Brian Bowman would put off the sunrise if he had that kind of power, which he obviously didn’t. Men with that kind of power don’t wipe other people’s literal shit off toilet seats, which was what he sometimes had to do as a maintenance man for Feingold Business Tower, which was mostly full of lawyers and shrinks and accountants. Maybe it was their clients who made the messes.
Maintenance Man. What a joke. He hadn’t maintained much of anything after Daphne left. Or while she was still married to him, for that matter.
They were only two, maybe three weeks into using ice chests to store everything, after the refrigerator died, when she fell apart.
“I can’t live like this, Brian,” she said. “Nobody should have to live like this.”
The next day he came home from work to find his neighbor, James “Jimbo” McMann, using a hand-truck to strongarm a shiny chrome Kitchen Aid into place.
“Don’t you dare say anything,” Daphne had said. “Thank god Jimbo helped me figure out what to do and thank god for credit cards.” He wondered what else Jimbo had helped her figure out.
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