In his excellent book, On Writing, Stephen King assigned a homework assignment concerning two characters, Dick and Jane. If you write, go get this book. Now. When you get to the homework assignment, do it. Post it on your own blog.
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Dick spent a short day at work, then a long evening at his bar. This had been a common pattern for Dick for a couple of years now, but considering the circumstances no one complained much. Dick got his work done; what he did in his own time was his problem.
Dick finally pulled into his driveway around eleven that night. Today was Payday Friday and the work/drink proportion reflected this circumstance.
At least Dick's car knew the way home.
Dick got the front door open, dropped his briefcase in the entryway and found the lightswitch. He turned the lights on.
Dick blinked. Something was wrong.
The house was--well, it was clean. Dick was casual about his housekeeping; he wasn't quite a slob, but household chores were usually done on Saturday afternoon, between hangovers and cocktails. For his house to be clean on a Friday night was unheard of.
Foggy he might be, but he remembered Thrusday's pizza box. It should have still been on the coffee table.
It was gone.
Dick looked around. The house was spotless. He hadn't seen it this way since his wife Jane--well, since she had to leave.
"What the fuck," Dick muttered. Then he blacked out.
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Jane was "one helluva woman," as Dick often put it, loudly and where others could hear. Jane would just roll her eyes and giggle a bit. But it was true. Jane was a hell of a woman and Dick was damned lucky to have her. She could cook, and she could clean, and in the bedroom she cooked and cleaned up.
And that was the limit of Dick's knowledge of Jane. At least at first.
One night, early in their marriage, Dick stopped off for an office party at Spike's Pub. This was no problem, he did call in advance, after all. Don't hold dinner, Sweetheart.
He came home that night around 10:30, tie loosened and hat askew. Jane welcomed him with a big smile, buttoned the top button of his shirt, straightened his tie and his hat. Then she kissed him and asked about his day.
Dinner was ready. Thoughtfully, it was a light meal, soup and salad.
Then she hauled him upstairs, ripped his clothes off--literally--and threw him down on the bed.
Good thing the next day was a Saturday.
Jane spent Sunday afternoon sewing the buttons back onto Dick's shirt with a dreamy look on her face.
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Things sort of changed after that.
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Dick put a beer on the end table. "Use a coaster, honey," Jane said.
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"I just vacuumed, honey, take your shoes off, all right?"
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"Oh, sweetie, you're always making little messes!"
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This was annoying, and Dick started staying out later and later. When he was home, Jane would follow him around cleaning everywhere he went. He'd set down a beer, she'd be there with a cloth and a coaster. He'd go to the bathroom, she'd wipe down the toilet. Dinnertime was becoming an adventure. Jane couldn't stand looking at the dirty dishes in front of her, even when she was eating from them. She shoveled it in as fast as she could, then watched Dick eat. So he gulped his meal down as well. Three minutes later, all the dishes were clean and back on the shelf.
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"Honey, you never help clean," Jane complained one day.
"You never leave anything to help with," Dave said from the couch.
"I can't believe you'd say that!" Jane cried.
"Jane, what are you talking about?"
"There's the dishes and the laundry and the dusting and the vacuuming and the bathroom and the sheets and the dishes--"
"You said dishes already."
"--and the clothes and the ironing and the dishes--"
"You said dishes already!"
"--and the vaccuming and the--and the--and the--and I've had it!"
"Jane, honey--"
But Jane wasn't listening. She was heading for the kitchen.
Then she was headed back out. With a cleaver.
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Jane was found not guilty of attempted murder by reason of insanity. Doctors reattached Dick's left hand and they were confident of "80% functionality," whatever that meant. Jane was sent to the Kesey State Center for Women. Dick was given eight months of painful physical therapy.
Onlookers decided that this was a win-win situation, all things considered.
For a while, anyway.
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Dick regained consciousness to someone washing his face. And the big bruise on the back of his head.
"J-Jane?"
"Hi, honey. Miss me?"
"Uh, yeah--yeah I did."
Jane patted his cheek. "You always were a sweetheart, Dick."
Dick took stock. He was vertical, forced into that position by having his hands tied together and pulled up over his head. His feet were tied together. If he stretched, he could put his weight on tiptoes and relieve the tension on his hands.
He was naked.
Dick stalled for time. "I didn't hear you were getting out, Jane."
Jane giggled. "No. I didn't tell anyone I was leaving."
Dick looked confused. "Uh, then how--?"
Jane looked smug. "I went out with the laundry, of course. I was the best launderer at Kesey, and soon enough I was in charge of all those bitches!"
"Uh--"
"Yeah. So we all set it up that I would go out with the laundry. The clean laundry, of course!"
"Yeah, of course."
Jane smiled at her husband.
"So, now what?"
"Oh, I just have one more thing to clean up."
"What's that?"
"You." Jane pulled a steel brush out of her bag and started cleaning.
