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 Mary PloppinsPosted 07.12.2004 by General Colon Pow (86)
They say every city has its own special charm. The strip clubs of Cleveland. The toilet paper factories of Seattle. The hole of Jackson Hole. The canals of Venice. And the toilets of New York City. (Although it's hard to distinguish between those last two.)
As a teenager and a young adult, I lived in New York. I have to say that the toilets are the one good thing about that city. The commodes in a high-rise New York apartment building are not your typical household toilets! Here, Thomas Crapper's brainchild takes on a whole new facet. Instead of having your typical gravity-assisted tanks, NYC high-rise johns have just a pipe, with a handle, connected to a pressurized system that is so powerful you could dispose of a body by flushing it. This is the only place I ever lived where I didn't have flushing trouble (and I didn't even live in Flushing!). I never overflowed or clogged up one of these toilets. They could handle the biggest loads with ease, and I could even flush the mounds of paper that are characteristic of my excretory feats. They are truly great -- no matter what you dump in there, just one push of the handle, and WHOOSH, it's gone, with a noise that could wake someone from a diarrhea-odor-induced coma. In the city, I lived around the corner from my Aunt Mary, a spinster who lived alone in the same small apartment for almost fifty years. Her apartment consisted of a bedroom, a short hallway that connected it to a combination living-room/dining area/ kitchen, and a bathroom at the front of the hallway, just off the living area. Naturally, since this apartment had a high-pressure NYC toilet, Aunt Mary was one of the few relatives whom I could visit and fearlessly pinch a loaf without worrying about her finding the bread in the oven (or on the floor!). And since Aunt Mary always had interesting stories to tell, visiting her was a carefree experience (except for her tendency to pick arguments over the most trivial matters... which, I guess, is why she was a spinster, even though she was an attractive woman who always looked younger than her age and had no lack of admirers). One of Aunt Mary's stories always stuck in my mind. I don't remember what brought the subject up, as my aunt was quite genteel and proper, but she once told me of a boyfriend she had years ago -- probably in the 50s -- named Arthur. When Arthur would visit, the time would come when he would have to use the high-pressure matter-transporter to beam a load to Scotty. Now, in a small apartment, of course, you could hear any noise made anywhere in the apartment anywhere else in the apartment you happened to be. Arthur could be noisy at times -- whether it was his water hitting the toilet's, or the more sinister sounds preceding his deposit of logs in the Abraham Lincoln Birthplace porcelain diorama. So, when Arthur would head for the head, my aunt would go to the kitchen area and run the water, sometimes even clanging the pots and pans in an effort to conceal Arthur's exhaust -- or, as she put it, "So as not to make poor Arthur feel self-conscious." (In reality, Arthur was probably wondering why my aunt got the munchies every time he needed to drop a deuce.) Back to the present. There came a time when I got mad at my aunt. Later, I moved to Long Island (where the toilets are sub-normal); so my aunt and I didn't speak for thirteen years. In the late 90s, Aunt Mary and I made up, and I decided to take a trip into the city to visit. We had a good time, sitting at the kitchen table, snacking and talking about old times. Then came a moment when I heard the voice of Scotty asking me to beam a load down; so I excused myself and got up from the table to head to the glorious crapateria. My aunt asked, "Where are you going?" to which I simply replied, "Arthur." She had to think for a moment (she was now in her eighties), and then it struck her, and we both cracked up. And true to form, after I shut the loo door, I heard the kitchen water running and the pots clanging. My aunt has been dead now for several years (uh... it had nothing to do with any bodily functions of mine), and though I never met Arthur (she dated him long before I was born), both of their memories live on every time I hear a fart echoing off of porcelain. Post new comment
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