote instead of a napkin, and yesterday he found himself driving around the parking lot looking for his car, while in his car.

Deciding the mirror will be a quick fix, Archie drags his feet to a storage closet in the spare bedroom, searching for his leveler. He used it the other week to hang a picture of him and his granddaughter, Delaney, sitting outside. In the photo his eyes are averted and mouth awkwardly hung open, having talked mid-picture. He’s uncomfortable with cameras, more specifically, the foreboding hush that falls over everyone while they pose for a click and flash.

Archie reaches the closet and slides open the doors. An annoying screech erupts from the door’s roller as it moves against the metal. He moves it again, flinching at the ear-piercing squeak. The door had been silent just a few days ago when he came to grab a puzzle. He moves the door back and forth a few times, hoping the sound will disappear. Instead, it screams louder, warning him with a crescendo. Forgetting the leveler, he walks to the kitchen for WD-40.

Archie bends over, opening a cupboard. This position is not nice to his spine, and he instinctively grabs at his lower back to ease the coming pain. Archie sifts through the dozens of bottles his wife, Darla, keeps hidden underneath the sink. All purpose vinegar, Borax, an unlabeled spray bottle, disinfectant wipes, extra dish soap, and a leaky pipe. A pipe is leaking.

He falls to his knees, not just because he’s old and his back is killing him, but because water has been dripping onto the cabinet floor for who knows how long. Has a puddle formed? Is there water damage? Is there mold? When did the leak start? How did the leak start? Will he need to replace the plumbing? That would involve calling a plumber. He’ll start by attempting to tighten the pipe, a little righty-tighty before resorting to lefty-loosing change out of his bank account. 

Archie pulls himself up, using the counter to bolster his not-yet-dead-but-still-quite-heavy weight. His knees ache from resting on the bare linoleum. Later he will have to ice and heat, and ice and heat, and repeat, but now, he must go to the garage and grab the wrench.

He switches his slippers for boots. The house cat, May, rubs against Archie as he passes by, having just woken up from a nap behind the dryer. Archie ignores the cat, aiming straight for the door to the garage. Wrench wrench wrench wrench wrench. 

The garage is dark. How odd since Darla left earlier in the day with the car. Archie heard the garage door open, then close. For 30 years, whenever Darla takes the car, she always leaves the light on in the garage. Maybe Darla, the person he knows better than anyone, can still surprise him.

Archie fumbles against the wall for the light switch. His fingers locate the jutting out rectangle. He flips it. There is only complete and total darkness. Now where does he keep those pesky lightbulbs?

Later that night, the age old bed squeaks underneath Archie’s added weight. Darla is already snoozing beside him. They’ve had this mattress for 8 years, still too young to be failing; their first mattress lasted decades. Archie is unsure how to repair a squeaky, lumpy mattress besides buying a new one. It will be the last mattress he buys. No more pushy salesmen, no more lying on the plastic cover under fluorescent lights imagining what it would be to sleep there. He will be purchasing his literal death bed, his short-term rental before that coffin condo, and there is no way to repair that sob story. Death is unrepairable, unfixable, because it is a cure. The cure to mortality. Death fixes Archie’s crooked mirror, squealing closet door, leaking pipe, and burnt out lightbulbs. He no longer has to fix them when he no longer wakes. His heart races dangerously, imagining all the broken pieces that need mending before he rests eternally. After his bones disintegrate, the house will be left to Darla, his kids, and grandkids. Little Delaney doesn’t know how to fix a leaking pipe. The closet doors, the crooked mirror, they all must be fixed for her, for the future. Archie will be gone. Where to? He knows not. But the broken house will live on like an incurable disease.

At 7:57 PM, Archie falls asleep to a lullaby of worries in his head. He could very easily not wake up tomorrow and leave his mess of brokenness to his family. He will wake up on time, he will wake up early, he will start with the mirror, he will—

Archie’s alarm clock short circuits before dawn.