Plato for Plumbers Read online

  "I have to go soon," Ken stated. "I have a plumber coming, and I really need to get this conference paper done."

  "I know, I know. I'm sorry. I suppose I was feeling a bit sad."

  "It's a feeling; it will pass."

  "But it doesn't make it any less true. Anyway, goodbye, Ken! See you soon."

  "Bye…" Ken trailed off. He waited until he could hear the click on the other end.

  Drip drip drip.

  Ken sighed, allowed the dial tone to sound in his ear much longer than necessary so it could drown out the sound of the sink. For a small while, at least.

  "Shubert," Ken said aloud. "That would be best right now."

  Ken's old classical music wafted softly through his computer speakers. It was still barely ten o'clock in the morning and the word count on his screen read only five hundred. Most conference papers were at least five times that. Ken's phone made another noise that Ken heard over the Shubert; a soft ping that meant an email had come in. He opened up his inbox to find a couple more unanswered messages from his students, all of them reading things like extension, death in the family, please, a small question…

  Since it was Spring Break, Ken knew it was also the perfect season for students screwing up their time management and then begging for extensions because "grandmother" had died. Again. There were times, during Ken's earlier years of teaching where he had sent a flier around during March in a very serious and didactic tone which stated:

  Students, please be careful. If you have a grandmother anywhere, watch her closely. I receive thousands of emails a year about dying grandparents in the month of March. It's an epidemic. Please, watch her closely—and help her if she can't get up.

  Some of the students found it funny. Some of them even deliberately toyed with Ken, telling him that their uncle died instead. Ken usually laughed at their attempts; at least they were having fun and being ironic about it. His late policy was never that severe anyway. If they turned in something late, they never got comments on their work. They were forced to take the grade he gave them and not argue with it. Most students were fine with it.

  As Ken stared at his suddenly overflowing inbox, the humor had left the situation. The dripping had worn down his defenses, as had David's call, and now he was just annoyed. He had let his students' fun go on long enough.

  He pulled up a new email and began to type out a mass response.

  Dear class,

  I apologize, but I'm changing the late policy for everyone involved. There is now a penalty of 2% each day. No excuses, even if your grandmother has died. If you would like to argue, I suggest…

  Ken continued typing away, only to realize that his new policy was just as long as his conference paper so far. He sighed and deleted it. He would never be able to get away with changing the syllabus this far into the semester. And over bitterness alone? That was bad. He was turning into one of the old and curmudgeonly professors who scoffed at each new cohort of students and made each lesson worse than nails on a chalkboard.

  What had happened to him? Maybe David was right; maybe Ken had changed too much without noticing. Ken was about to search up a new quotation from Plato for his desk space, even something to work into this new paper, when the doorbell rang. He glanced outside and saw a yellow van with a plumbing company's logo.

  He didn't know whether to be relieved or annoyed. He closed the laptop and walked slowly to the door.

  *~*~*

  The plumber was tall. Ken was used to many people (professors and students alike) not being able to look him in the eyes at his six-foot height. But the plumber towered above him by a couple inches, even as he leaned against the doorway with one arm. His curly black hair was kept under a baseball cap that was lowered to protect him from the sun. Ken hadn't even noticed how nice it was outside until that moment. It was the first real day of spring; the sun had come out and was starting to warm the frozen grass. The plumber, with his sharp cheekbones, brown eyes, and angular features, seemed pleased by the warm weather—and the house he stood in front of.

  My God, Ken thought. This man was attractive. When Ken really looked at him, he stopped Ken right in his tracks. Suddenly, a new quotation from Plato came back to him in full force: "What if a man could see Beauty Itself, pure, unalloyed, stripped of mortality, and all its pollution, stains, and vanities, unchanging, divine? The man becoming in that communion, the friend of God, himself immortal... would that be a life to disregard?"

  "Hi." The plumber smiled. His biceps bulged under his shirt slightly as he moved to grasp the clipboard under his arm. "I'm Mark. From Pacific Plumbing. You called about pipes in your bathroom?"

  "Yes! Come in."

  As Mark smiled again, the curves of his mouth grew sharper. He took his hat off before stepping inside, folding it neatly under his arm along with the clipboard. He picked up his toolbox from his side, steel-gray like his uniform. There were a few dark spots on his uniform, but they could have very easily been water that had not yet dried. Maybe grease from a car. The yellow van outside seemed garish next to Mark, with his neatly pressed shirt and clean-shaven face. He looked utterly blue collar with his uniform and toolbox, but there was a sophisticated way in which he carried himself that struck Ken. Beauty—and something divine.

  As soon as Mark stepped through the threshold, he took off his shoes and placed them by the others piled at the front. He moved slowly, with precision, as if he put thought into each step. Ken didn't mind how slow he moved—it merely gave him more time to watch.

  "What seems to be the issue?" Mark asked. "They just tell me addresses and vague details. Something about a bathroom sink for unit 237. But that's all I know."

  "Um," Ken said. "I think that's about all I know too. Just a leaky part in the bathroom, but I have no idea how to do any of it."

  "No worries. Not all of us do. And even if we want to try, there's no telling whose water lines you're touching. A lot of these condos share pipes. It's good to call us in."

  "Yes, well. That's good to hear, actually," Ken said. He had been feeling pretty foolish that he couldn't handle something so small. Academia often completely pulled him out of the lull of real life and removed him from the way in which real people handled their problems. They didn't think about philosophers or said philosophers' daily habits. Real people fixed things.

  Ken took a step into his front hallway. He noticed his bags, books, and old containers of takeout on the counter of his kitchen. He blushed. "Um. Please forgive the mess."

  "What mess?" Mark said. He grinned playfully. "Trust me, I've seen a lot worse. And not just backed up sinks."

  "Right. I can imagine. Walking into so many people's homes… You kind of get used to things, I guess."

  Mark smiled. It was that same almost shit-eating grin, like he knew something more than what he was really saying. It made Ken's knees go weak.

  "I also watch a lot of Hoarders," Mark confessed. "You have nothing on the crazy cat ladies I've seen."

  Ken laughed more than he'd anticipated. His last boyfriend, a cultural studies professor who used to work at MIT, had actually written a paper on Hoarders and was getting it published in a journal. It was still so amazing to Ken what some cultural theorists could get away with in academia. Ken opened his mouth, about to share this extraordinary feat of academic publishing, when he realized what he was doing. Did Mark even care about this?

  Mark paused under the hall light and noticed Ken's sudden movement. He raised his eyebrows in anticipation. "Yes?"

  "Um." Ken ran both of his hands through his brown hair. "Nothing. I was just saying, the bathroom down the hallway is the one giving me the issue. Under the sink. That's it."

  "Well, thank you. So long as I have your permission to wander, I will go take a look."

  Ken held up his hands, gesturing a 'go for it'. Mark gave him another polite nod and walked away. Ken moved to follow but gave himself enough distance so he could watch Mark's back, tight in his uniform shirt, and ass from a safe distance.r />
  Ken liked him. He felt it strongly in the center of his chest. Mark's smile, his gravelly but almost high-pitched voice, his biceps and muscles… The list went on in his mind. Mark couldn't have been more than thirty-five, though. That was too young. Much too young for Ken and his tastes. Ken usually went for men who wrote papers on the hyper-reality of Hoarders, men who knew just as much about Kant as he did, or men who had convinced him to write papers on Plato's version of love. Ken was always surrounded by men who worked with their mind over their bodies and got too skinny from forgetting to eat, or too fat from drinking and sitting and writing so often. Not men with biceps, big brown eyes, and sweet voices, who worked with their hands.

  As Ken followed behind Mark in the hallway, he tried to remind himself about all the ways in which this—whatever this was between them—could not work. Even in his imagination.

  "This bathroom?" Mark asked, pointing to it. "Or that one at the end of the hall?"

  "No," Ken said, much too loudly. He stepped in front of Mark, blocking the way to his bedroom. "Just here."

  "Okay, okay," Mark said. He walked inside easily and got down on his knees to peer under the cupboard. Old shampoo bottles, cleaning supplies, and—oh God, Ken thought as he remembered his old travel case with the broken zipper, half-filled with condoms and lube, was also under the sink. It was tucked way, only visible if Mark was extremely thorough, but Ken still felt himself blush crimson.

  After a few moments, Mark nodded to himself. "Shouldn't be too big of a deal. Very easy to fix."

  "Well, for some people."

  "Hey," Mark said with another smile as he rose to his feet. "We all have our strengths. I can make the leak stop, and you can…?"

  "Oh, I'm a teacher. Professor, actually."

  "Doctor of Philosophy?"

  "Yes, actually. Good guess."

  "I try. Have to keep the mind and the body healthy—at least, that's what Descartes says, right?" Mark asked sheepishly.

  Ken felt his knowledge of Descartes rush to the surface, like the fact that he once thought that animals were machines rather than real living and breathing beings. Descartes had done vivisection on dogs for that reason, believing they could feel no pain. Ken didn't like to tell that story for first years anymore though. It made some of the girls uncomfortable, and it was hard enough to get them to stick around in philosophy courses.

  He bit his lip and pushed the knowledge away. "Yes, that's him all right."

  "Well, good. I'm going to get to work, then. And you can go back to whatever you were doing."

  Ken nodded. They stared at one another. It took Ken a moment onto realize that Mark was requesting privacy.

  "Sorry!" he apologized, fumbling over his words. "I'll be in the room across the hallway. Is that okay?"

  "Sure. I figure this is pretty boring for you."

  "Not necessarily," Ken said. "Sometimes this reminds me of what I need to write about."

  "And what's that?" Mark asked, seeming genuinely interested. He leaned over and picked up his toolbox so he could root around for what he needed. Mark's back muscled tensed and flexed. He was so attractive, so wonderful…. Ken didn't know what to do or say.

  Mark looked back over to him. "You teasing me with a cliff-hanger?"

  "Oh. Right. I'm just writing about Plato. It wouldn't interest you."

  "Why would you say that?" Mark asked, cocking an eyebrow. "Because I'm a lowly plumber?"

  "No, no," Ken said. He could see the hurt across Mark's face. It was small and slight but clear as day. Ken remembered the slight tremors of pain on his own face whenever his papers were handed back with a sea of red ink on them.

  "Then what makes you think I wouldn't be interested?"

  "Because it's not something that's really grabbing me right now."

  "Oh," Mark said. He bent down on his knees again, lowering a wrench under the sink. He turned it with a sudden motion, grimacing slightly. It was a moment before he spoke again. "Too bad. I liked Plato's ideas in The Republic. That's where the cave allegory is, right?"

  "Yes," Ken said, surprised. "Good. You took philosophy in school?"

  "Nah. I got a GED so I could work. But I like audiobooks. And since most things by the philosophers don't have copyright anymore, they go into recording a lot faster than some of the modern stuff."

  "The modern stuff can be interesting," Ken said. "Sam Harris is doing intriguing things with moral philosophy right now."

  Mark grinned. "I meant more like modern bestsellers. Beach reading's not my thing, though, so I tend to stick to non-fiction. I'll keep… who was it? Sam Harris?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, I'll keep him in mind." Mark grinned again. He disappeared under the sink to tighten something else.

  "There's a lot to be said for the older philosophers, too," Ken went on, not being able to help himself. "Like Schopenhauer."

  Ken waited on the balls of his feet for Mark to react. He'd tossed Schopenhauer in there to test him. Most people got Plato. Some people even got Kant. But Schopenhauer hid way at the back of philosophy classes, hard to remember. Even Ken had no personal anecdotes for him, no way for him to stick out in his students' collective memories.

  "Now..." Mark began, his voice slightly muffled. "I really don't think I've heard of that guy."

  "It's okay," Ken said, his face dropping. "Not a lot of people do. I'll leave you to work."

  "Okay, thanks. I'll have to turn the water off soon, now that I'm down here."

  "Yes, sure. Go right ahead."

  "Thanks," Mark said with another smile. He still seemed light-hearted, as if the cross-questioning of his knowledge didn't get him down. Maybe he's a lot stronger than I am, Ken considered.

  Inside his office again, Ken stared at the blank page. Then he stared at the Plato quotation above his desk. He could hear Mark banging around in the bathroom; the water eeked by in the pipes and then there was a low hum as it was shut off. The dripping stopped right away and was replaced by the sound of Mark sliding back under the sink. Why hadn't I turned the water off? Ken asked himself. The thought had never even occurred to him. This fact seemed more disappointing than any other gap in his thinking.

  Ken leaned back in his chair. He could see small bits of Mark in the bathroom as he worked through the crack in the door. When Mark crouched, taking something out of his toolbox, part of his uniform rode up against his torso. The pale skin of his back was visible and wholly desirable to Ken as he sat in front of a computer, dredging up old thoughts he didn't want to think about anymore.

  Maybe, Ken thought, tucking himself back at the desk, maybe knowing isn't everything. Maybe there should still be some mystery inside our lives. He chanced another glance at Mark before he started to write again.

  *~*~*

  After an hour, Ken had gotten pretty far. The clanking sounds from the next room and the subtle humming of Mark became background noise as he wrote the middle bits of his conference paper. He was still working at finding the right philosophy to tie up a few of his stray ideas, but the paper was good.

  Even better, Ken was good. After the stress he had already put himself through over this conference paper, he was relieved by the small amount of progress. He had only stopped a couple times to take a break, too. And each break, he had done the same thing: fantasize about Mark. The thoughts started off as conversations Ken rehearsed in his brain, usually casting Mark into a student-like role and himself as the professor. They talked about Schopenhauer, and then slowly began to slide off their clothing.

  Ken told himself it was completely harmless. Even the Greeks had considered sex and philosophy alongside one another, especially between teachers and students. Who cared if it was one of the oldest porn tropes? What was completely out of character, at least for Ken, was when he opened up a new Word document and began transcribing some of these plot points and fantasies down on the page. He hadn't done anything like this in years, not since that first boyfriend in grad school, but even that old memory was fu
zzy in his mind. Ken didn't write much, just small lines of dialogues and positions, but they were as evocative as they were titillating.

  Just as Ken thought up another way he wanted to see Mark bent over a desk, there was a knock at the door. Ken slammed the laptop closed and saw Mark leaning against his office doorway, a grin on his face.

  "How is it going in here?" Mark asked. "I think you're clanking around as much as me in the bathroom."

  "Oh?" Ken asked. He coughed. "The typing? I'm sorry if it's bothering you."

  "No, it's actually awesome. I don't think I've known anyone other than my mom who could write that fast."

  "What did you mom do?"

  "Court stenographer. She could type everything at warp speed. Best one in the courtroom. Anytime she wanted to annoy us—my brother and me, mostly—she'd type out our sibling arguments. It made us stop so fast." Mark laughed a little under his breath. He folded his arms across his chest, his biceps flexing again.

  Ken smiled at the anecdote, unsure what to say. He was still slightly red in his face and hoped that Mark didn't notice.

  "So what are you writing?" Mark asked.

  "A conference paper," Ken answered flatly.

  "You don't seem too happy about that, if I can be frank."

  "Well, it has to be done. I like what I'm talking about… It just feels like work, you know?"

  "I know, I get that. Speaking of which…" Mark moved away from the door. Ken stood up from his desk chair and followed him closely. Mark bent down under the sink again and pointed as he talked. "Cracked pipe. I found a way to fix it, hopefully without getting new parts. I've put something in the cracks to harden it, and I'm just waiting for it to dry now. Hence why I was bugging you."

  "You weren't bugging me."

  "Good to know. I will keep it in mind," Mark said, grinning again. "So what else are you working on?"