My toilet was haunted … by the ghost of a rattlesnake
As you’ve heard – from your insurance agent probably – I have the home fix-up aptitude of a demolition expert with multiple personality disorder.
What this means is I possess all the tools, some of the desire and none of the skills to do those jobs around the house that require deft use of a hammer in some task not involving mass murder.
Recently I told you about my attempts to install a new light switch. The neighbors listened with keen interest as the smoke alarm gave them hourly updates to my progress.
This job was preceded by my “repair” of the downstairs toilet.
Some people have favorite sweaters, favorite recliner rockers, or favorite husbands.
I have a favorite toilet.
In my house it is the downstairs toilet. It is the scene where my cats and I play “rat volleyball,” which goes like this: They bat the stuffed mouse under the door; I bat it back out. This goes on until one of us “loses,” as in “loses interest.” Pretty exciting, eh? Guess you have to be there.
My favorite toilet began to malfunction. It wouldn’t flush, and it began to emit a rattling sound, as if a diamondback had taken residence in the pipe.
My solution was to “plunge” it out. I did not use one of those sissy plungers. I bought a thyroidal eggplant-shaped monster that would force a snake-strangling gulp of air down the pipe.
It didn’t work. The toilet functioned correctly for days, then plugged again, rattling menacingly. So I decided to go mano y reptile with a plumber’s snake. I disliked this route, having experienced the unique sensation of having my leg hairs rippled out by the roots with this snake.
But I tried and it too failed.
So I called a plumber – twice. And twice they plunged and snaked the toilet, only to have it resume its obstinate ways. The toilet seemed truly demon-haunted to paraphrase the late Carl Sagan.
All the while, I could hear its maddening rattle. It sounded like a child’s toy with a bead, like the small prizes you once got in Cracker Jacks. I theorized a child of a previous tenant had dropped a toy in the toilet and flushed, and here it lurked, years after the fact, haunting the porcelain.
A co-worker recommended a possible solution, a powder that, when mixed with warm water, activates a colony of microorganisms that feed on the gack that collects on pipes. Ah yes, I thought. Biological warfare. In lieu of inserting an atomic bomb down the pipe, this might do.
I tried it once. Twice. Three times.
It did not work. The toilet resisted and rattled.
I tried it three more times, and three more times the commode refused to comply.
Both I and the toilet were rattled.
Then one day I flushed the toilet and heard a loud, clunking sound. Water raced down the pipe. I flushed it again, and it worked. Again and again, it worked.
With absolutely no action on my part, the toilet had begun to operate correctly.
It had fixed itself.
I, my neighbors and the insurance company were overjoyed by this turn of events. I’m not even disappointed that I wasn’t able to do the repair myself, that I had to leave it to fate.
But sometimes I wonder … what the heck WAS that rattling sound?
This column was originally published in the Jan. 15, 1997 edition of the Northwest Florida Daily News and is used with permission.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
Maybe it was Capt. James Tiberius Kirk, commander of the starship Enterprise, who said: “Into each life a little raw sewage must fall.”
At least now I know Capt. Kirk’s middle name, thanks to the mobs who descended by telephone, mail or on foot to gleefully jab forefingers into my chest with that “How could you be such a moron” tone of jab and shout, “IT’S TIBERIUS!”
OK, OK. It’s Tiberius. You hear that, Charles? Charles left a message on my voice mail: “IT’S THADDEUS.” Thaddeus? No, Charles, you Treknophobe. IT’S TIBERIUS. Consider yourself poked in the chest. And Charlotte called to say she didn’t know squat about “Star Trek” but wanted to discuss it. Well, Charlotte, why don’t you let Charles fill you in on Capt. James Thaddeus Kirk, Dr. Spock, Mr. Checkout, Snotty the chief engineer, etc., etc.
Somebody else said, “It’s Tee.”
TEE?
You’re fired.
At this point you’re wondering, “What does Capt. Kirk’s middle name have to do with falling raw sewage?”
The connection is this: I was home, massaging forefinger stab wounds to my chest, when the upstairs toilet plugged up and overflowed onto the bathroom floor. I won’t go into details except to say it happened at the worst possible moment, and I was so stunned that for 10 seconds I simply stood there, my jaw unhinged, as this catastrophe unfolded before my disbelieving eyes.
Ten seconds. Then I stumbled into action, crashing downstairs for a bucket and sponge. When I returned, the mess had all but disappeared.
Where did it go?
IT WENT UNDER THE FLOORBOARDS, that’s where it went.
Because when I returned to the kitchen I could hear it spattering on the sheetrock, like thousands of tiny Esther Williams rats doing the breaststroke behind the walls, and I thought: Gosh, that could leak through into the kitchen.
Talk about self-fulfilling prophecy. Sewer water began dripping onto the counter, the Christmas presents, the telephone … INTO MY COFFEEMAKER!
I hurled stuff out of the way and hot-footed it to the damp telephone to call the plumber, who ran a snake through the pipes and told me plumbing horror stories (“Hey, you wouldn’t believe the stuff I’ve pulled out of these lines. Once, I found Jimmy Hoffa’s head!”).
Hours later, as I cleaned up the sewer spill, I heard a sound emanating from the hallway. It was the sound an inept home repair guy makes when he inserts a screwdriver into a wall outlet and discovers the full power of Mr. Ready Killowatt.
The circuit-breaker box was sizzling like a bag of microwave popcorn. Dad came over to check it for water leakage, but lucky, lucky me. It was an entirely unrelated problem that would necessitate all kinds of unrelated hassles.
About 7:30 that night I finished the cleanup. My joints ached and I was light-headed from breathing poisonous “fresh-scent” cleaner fumes. As I prepared to collapse onto the couch, I heard a sound: GLUK, GLUK, GLUK … GOOOOORK … GAAAAACK!
Oh, God.
The cat had tossed his kitty cookies in about eight different locations.
I looked heavenward and wondered how Capt. James Tiberius Kirk, orbiting way up there, would deal with these hassles. And then it hit me.
“Beam me up, Scotty.”
—
Cover image courtesy of Desilu Productions.
Author’s note: Contact me at [email protected]. To read more of my opinion and humor pieces, visit delstonejr.com . In addition to my humor columns and opinion pieces, I write fiction – horror, science fiction and contemporary fantasy. If you’re a fan of such genres please check out my Amazon author’s page. Print and e-books are both available, and remember: You don’t need a Kindle device to read a Kindle e-book. Simply download the free Kindle app for your smart phone or tablet.