One of those days

We have a screwy toilet. It’ll be fine for a couple of months, dormant really, and then like a monster it wakes up, grumpy as all hell. It been up for a couple of weeks now and making threatening noises, gurgling and choking during the last throes of the flush. We’ve taken to standing over it—transfixed in a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity—to see if it will make good on its promises and really explode.

Only today did we snap out of it and call the landlord. By the time she could come over, I was alone; Craig was on his way to the airport for a ski trip. It was up to me to explain our way to better plumbing.

We faced the toilet. I articulated the problem. She flushed it. Hardly a sound. Cool, clear water filled up gently and quickly to the necessary level. I laughed nervously, and mumbled the age-old truism about bringing a broken car to the mechanic only to have it purr like new in the shop. She ignored me, and flushed again. If possible, it was quieter. I didn’t say anything. “Again?” she asked, darting a smug look over at me. “Why not?” I said, and endured the third perfectly normal, obedient flush.

We backed out of the bathroom, but I couldn’t leave it there. I was feeling dumb and vengeful (a horrible combination) and needing to assert my tenant’s rights somehow. I led her to the bedroom, where there’s a light fixture near the end of one of our alcoves (the one that will become the baby’s room) that we’ve never been able to turn on. I suggested it might be faulty wiring. Over she marched to the light. Reached her hand up to the back of it, grasped a little chain, and pulled it softly. On went the light.

She left. We didn’t exchange many pleasantries. I went to take a pee. Flushed the toilet. Listened stonefaced as the water struggled noisily though the dirty rotten pipes.   

Comments

[Dan Turner]

Too too funny. Nice touch.