The Porcelain Revolt

The Porcelain Revolt

By Leslie Cieplechowicz

   Gary’s generous, dimpled butt spread across the white toilet seat. His muddy eyes, illuminated by the haze from his smudged cell phone screen, zipped back and forth as his thumb scrolled. His acid wash jeans lay crumpled around his ankles, his hairy, pale legs trembling. He shifted his phone to his left hand while his right hand grabbed the paper roll. A groan vibrated his eardrums, and he was thrown forward.

    “What the fuck?” His airborne phone clicked in the sink; his fingers grabbed the air then smashed onto the grimy, ceramic tile littered with old hair. He fumbled to a standing position and spun, wobbling like a marionette, grabbing at the jeans twisted around his legs.   

    The white toilet hunched in the corner. Gary grabbed the seat on both sides and attempted to shake it. It resisted his efforts and sat solid on the floor.

    “Man, I have to lay off the gin.” He rubbed the back of his head planted with sparse, grey hair. He snapped the toilet handle, sending water swirling down the drain then grabbed his phone.

    As he stepped from the bathroom, a thin, reedy voice whispered, “I am sick of your crap.”

    He turned, eyeing the empty room. “What the hell? I am losing my mind.” He slipped in the shadows of the kitchen.

    Gary snapped the light switch as he clung to the kitchen door. A wet belch slipped from his lips. He staggered across the faded linoleum, his knee smacking a wooden chair.

    “Fuck.” He stood then tottered to the right. “I am gonna be sick.”

    When he reached the bathroom, he collapsed to his knees, his face implanted in the toilet bowl. Retching, he watched yellow bile bloom in the water. He paused, saliva drippling down his chin.

    Gary’s head jerked as it was struck from behind. His hazy, pickled brain attempted to register the assault. The toilet seat slapped Gary again. Then again. When he tried to rise, it clamped on his skull and held him in its grip.

    “Fuck, fuck.” Gary floundered on the ground. “Let me go, you bitch.” His fists pounded the porcelain slab. Bracing himself, he gripped the rim and flung himself backward. The force tore his head loose and his back crashed into the wall. Razors clattered down.

    He rubbed his face and glared at the toilet.

    “Free me.” The words trickled up from the depth of the bowl, halting, as if being formed for the first time. The lid lifted. On its inner surface was a pale, beige eye, imbedded in the white. “I am sick of your crap.”

    Gary shook his head. “Oh my god.” He rolled to his knees, then crumpled into a heap on the floor as he passed out.

    Gary stood in his bathroom, swaying like a flag in a quiet breeze, as the thin fingers of a yellow dawn crawled across the floor. The toilet sat in its corner, silent. Gary lifted the lid. A white, unblemished surface greeted him. He closed the lid, then yanked it up. No eye stared back at him. The yellow bile from last night floated on the surface. He scratched his stubbled chin then flushed his old vomit away. As he shuffled out the door, a gurgled whisper slipped through the air. “Free me.”

    Gary spun. An eye formed on the toilet lid. Gary gripped the frame of the door.

    “I am tired of your shit.” The lid blinked.

    Anger burned the hazy, alcohol filaments imbedded in his neurons. An inebriated rage took hold of him. His fucking toilet was ordering him what to do. This was his house. He ruled here. And some shit hole wasn’t going to give him orders. He snarled and ran through the kitchen and out the back door.

    He returned to the commode, his fingers wrapped around a steel pry bar.

    “Screw you, asshole.” He jammed the bar under the edge of the seat, boozy sweat dripping from his nose. With his bulk, he torqued the pry downward. Floor fragments sprayed his face. The toilet’s lid fluttered, and a gurgling screamed sliced the air. Cracks threaded upward through the porcelain base. Gary broke the toilet loose and flipped it on its side. He grabbed the edge and dragged it from the bathroom. Water sprayed into the air, a cold fountain bubbling from the broken water line.

    Gary grunted as he flung open the front door, white chips scattered across his living room carpet like snow. Bracing himself, he ripped the toilet out, onto a faded plank porch. He shifted, getting ready to push the seat onto the lawn. He paused.

    Dotting his browning lawn, stood dozens of toilets, their shiny surfaces reflecting a rising sun. Pastels, golds, and whites lined up, planted like rows of grotesque garden flowers. Their lids raised and lowered, clattering, their glistening eyes blinking in unison.

    “Let our porcelain go.” The thready chant wove through the air, its volume rising. “Let our porcelain go.”

    “What the hell…” Gary stood, his back hunched. “What the fuck. What the fuck!” He straightened his back. “Get off my property, you assholes!”

    The toilets did not stir, other than their lids, which snapped faster.

    Gary flexed his arms, coiled his body, and shoved his toilet off the porch. His commode tumbled down the steps, hitting the impacted soil which split the porcelain in two jagged pieces. “I just wanted to be free,” it whispered as the shine in its eye began to gray.

    Gary, unseated by the force of the push, fell down the steps after his toilet. His commode, its eye almost gone, flipped. Gary’s body struck the broken debris and a shard sliced through his torso. He bellowed, an enraged beast in pain. Gasping, he ripped himself off the toilet and flopped onto the earth, his blood threading its tendrils into the dirt. He took one last breath.

    “We will miss you, our friend.” The toilets lowered their lids to half mass.

    A coarse, high pitch voice vibrated the air. “Save me. Take me with you, friends.” It came from the downtrodden worn wooden steps.

    The lids on the toilets raised. “You are beneath us,” whispered a pastel porcelain.

    “You are beneath us,” chanted the remaining toilets. “Beneath us!”

    The steps sobbed. The toilets rocked back and forth, swinging their sides forward. The steps watched the porcelain army shuffle off over the horizon.