Atomic Encounters of the Third Kind

The toilet ceased flushing, as to be expected, without warning.

The clog ran deep, evading the vacuum I created while assaulting the pit of the bowl with a plunger. I crossed my fingers and pressed down the silver handle. The water gurgled, then slowly climbed to where it could lick the seat.

This sucks.

The landlord came over for a look armed with a sponge and a bucket and a razor blade and a red, metal tool box. He hunched over, putting one hand on the sink, and cursed himself for having caulked the toilet to the floor. A delicate, messy surgery was now in order.

That's why I left to put a meat lover's pizza in the oven and set my iPod to shuffle through the living room stereo. (Well, to be politically correct, it's my wife's iPod.)

I dilly-daddled for a while, at least until the minute hand on the clock had made a quarter of a revolution, then returned to the bathroom.

The aroma socked me right in the nostrils. A sweet and sour catastrophe with a hint of damp basement and sick. My landlord was wrist deep into the rear end of the constipated toilet, pulling out sludge while the rip in his purple, latex gloves widened.

All I could think was how much he looked like a plumber. Crack and all.

And that his name is Roman.

We were being serenaded by Tree of Woe's "My Tree." I left to turn it off. The lyrics are too profound for this war. I think a more appropriate soundtrack would include songs by King Missile.

At ground zero, Roman mopped up the aftermath with Clorox disinfecting wipes. Yes. There was collateral damage. That, too, was a job for Clorox, and Roman, ragged and worn, proclaimed he was retiring to his couch next door for a date with a beer.

I went and ate my pizza.