| |
Muttle Katz skillfully finished forming a letter on the mezuzah scroll with his quill, then carefully rested it in its cradle.
He scratched his pockmarked face through the wisps of his sparse beard, and then scratched his head with his large, black, velvet yarmulke.
A moment later his phone’s alarm rang.
He peered through his gold wireframe glasses to see what the device was squawking about.
It was time to close the mikvah after the men used it to ritually bathe during their Sunday morning hours.
Aside from his meager income as a sofer writing and repairing holy scrolls, he and Rose enjoyed free housing and a stipend in exchange for being the mikvah’s caretakers. He prepared for, and cleaned up after the men in the morning, and Rose did the same for the women in the evening. The Ultra-Orthodox community used the mikvah’s ritual rainwater bath for spiritual cleansing.
When he grabbed the mikvah key Rose yelled from the bedroom, “Go! Close up already! You’re gonna encourage stragglers. Go now!”
“Okay Rose,” he sheepishly replied.
She was adamant that he start on time, and be done before noon to give her plenty of time to inspect, and redo things if they weren’t to her standards before the women’s hours began after dark. He made sure to finish no later than eleven to avoid more grief from Rose.
He resented her more each day, but he could never muster the courage to voice his opinion, or say no. He was especially sorry he hadn’t said no to the Rebbe who personally arranged his match.
He hated her, and felt like she hated him too.
He was stuck for life.
That little mikvah key was the only thing that gave him some sense of power—the power to open that lock in the morning, and let in the early birds, and the power to lock it and deny access to latecomers.
That key was his one tiny crumb of control.
He thought about it whenever Rose bullied him, especially in bed when her emasculating words hindered his manhood.
Eventually he came to enjoy his inability to perform because it infuriated Rose without the need for him to confront her.
Despite that joy, he was still a man with needs that needed to be fulfilled.
Their tiny house shared a common wall with the mikvah whose door was on the opposite side of the brown brick structure.
Muttle hugged himself to ward off the chill as he rounded the building to the mikvah side under overcast skies.
The last man out passed Muttle as he opened the door, and entered the steamy locker room.
He scooped up the damp towels strewn about the locker room, and tossed them into a large laundry bin.
He sprayed the room with Lysol, then wheeled the squeaky cart to the laundry room while mulling over his new venture idea.
Rose was after him to make enough extra money to pay for a kitchen renovation. If you expect me to slave over your meals, you gotta get me a nicer kitchen. And don’t you dare tell me we can’t afford it. Figure it out Muttle!
He was already stretched to the limit with his time handling his sofer business. How much more could he do?
God forbid she should get a job.
Rose spent the bulk of her day sleeping, primping, and shopping at Old Orchard mall.
He tossed the towels into the washing machine, and deposited just the right amount of soap, softener, and bleach, into their respective compartments.
Muttle retrieved a bucket from under the utility sink, and slowly filled it.
He mopped the mikvah bath area and locker room while continuing to mull over the details of his new business idea.
The humidity from the showers hung in the locker room causing his wireframe glasses to slide down his sweaty nose. He pressed them dead center with his index finger to reposition them.
His new business plan seemed perfect.
It would satisfy his needs in more than one way.