Everyday Heroes

There are two types of people in this world: those who will willingly walk away from a plugged toilet and those who, for whatever reason, will not. This is their story.

But first, a word on that first group of people. You suck.

The people who will walk away from a toilet of festering fecal horrors aren’t terrible people, exactly. They feel overwhelmed, outmatched, and ineffectual. More than anything, they feel afraid, and they run. Who among us hasn’t joined their ranks in a moment of weakness, shutting the bathroom door behind us and pretending we were never there, shame welling up inside of our gullet, head reeling as we try and focus on something, anything, besides the person who will enter the room next and face the living nightmare that is an unflushable toilet.

Cowards? Maybe. But deep inside of each one of us is a primal fear of blocked up toilets, and an instinctual voice telling us to flee, run away, never return. We can’t blame the weakened individuals among us who give in.

We can, however, blame the assholes who leave behind notes (thus feeling like they’ve accomplished something while doing absolutely nothing to correct that actual problem). The coworker who helpfully tapes an “out of order” on the door of the washroom containing a gross toilet that only needs to be flushed, the roommate who goes to bed after taping up a sign that reads “oops! the toilet isn’t working! =(”...they are the true assholes, the human waste blocking up the arteries of society like cholesterol. I once woke up to a bathroom covered in six inches of water, and an overflowing toilet stuck on eternal flush mode, with a note helpfully taped on the door, complete with a sad face. My rage towards the responsible roommate will never die...even after humanity has collapsed, and all that is left is our unrecycled plastic and a few starving cockroaches, my rage will live on, undeterred. Grrrrrrrrr.

But this blog isn’t about those people, either. This blog is about the people who, every day, turn and face the monstrosities plugging up the toilets of the world, grab a plunger, and fight for their right to functional indoor plumbing.

For them, a blocked toilet isn’t just a blocked toilet. It’s a metaphor for everything that is wrong with the world. It is a holy war, a struggle of man against machine, a primal battle against all that is gross and smelly and blocking up our drains.

Would it be easier to walk away? Yes. Should you probably have called a building manager or maybe a plumber after three straight hours of plunging with no success? Maybe. But giving up is easy. And those who face the plugged-up toilet are not the type to walk away from a fight. They won’t ask someone else to do their dirty work. They don’t call in professionals to kill their spiders and snake their drains. Dammit, this toilet is theirs to face alone, and they will conquer. Eventually. No matter what.

Five hours later, our hero may find themselves, alone, on the tiles of their sullied bathroom, emotionally and physically exhausted. No elation is felt as you stare at your bathroom mirror and think of all that you’ve lost today. The toilet has made you cry, and scream, and stare up at the bathroom ceiling and yell out “WHY, GOD, WHY?” The toilet has made you do things you never thought you’d do, touch things you’d never thought you’d touch, smell...terrible, terrible smells. The toilet has taken away some of your innocence, some of your youth, and some of your humanity. Like in any war, there is no true victor, and everyone walks away a little more broken, a little more worn down.

But, god dammit, the toilet can now flush.

And you, good sir, are a hero.

A Novel, Yet Unwritten

Please enjoy the opening pages to something that I wrote ages ago, which are obviously an introduction of some sort, but to what I have no idea. At all. I obviously never finished, which is generally how things work when I only manage to write during creative bursts of energy. But...enjoy!

She knew him. Not particularly well, mind you, or with exceeding fondness or affection of any sort. He simply was a character in the cast of her life - a sort of glorified extra, milling in the background, exchanging empty pleasantries from time to time. His name was Bob, she thought. Maybe Phillip.

It was an odd thing, knowing someone who had died - who had, days ago, presumably been living and somewhat happy, and who now was nothing but a drowned, empty corpse. She did not feel sad, but there was some sort of pain or indigestion deep in her gut. She surmised that it might be shock, or loss, or perhaps just the lingering memory of a hefty sandwich.

The man in question had drowned, it seemed, less than fifty feet from the docks of the cottage where he was staying. His canoe drifted ashore, empty, strewn with half a dozen beer cans. A missing persons report had been filed, and an executive decision to drag the lake was made, allowing for a timely recovering of the body. But what exactly had happened? She supposed Bob and/or Philip might have passed out from drinking, though that didn’t seem overly likely. She wasn’t certain Bob had been a heavy drinker. He didn’t seem the type, although really, it’s not like alcoholics have a certain look about them...and that’s neither here nor there. He could have smacked his head on something, although the coroner’s report didn’t mention any signs of a struggle. Speaking of which, perhaps some ruffian had drowned Bob, and then absconded, staging the canoe and the beer cans...but that seemed far fetched, especially for a man without any obvious wealth, gang allegiances, or personal characteristics worth pinning down besides ‘adult caucasian male.’

Who had found the body? A cottage-town neighbour - not a doting, dumpy wife, or attractive, bare-chested homosexual lover, or weepy, traumatized four year old daughter - nothing to colour in the edges of the man Bob might have been. Or Philip. She flipped to the third page of the report to fill in the missing details - Robert Jeffrey Enid, age forty-two and two months. Single. Caucasian. Male. A Gemini, if that means anything.

No children listed. His body had been identified and collected by his mother, who flew into town for the purpose. The death was ruled accidental with no foul play suspected. Case closed. Goodbye to Bob, whoever you are. Or, were. Whoever Bob was, and isn’t now, goodbye.

She turned away from the open file and began to type.