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 The Three HandymenPosted 10.25.2006 by Anomalous Coward (690)
When I was a kid, my dad, my uncle, and my maternal grandfather decided the toilet in Grampa's house needed to be changed. Gramma (not the star of the shit soup saga) and Grampa lived in a house that was about a bazillion years old. In its original configuration, it had no indoor facilities. Many years prior, someone had taken an old closet and part of a bedroom and made a makeshift bathroom. It was about eight feet in length and six or so feet wide. The tub was along the right wall, the bowl in the far left corner, and the sink on the left just inside the door. This made it very cramped when one had to go, but impossible when Grampa (who was over six feet and heavily built), Uncle Lawrence (nearly 6' 4" and almost 300 lbs.), and Dad (at 5'10" and 195) crowded around the crapper to discuss replacing it.
I stood in the door looking in (I was about seven at the time) and watching in awe as the male role models in my life began assessing the job of overhauling the bathroom. Mom still comments on how the mixture of large amounts of assumed knowledge, scant experience, and vast quantities of middle-aged male ego was a sure-fire recipe for disaster. Grampa lifted the lid on the tank, handed it to Dad, who in turn passed it to Uncle Lawr (pronounced Lore), who dropped it on the floor. (I like that: "While I was in the door, Lawr dropped it on the floor." Cool, huh?) It broke. Grampa used a bad word. Dad used a bad word. Lawr used a bad word. They then turned to the serious business at hand: how to replace the john. Grampa was making a point and Dad ventured that he was perhaps full of shit. Grampa used another bad word and called for Gramma to bring him the flashlight. He was gonna show my dad, by gadfrey. Gramma brought the light. Gramma outweighed any of the men. You can imagine how crowded it was when she elbowed her way past Lawr and Dad to give the light to Grampa. She asked if any of them knew what they were doing. Of course they did. What a ridiculous question. Just like a woman. Gramma left. The topic of "how women are" was discussed at length. Damn women anyway. Grampa shined the light at the floor and they discussed collars, wax rings, and the subfloor. I didn't know what they were talking about at the time, but it sounded like great fun. Grampa maneuvered his way past Dad and told Lawr to get the hell out of the way. Dad told me to get in the other room. There were nine other rooms. Which one did he want me in? He didn't give a shit so long as I wasn't under foot. Grampa went out and got THE TOOLBOX. I'm not sure, but I think this toolbox could have done double duty as a coffin for an elephant. It was huge. It had lots of cool-looking rusty iron doohickeys in it that I wasn't allowed to touch. I'd get rust all over my clothes. Damn women anyway. The three plumber wannabes trudged back into the bathroom. Over the course of the next five hours I learned most of the prodigious vocabulary of swear words that I now possess. From time to time heavy things were dropped. Someone cussed. I came to the understanding that without the phrase "damn it," nothing of value can ever be accomplished. At last the old toilet was removed more or less triumphantly from the confines of the bathroom. My brother announced he had to pee. Dad glared at him, and suddenly my brother no longer had to go. I don't know how he did it, but Dad apparently had the power to evaporate urine in someone's bladder with just a look. My dad was The Man. The new unit was lugged into the bathroom by Uncle Lawr. Dad told him to put it somewhere. He asked where. Grampa told him. Jeez, these guys were getting testy in there. Must have been the fumes from the septic tank. Lawr turned to set it down in the tub. There was a thud, some VBWs (Very Bad Words), a few "are you all rights," and more VBWs. Not being able to see where he was going in a small confined area containing two other large men, Lawr had succeeded in knocking Grampa on his ass into the tub. (Incidentally I tried using one of these VBWs once. ONCE. Never again. On damp days my butt still aches from that thrashing. Damn women anyway.) As evening drew nigh, tempers mounted. Finally Gramma suggested that a plumber needed to be called. This had the peculiar effect of making the menfolk raise their voices a couple hundred decibels and use many VBWs. As much as I loved and respected those men, Gramma was the REAL source of authority in this situation. She used some RRVBWs (Really, Really Very Bad Words) -- words I have never dared even think to myself. You go, Gramma. She and Mom and Lawr's wife had held their peace, not to mention their water, for a whole damn day, and the toilet was nowhere near ready to use. A plumber was called. He was a quiet man. He didn't say "damn it" even once. How the hell he got the toilet installed in under two hours without using that phrase I'll never know. The bathroom was functional once again. The mess was cleaned up. The ladies were relieved, and so were their bladders. The menfolk stood out in the kitchen talking about how they had all the hard stuff done before that dumbass plumber guy showed up anyway. As Gramma walked by I heard her mutter under her breath, "Damn men anyway." Post new comment
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