Civilization

I once lived in a house without water.  We had a beautiful huge septic system, designed by innovative friends who knew what they were doing.  Without water, however, we couldn’t use it.  There’s nothing more disheartening than looking at a beautiful hooked-up toilet and having to pee in the bushes outside.

This was when I lived in Montana.  We never did finish that house or live in it after winter came and it got too cold.  I never used that beautiful toilet. 

I did, for a time, live with friends who didn’t even have a septic system.  They had, and preferred, their double-wide outhouse.  They had four kids, which I guess explained the two holes in the bench seat.  I didn’t live there very long for fear of having to share.  I’m selfish that way.

We’ve had a downstairs dungeon in Camp Kosovo for almost four years now.  The kids and I were afraid to go down there for weeks at a time.  We had a squirrel family living behind the toilet and another mammal family living under the shower stall.  The toilet itself made a gas station men’s room look hygienic.  You had to go upstairs to return to the developed world.

Now Charlie’s promised we’ll have civilization downstairs within the week.  “It should take about a day and a half,” he said.  I know better but I pretend this might be the time when nothing goes wrong.

I don’t have to pretend for long.  It’s not even noon and I can hear him swearing.  All he was going to do was install the toilet.  He’s installed dozens.  Why is this particular toilet such a challenge?  Why is everything about this house such a challenge?  You have to wonder what illegal substances were available to construction workers building ranch cheap ranch homes in 1973.  By the quality of their work, I’m assuming drugs were cheap and construction workers were quite well-paid.

 “I’m sure I’m not the only person who’s had this problem,” Charlie says, resurfacing again.  “The toilet bolts are set in the slab, and I tiled over the slab.  Now the bolts are too short.  I’m going to work on the shower instead.”

He’s swearing again.  I’m thinking of all kinds of things I can do in the opposite end of the house.  When we lived in the little coastal-looking bungalow, I’d have to go to the gym when he started swearing.  Now I can stay inside do dishes.  2,000 square feet of split-level is why our marriage is better than ever.

“I did something as simple as take the shower handles off so I could replace them,” he says.  “I always take the part off and hand it to the clerk instead of trying to describe what I need.  As soon as I took off old handle, it sprung a huge leak.  I’m turning off the water and taking the broken part to Home Depot.”

I went to the gym and came back a long time later.

“I shared my broken parts with a Home Depot guy who said, ‘we don’t carry that old thing.  You’re going to have to go to a plumbing store.

“I drove across town to the plumbing store.  They had the part in stock so I felt like this wasn’t going to be another waste of a day.  Feeling lucky, I asked for extensions for the toilet bolts.

“’Never heard of those,’ the guy said.

“He directed me to another, even fancier plumbing store.  They’d never heard of bolt extensions, either, but the clerk was excited to solve my problem.  ‘I can rig something up,’ he said.

“He returned with an open-end bolt bolted to a longer bolt, which I think will work.  Did I tell you I’ve decided to declare war on this house?”

I didn’t hear any more swearing.  Declaring war is a lot quieter than the usual frustration.  I went downstairs to see how the potty battle was going.

 “Look,” he said, pointing to the new, clean, seatless toilet.  “It’s in.  I guess we forgot to buy a seat, which is only a problem for you.”

“You think so?” I said.  He didn’t know me in the flush-free days of outdoor Montana living.

“Let’s see if it works,” he said.  “I’ll let you take the first flush.”

“No, you,” I said.  Flushing with a witness, even if it’s my husband, just wasn’t right.  I have too many uncivilized memories and one of them is of a double-wide outhouse in Montana I narrowly avoided sharing.

“We’ll do it together,” he said.  He took my hand and pushed down the handle.  I swear, he was giggling.  I outwardly contained my excitement, however it’s been a while since anything in this house has flushed without healthy fear of overflowing.  It was a satisfying sound.

I took a minute to be grateful for running water and septic systems.  I’m also grateful to see the squirrel family evicted, too.  There’s nothing like sitting on a toilet with the sound of furry creatures playing behind your naked ass.

The battle cries returned once Charlie tried to install the shower door.  I was downstairs at this time, thinking it was safe to paint. 

“Nothing’s straight in this house,” he said.  “The shower floor isn’t level, so the door was crooked unless I trimmed one of the jambs.  I wasn’t paying attention when I cut the striker jamb.  Now I’m an inch too short.  I’m calling the manufacturer for a replacement then we’re going out tonight.  I gotta get out of here.”

And when we return, we’ll have a clean toilet.  I love civilization.

A little help? [] 10:07:10 PM