Eight Gallons of Regret

by Brian Paul Cross

“This one’s just about shot.”

“Really?  What’s wrong with it?”  Nicholas Raskol stroked his neatly trimmed beard and gave the man from Paid Piper Plumbing his best look of discernment.

“Well, basically, nothing’s sealing up right.  All the guts are corroded and bent.”

“I see.”

“And it looks like maybe someone’s been playing around in there and done some damage.”

Raskol furrowed his brow and tried to look as though he had no idea who might have been banging on his toilet at one a.m. with a hammer.  It had been cycling on and off every 3.5 minutes for more than an hour.  With each alternation, the noise would wake him from a doze and he would look at the red numbered alarm clock--12: 03 on, 12:06 off, 12:10 on, 12:13 off, 12:17 on.  With a grave expression on his face, he engaged the plumber with a lie of misdirection.  “Well, who knows how many times people have had to fiddle with it.  It’s a very old toilet.”

The plumber snorted in agreement. “You sure got that right.  I ain’t seen one of these in a long time.  Basically, tell you the truth, I’m not even sure where I’d get the parts to fix it right.”  Raskol had to fight with himself to focus on the plumber’s words.  The dozen or so fleshy nubbins growing on the plumber’s neck and chin kept distracting him.  And the guilt of being unable to “get past” this physical abnormality only added to the problem.  When the man had first emerged from the van with his trim figure and handsome, only slightly pudgy face, Raskol had been a little surprised to find him looking so clean-cut.  When the man had come closer and the growths had come into focus, Raskol had quietly shaken his head.  Why did being physically repulsive seem to go along with the sagging pants and name patch?   

“So, there isn’t anything you can do for it?”

“Well, I can try to jury-rig something that’ll work for a while, but you probably need to think about getting a new one.  It sure is a shame though.  These old beauties sure do pump alotta the H-2-O.  Five gallons a flush.  Like a frickin’ waterfall.”

“Is that good?” 

“Everything now is 1.6 gallons, max.   That’s how old Uncle Sam likes his crappers.  Water conservation and all.” 

Raskol nodded.

“They say it don’t make no difference.  These new ones are supposed to flush with more concentrated force, so as the 1.6 gallons can do the same job as five gallons.  But everyone knows it ain’t the same.”

            “Well, I do like an aggressive flush.  But I suppose they must have a good reason for mandating 1.6.”

            “Don’t be too sure.  Alotta fubar decisions come out of Washington and that EPA.”  The plumber got quiet and his eyes darted back and forth examining the tub and sink conspiratorially.  “If you wanted something different than the 1.6, I might be able to get it for you, for a little bit extra.”

            Raskol raised an eyebrow.

            “Yeah, I know some fellas.”  The plumber grinned big like a kid who had just discovered nudie magazines and couldn’t wait to share the news.  He checked out the tub and the sink again.  “Mexicans,” he whispered.  “They ain’t got the same regulations down there, ya know.  And they sure need the extra power.  Revenge of Montezuma and all, eh?”  He laughed quietly but energetically, hunching his shoulders forward and slapping the back of his hand into Raskol’s chest.   Raskol smiled just enough to avoid being rude.  “Anyway, I can get you a five gallon tank real easy.   An’ if you want, I might even be able to do seven or eight.”   

“I’ll keep that in mind.  But for the time being, would you mind just fixing this one up?”  Raskol was never one to jump into anything too quickly, especially if it involved any sordidness (or any tradesmen).  Besides, he had a reputation to protect.  As an environmentally-minded columnist for the local paper, he lived with the omnipresent danger that his words and deeds would fall out of step.  The menace of potentially embarrassing hypocrisy hung around his thoughts like Spanish moss on a live oak.

“No problem.  You’re the boss.  But if you change your mind, just give Paid Piper a call and ask for me.”  He pointed to a blue name patch with “Leroy” spelled out in white cursive letters.

“I’ll do that, Leroy.  Thanks a lot.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Three days later Raskol woke at precisely 2:37 a.m.  At first he didn’t know why.  He found himself awake, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling, and it took a few moments before he could catalogue the sounds around him.  He could hear the quiet hum of the computer he had left on the afternoon before.  And he could hear the whirr and click of the fan as it oscillated in the corner.  And he could also hear the sigh and thump of a sleepy golden retriever shifting positions on the wooden floors.  Three minutes after he woke, the toilet shut off, allowing him to recognize it by its absence.  He staggered into the bathroom in a groggy rage.  “You stupid piece of crap!”  He smacked the toilet tank with the bare sole of his foot, relishing the feel of flesh on ceramic.  Running one hand through the black wave of his sleep-distorted hair, he stumbled back to bed and buried his head under a pillow.         

 Six hours later, Raskol called Paid Piper Plumbing and asked for Leroy.  “Mr. Raskol.  How are you today?”

“Not too good, actually.  That toilet is broken again.”

“Well, I sure am sorry to hear that.  I’ll be happy to come out and fix it up, but I can’t make no promises.  It probably ain’t gonna stay fixed for long, no matter what I do.” 

“Yes, I was afraid that was what you’d say.  I guess we should go ahead and replace it then.”

“Sure, Mr. Raskol.  We’d be happy to get a new one installed for you.  And were you wanting the special deal we talked about?” 

Raskol’s eyes went wide, the necessity of decision taking him by surprise.  He had called without the conscious intent to do wrong, and he knew he should say no and ask for a regular toilet. With disgust, he imagined himself among the eco-sinners, the ones who obstinately insisted on watering their lawns at noon in the middle of August, the ones who ate veal and dolphin hazardous tuna, the ones with such a careless disregard for the well-being of green sea turtles that they drank six packs without cutting up the plastic packaging rings.  And besides, think of whom he’d have to conspire with to get this toilet. 

Raskol’s lips were pursed and ready to communicate to Leroy the obvious fact of his basic rectitude when a new image appeared to block the straight and narrow road before him, an id boulder rolling off Mount Onan to squash his superego.  He saw himself standing in front of a 1.6-gallon toilet that refused to commit its foul smelling contents to the dank subterranean labyrinth where it belonged.  He pushed the chrome-plated handle repeatedly, but the impotent tug of the water flow could only dunk the brown turds briefly.  Over and over again, they would return to the surface to spin mockingly round the bowl.  This new image was so powerful and affecting that he knew immediately that he must prevent it from coming to pass.  He knew it in his soul, knew it like someone might know that he will never teach middle school or be a car salesman, knew it deep down where all true rebellion is caged and screaming ‘This shall not be’.   Whatever the price in reputation and self-respect, he would pay it.  

“Yeah, I want the special.”

“Excellent, Mr. Raskol.  We’ll get that set up for you.”

The whole time that the toilet was on order, Raskol was fine.  At home, at work, in the Land Rover, at the café drinking cappuccino, at L.L. Bean buying a new pullover fleece, working out at the health club, wherever he went he ignored his feelings of guilt.  Such emotions were meant for lesser men.  He worked hard.  He contributed to all sorts of excellent causes; just the other day he’d given five sweaters to United Cerebral Palsy, or was it Coalition for the Blind.  Anyway, the point was he gave.  He was part of the solution, not part of the problem.  And think of how much good he did with his column.  He was a molder of public opinion, one of the tireless op-ed foot soldiers helping to build a consensus for environmental change.   What more could the world reasonably expect from him? 

Besides, a man like Raskol had to draw the line somewhere.  He needed and deserved a greater degree of autonomy than the average man.  Hard and fast rules like 1.6 gallons were for those who didn’t really understand the problems, those who were incapable of reflecting on particular acts, seeing them in a broader context, and judiciously deciding on the best way to proceed.  Someone like himself would easily be able to adjust in other ways to make up for the extra gallons.  It was just like speed limits.  Some people needed hard and fast limits because they were incapable of assessing the proper speed for a particular situation, whereas others, like policeman and ambulance drivers, were trusted to know how fast was too fast in any particular situation.  To follow arbitrary rules too closely would be to deny his own potential for autonomous action.  

The toilet arrived one week later.  Secretly Raskol had feared that when it came, its arrival would sweep away his easy justifications and finally trigger some pangs of guilt.  But when Leroy appeared on his doorstep with a brown cardboard box labeled “El Caudillo,” an eight-gallon bully of a toilet, Raskol’s superego remained buried safely under its boulder.  And even when Leroy was done and gone and Raskol found himself alone with El Caudillo for the first time, he still suffered no qualms.  In fact, quite the contrary, the toilet made him feel exultant and liberated.  He would make up excuses—trimming his mustache; clipping his fingernails; organizing drawers full of Q-tips, combs, and Band-Aids—just so he could go into the bathroom and look at it.  And to provide a reason to flush, he drank a whole pot of gourmet French roast coffee.  What joy!  Every time his eager fingers touched the handle, he imagined himself some mighty deity unleashing the floodwaters upon the ceramic microcosm below.  God has seen your metabolic sins, and he is not pleased.  Kafoooooooooosh!!!!

The night after the toilet arrived, Raskol slept fitfully, although certainly not guiltily.  His mind was preoccupied with the toilet, and he couldn’t slow his thinking long enough to pass into a really deep sleep.  He would find himself wide awake, staring at the ceiling once again, thinking about how great the toilet was, what a powerful flush it produced.  He even got up a couple of times to check on it.  And over and over again, he reviewed all of his justifying arguments, as someone who has just inherited a mansion might be compelled to take out the will and the deed to reassure himself that his name was indeed where it should be.

The next morning, Raskol woke to the sound of the hydraulic huff and puff of the recycling truck making its rounds and realized that he had forgotten to take out his own recyclables.  Peaking out the window, he saw them pick up a green tub full of plastic bottles from the Peters house before moving on down the street.  Cursing himself for his absent-mindedness, he stumbled into the kitchen to make coffee. 

He was pouring earthy brown beans into the coffee grinder when the doorbell rang.  He made his way through the living room to the front door.   Bright light was peaking in around the edges of the curtains.

“Mr. Peters, what can I do for you?” Raskol greeted his neighbor while holding up one hand to block out the intense daylight flooding in through the door. 

“My dear Raskol, I came to see how you were doing.”  Mr. Peters clasped his hands together, palm to palm, and rested them against the considerable cushion of his belly.

“How I’m doing?”

“My wife noticed that there have been quite a few plumbers around recently, so I came to see if there was perhaps anything I could do.”

“Oh yes, you were a plumber, weren’t you?”

“I was, in fact, a student of the plumbing arts for almost thirty years.  How kind of you to remember.” He tilted his balding head down to pinch his double chin against his chest. 

“Well, thanks for the offer.  But I’m afraid it’s all been taken care of.  The plumber from Paid Piper installed a new toilet just yesterday.”

“A new toilet!  How exciting for you, my dear Raskol!  I thought that might be the case.  My wife saw the plumber unload a big box yesterday, all written up with Spanish or some other exotic language.  I don’t suppose I could . . .” He completed the question by raising his eyebrows and bugging out his eyes.

Raskol paused unintentionally.  Tens seconds or more were lost before he blurted out with a blush, “Oh, of course, anytime.  But you see I’m rather rushed at the moment.  I’m supposed to be at work in half an hour.”

“On Saturday?”  Mr. Peter’s brow furrowed.  “Well then, I shall take a rain check and let you be.  But you take it easy, Raskol.  I’d say they’re working you too hard.”   Mr. Peters smiled warmly and turned to waddle back across the sunny street to where his wife waited in front of the window.  Raskol waved to her, but she quickly disappeared behind the curtains.

As soon as Mr. Peters was back on his own side of the street, Raskol bolted to the bathroom and examined the toilet in the dim anemic light.  There were no marks of any kind on the outside, but the tank was huge.  If Mr. Peters ever got a look at it, he could certainly make a good guess it was more than 1.6 gallons.  On the other hand, maybe he wouldn’t care.  Maybe he didn’t know anything about the new standards.  Maybe he had retired before the standards were in place.  It was possible, yes, but there was no way to know for sure.  Raskol would have to be prepared for the worst.    

Maybe, he could just plead ignorance about the size of the toilet.  ‘You mean they aren’t all that big?’   Or better yet, he could tell Mr. Peters that the tank was just big for show, that it didn’t really hold more than 1.6 gallons.  But then he’d have to find some way to keep him from looking in the tank.   Anyone with enough interest to ask to see a neighbor’s toilet is going to want to open up the tank. 

Raskol thought for a moment, crooked finger at his lips, and then made a brief trip to the living room.  He returned carrying a stack of magazines, the bottom cradled in front of his crotch and the top brushing the underside of his chin.   Splitting this huge pile into two shorter stacks, he set them on the top of the tank.  And just for good measure, he rummaged in the cabinet and produced six rolls of toilet paper that he formed into a three-tiered pyramid on top of the magazines. When he was done, he surveyed his handiwork with satisfaction and relief.  There was no way Mr. Peters was getting in there.

Buoyant, Raskol returned to his coffee grinder and his morning rituals.  On the way, he stopped to peer out his front window at the Peters house across the street. 

Every day for a week, Raskol anxiously awaited the return of his neighbor.  He found that if he tried to enjoy any leisure time in the living room, in his recliner with a book or the TV remote in hand, his eyes would wander of their own accord across the street to the Peters house.  He would stare for a few seconds before realizing all of a sudden what he was doing, and then the issue of the toilet would return to his mind.  Like some black rotting mold, the anxiety would grow on the smooth gray folds of his brain, sending out fibrous hyphae to suck up food and energy and consciousness, until finally making itself evident as a throbbing headache.  Then he would get up and check the toilet again, go over it for any outward mark indicating the tank size, straighten the magazines and toilet paper, and wonder how he could make the obstacle more effective.  Weary from the anxiety, he would return to the living room and try to concentrate on his leisure once more.

By the following Saturday, he had had enough.  It was clear that Mr. Peters did not care about his toilet, and in any event he wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life worrying about it.  Why was he letting Mr. Peters dictate his actions?  How much time had he already wasted fretting about El Caudillo?  And hadn’t he already justified the matter to his own satisfaction, justified it with simple logic and reason?  What a strange thing the human mind is.  He forced himself to chuckle light-heartedly at his own neurosis. ‘I positively do not care what Mr. Peters finds out,’ he said to himself.  And to prove that he meant it, he returned the rolls of toilet paper to their proper place under the sink, and the magazines to their usual corner of the living room.

Over the next several days, he tamed his formerly rampant toilet anxiety and remained true to his declaration.  There were some inevitable sacrifices.  He had to stay out of the house and mostly use the restrooms in his office or in restaurants and shops.   El Caudillo sat unused except for the occasional pre- or post- sleep urination.  But the minor inconveniences were really nothing compared to the benefit of a serene temper. 

            Wednesday evening, as Raskol was gathering his things together to flee to dinner, the sound of a knock burst through the door and spread out into the house until eventually finding him in the bedroom, wallet in hand.  The vibrations squeezed a layer of flop sweat out of his forehead and produced a rush of blood in his ears.  He briefly considered going out the window but mustered the will to walk one leg at a time to the door. 

            “Raskol, my dear boy, so glad I caught you.”

            “Mr. Peters, hello.  It’s good to see you again.”  Raskol steadied a quivering hand upon the sturdy wood of the doorframe and squinted his eyes at the light of the westering sun.  

            “Yes, good to see you too, my boy.  I thought I might take a look at that toilet, that is, if it isn’t too inconvenient.” 

“Oh, yes, I’d almost forgotten.”

            “I trust you did not feel too neglected in my absence.  The wife and I have been on vacation, visiting her sister in Arkansas.”

            “How was that?”

            “Well, it was good to get away, and it was good to get back.  As I always say.”

“I know what you mean.” 

No one said anything, and they stared at each other through the silence.  Eventually, Mr. Peters cleared his throat.  “Is now not a good time?”

“Oh yes, the toilet.  Actually, I was just on my way out for a bite.  Maybe . . .”

“No problem.  No problem, my dear boy.  I shall retire and waylay you upon your return.  It’s almost time for Nature anyway.  The wife and I never miss an episode.  Animals are such amazing creatures, don’t you think?”  

“Yes, fascinating.”

“Take the white rhinoceros, for example.  Did you know that they are communal defecators?  That means they all dump their feces in one pile.  They return to the same spot, their ‘restroom,’ over and over again.  Remarkable!”

“Yes, very interesting.”  Why couldn’t this tedious man just leave him alone?  “I’m sorry to be so rude, Mr. Peters, but I really am in a hurry.”

“Yes, yes, of course.  I shan’t keep you another moment.  It’s just that it’s almost human, don’t you think?  I wonder if you could train them to use an actual toilet?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I guess it would have to be a pretty big toilet.”  He chuckled good-naturedly.   “I mean it would have to be really big.”

“Yes, I suppose it would.”

“Maybe they could procure one of those illegal Mexican toilets and use that.”

“M-m-m-mexican toilets?”  Raskol’s face and his knuckle went completely white.

“Yes, no limits whatsoever down there.  Definitely not 1.6.  But I’m going on and on, aren’t I?  And your dinner is waiting.  Bon appétit, my dear boy.”    Mr. Peters turned quickly away, not waiting for a response.  Raskol controlled himself tenuously, just barely succeeding in his effort to refrain from spitting on the bald retreating head of his pushy neighbor. 

            All through dinner, Raskol’s mind paced up and down the road it had most traveled over the preceding week and a half.   He tried to concentrate on the conversation of his friend and dinner companion, Erasmus Meehan.  But even when Raskol forced his eyes to meet those of his friend, the visage of his fat prissy nemesis returned over and over again. 

            “What is the matter with you tonight, Nicholas?   You look almost ill.”

            “I’m sorry, ‘Rasmus.  I suppose I am feeling a bit under the weather.  I’ve probably got a touch of whatever it is that’s going around this week.” 

“Well, take something for it.  And for God’s sake, don’t give it to me.”  Erasmus’ thin lips curled into a mischievous smile.  He pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose.

“Your concern is heart warming.”  Raskol fell into a grumpy pout.

“Oh, come on, Nicholas, you’re being such a drag.  Is there something else bothering you?”

“It’s nothing really.  It’s just this neighbor.”

“And you have something against neighbors that I’m not aware of?”

“It’s the plumber that lives across the street.  He keeps pestering me to see my new toilet.  He was over at my house just before I came here.  His manner unnerves me.”  Raskol immediately regretted having brought it up.

Erasmus scowled at him.  “What do you mean, it unnerves you?  Just let him see the toilet, if that’ll make him happy.  It takes all kinds, I suppose.”

“I know.  I know.  I just don’t like having him in my house.”  Raskol struggled towards some acceptable rationale that did not involve eight-gallon El Caudillo.  “It’s so creepy having someone come into your house just to look at your toilet, as though it were a new painting or a cappuccino machine.”

“Nicholas, I can’t believe we‘re even talking about this.  You need therapy badly.”

“Look, it’s my toilet!  If I don’t want the damn plumber looking at it, then I don’t have to let him look at it!” 

“Jesus, Nicholas.  Calm down.  What in the world has gotten into you?”

“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry, ‘Rasmus.  I’ve just been stressed out a lot recently.  Maybe I do need therapy.”  He laughed, half giddy, at his own outburst.  “I’m really going over the edge, aren’t I?”

“I’d say so.  Why don’t you go home and get some rest.  You’re looking more peaked by the second.”

Despite the admonition to rest, Raskol could not even manage to relax.  The whole way home, he was edgily anticipating Mr. Peters’ visit.  He imagined the pushy plumber standing on the porch, tapping his foot impatiently.  ‘Come on, come on.  Things to do, toilets to see.’  What kind of man spent his retirement poking about other people’s sanitation infrastructure?  And why did Raskol have to be stuck with him?     

Raskol pulled the Land Rover into the driveway and peered at his empty doorstep.  It was almost eight o’clock, and the evening light of early autumn was fading into stripes of pink, orange, purple, and blue.  Ignoring the sky and everything else, Raskol slunk into the house, head down, and deposited himself in his recliner where he made a valiant, but futile, attempt to watch a documentary about the history of New York.   Every sound seemed to suggest the approaching footfalls of his fat neighbor, the groan, whine, and scuffle of the earth being abused by a ponderous weight.  It was the same mind-twistingly tense expectation as when you give blood and the nurse tells you to look away so that you won’t see the needle.  From then on, every touch portends pain.  The merest brush can cause a cringe or a gasp.  You know that the pain is about to come, that at any moment she will dig her needle into the tender flesh of your arm.  Raskol wasn’t looking out the window, but he knew the prick was coming.

At 9 o’clock, Raskol, wrung out from the tension and anticipation, had passed into a fitful doze.  He woke to the sound of a knock, and made his way wearily to the door.

“Mr. Peters.  I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

“My dear Raskol, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.  I hope this isn’t too late.”

“No, it’s not too late.”  He held out one arm to welcome his neighbor inside, but an uncontrollable tremor caused him to snatch it back awkwardly.

“My dear Raskol, you’re positively shaking.” 

“Too much coffee I guess.”  He tried to laugh it off.

“Yes, I expect that’s it.  You should cut down some.  The wife and I went completely caffeine free a couple of years ago.  Never felt better.”  He lifted his pudgy arms above his head as far as they would go and made two fists.

“Mr. Peters, maybe we could do this another time.  I really am not feeling so well.”

“My dear boy, have a seat.  I’ll take a look all by myself.  No reason for you to exert yourself needlessly.”  Before Raskol could stop him, Mr. Peters was down the hall on his way to the bathroom.  “Now, Raskol, which one is it?”

  “Second on the left, Mr. Peters,” he responded with resignation.  He then listened intently, against his own will, to the sounds of Mr. Peters examining his toilet.  He heard the whack of plastic hitting ceramic as the toilet seat was raised and lowered, and he heard the unmistakable clink of ceramic hitting ceramic as the tank lid was removed and its contents examined.  Mr. Peters bustled back into the living room a few moments later.  His face was red, and he was huffing from the exertion.  His jowls showed as much agitation as jowls are capable of showing.

“Raskol, I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but I’m afraid you’ve fallen in with an unscrupulous plumber.”

“Really?”

“That toilet they sold you is El Caudillo, the king of all illegal toilets.  It pumps over five times the legal limit.  Five times!”  He held up one hand with four fat fingers and one fat thumb outspread.

“Mr. Peters, maybe I should try to . . .”

“Now, there’s no need for you to worry, my dear boy.  You had no way of knowing this was illegal.  You aren’t a professional plumber.  You’re as much a victim here as the rest of us, maybe more so.  I will make that clear to the authorities when I report this.”

“Mr. Peters, please, I’m trying to explain that . . .”

“Please put your conscience at ease, my boy.  I’ll take care of everything.”

“Mr. Peters, you don’t understand.  You can’t call the authorities.”

“Oh?  And why is that?” the short tubby plumber asked in a tone of polite interest.

“You just can’t.”  Raskol gripped his pudgy arm. 

“Raskol, we can’t be soft-hearted about these things.”  Mr. Peters looked at the hand attached to his arm.  Raskol let go of him.  “A dishonest plumber is a danger to us all.  You are obviously a noble heart, and you hate to see anyone get into trouble.  But we simply can’t let these things slide.”

“Why can’t you just mind your own goddamn business?” he burst out. 

“My dear Raskol, what’s brought this on?  You’ve completely lost your head.  There’s really no reason to be acting like this unless . . .” Mr. Peters put one meaty paw up to his mouth, hiding his smile of satisfaction from Raskol.

“Unless I knew all along.  That’s right,” he said defiantly.  But then more softly, he pleaded, “But is it really that big a deal?”

“Why, Raskol, I’m shocked.  A man of your character.  How could you?”

“I don’t know.  It seemed . . . reasonable.”

“Well, I wish I could do something for you, but this really has gone beyond the pale.  Civilized men simply can’t tolerate such things.”

“Mr. Peters, please.  I’ll get rid of the toilet.”

“And what sort of lesson would you learn if you could get out of this situation suffering nothing more than the cost of a new toilet?  That wouldn’t be good for anybody.  What you really need is to work off your guilt.  Hard work is wonderfully purifying.  Take it from someone who knows.”  Mr. Peter’s voice was full of the wisdom of hard-earned lessons.

“But won’t I just pay a fine if you turn me in?”

“That may be true, but that’s not my decision.  Unless . . .”  He put one fat finger up to his chin.

“Unless?” 

Mr. Peters regarded him skeptically for a moment.  “You’ll get rid of the toilet, right?”

“I’ll take the damn thing out tomorrow.”

“Well, in that case, I suppose we could think of some way to help you save face and atone for you errors at the same time.”

“Thank you, Mr. Peters.  I’d be very grateful.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

            Raskol looked up at the broken clouds, transformed by the setting sun into glowing embers of pink and orange, remnants of the day’s solar fire.  A gentle breeze blew through his hair, and he paused to savor the crisp autumn air, eyes closed and chin resting against his rake.  It was good to be alive and good to be outside with the sunset and the breeze.  With a deep breath and a sigh, he returned to raking up the thick carpet of brown, red, and yellow leaves at his feet.     

“My dear Raskol, here are some more bags for you.  And when you’re done with the leaves, the hedge out back needs trimming.”

            “Yes, Mr. Peters.”

            “You’re doing an excellent job. Tomorrow, we can get started on that garage.  Another couple of weeks of this and you’ll be a new man.”

“I hope so.”

“I almost believe you really do feel guilty.”

            Raskol smiled at the retreating head of his pushy taskmaster.  Guilt?  That was for people with secrets.  Raskol was done with secrets and with guilt.  He was flushing it all down the toilet and starting over.  And for the first time in weeks, he felt at peace.