Wordsmoker

It was 6:45 in the morning on Friday when the other members of the household woke me; 45 minutes before I needed to get up. What could possibly be that important you say? The house is on fire? Aliens are invading? Osama bin Laden is at the door and wants us to join him in the morning Salah? No nothing like that. The toilet and shower in the second bathroom were clogged and no one else wants to get dirty.

Leave it to the man they say. I meander across the house like a zombie, survey the problem and declare there is nothing I can do about it now. I tell everyone to use the other bathroom and go back to sleep.

When I wake up later I plunge the toilet and pull out of the shower drain what could pass for a dead rat but, was really a huge glob of hair. Drain works; toilet flushes; problem solved… or so I thought. Apparently there was a clog much deeper in the pipes and come Sunday it started again. “I thought you fixed it!” she said. I retorted, “Since you want evidence, next time I’ll save what I pull out of the drain.” This problem was clearly more than I could handle. I am not a plumber but I know how to call one. He could come immediately and charge me the emergency callout fee or, he could come Tuesday afternoon. Tuesday it is.

The plumber arrives and I explain the problem. He goes straight to work putting a ladder against the house. He hauls the snake up and three fifty foot coils later the clog is gone. He says something about grease from the kitchen drain on the snake. I ignore it and ask him how much I owe him. Seventy five is the answer. I only have twenties so I hand him four. If I had been thinking I would have said to keep the change. Instead I wait for him to fish five singles from his pocket and hand them to me. When I grasp the money, it is wet. Now the disparate pieces of information hiding in my brain come together. The entire front of this guy is wet, and it is not just perspiration. Grease from the kitchen, who cares? I am now thinking of fecal matter from the bathroom. I know money is dirty but, this currency may as well be from a superfund site.

I should have handed it back and said thanks but, my brain was not firing on all cylinders. I say thanks and walk around to the back of the house. I hang the bills on the clothesline. Yes, I have a clothesline. I’m green that way. I go to the garage without using my befouled left hand. I wash it twice and begin searching for chemicals to decontaminate the money. Tilex might bleach out the ink. Great, if I was a counterfeiter. I’ll have to settle for Lysol. I return and thoroughly soak the bills. I then write a note to ward off the other members of my family. “MONEY IS FROM THE PLUMBER. DON’T TOUCH!” I hang the note by the money and go to work. The money is dry by morning so I give it another dousing with Lysol. It dries by two so I put it in my pocket. I later spent it at the coffee shop that has a watery tart on there logo.

(Hey electro-smurfs – have you had a moment in your life where you realize how dull this particular moment is? Like – this is dull, but I’m guessing the rest of the electro-smurfs at Wordsmoker would really enjoy hearing about it, even if it involves talking to a pet about the weather? THEN SEND IT IN!!! But, nothing involving actual smurfs, as I think they’re protected by stringent copyright deals and/or magic. Ed)