One day, I got a call from her. They were touring America, and I was their next stop. Before I knew it, I was at a Home Depot on the edge of Chicago, waiting for them and their thirty-foot RV. After the hugs and the introductions, it was time to eat. Between the lateness of the hour, the quantity of the kids, and the size of their vehicle, finding a restaurant was difficult; but we ate and ate and, in anticipation of a big day touring the Windy City, went to bed. The next morning, Vicky came into the house with a real innocent look.
"I noticed that the indicator lights show that the holding tank is getting rather full," she quietly announced. At first, I was not even sure that she was talking to me, but I was the only one there. "I think that we need to find a place to empty it."
I must have had a pretty dopey look on my face. Having never owned an RV, my mind raced through the possibilities. Gas tank... no... want that full... water tank... no... baby formula tank... windshield wiper fluid...
"Do you mean the sewage tank?" The words were out before I could even grasp their meaning. Vicky smiled, giggling.
Where in Chicago does one (legally) dump sewage? A vision of slyly pulling up to a manhole and quietly popping the lid for a dump flashed through my mind. Of course, it would be high noon when this would go down, so I quickly dismissed that plan. Perhaps a wooded area far away from civilization...
Vicky suggested more responsible means of disposal. I called our city's wastewater treatment facility to see what solutions they could offer. Within a few seconds, the person was giving me the directions to the treatment facility and explained that there would be no charge for the "dump," as she casually called it. I sensed that she enjoyed getting calls from meek-sounding people who did not know where to take their rolling septic tanks.
The treatment facility was an amazing place. Were it not for the fact that it had all sorts of industrial buildings and cement tanks, it might have been mistaken for a golf course. It was beautiful. The spirit of Erma Bombeck was with us -- it was the pot of feculent gold at the end of the brown rainbow.
RVs are not the most maneuverable vehicles. Naturally, the location where the RV could interface with the plant's plumbing was in the most remote corner of the facility, separated from us by the maximum number of ninety-degree turns and hairpin bends. Plates rattled in the cupboards, the power steering strained, and the contents in my stomach sloshed; but we made it.
Antoine quickly assessed the situation, which consisted of 1) a blue hose coming from the RV, and 2) the hole in the holding tank into which the hose would go. He casually unraveled the hose and slid it in.
We were releasing the family's filth in the exact spot where all the collecting sewers in the city seemed to converge just before they plunged into the plant for treatment. A hearty and disgusting "glug glug glug" signified success as Antoine added his family's collective accomplishments to this deep, frothy, black Stygian river.
Having been in a sewage treatment plant before, I had armed my mouth with several Wintergreen Lifesavers. But the day was sunny, the humidity was low, and the slight breeze was fickle; they did little good. The river below was nasty, angrily boiling and frothing with toilet paper shreds, kitchen waste, viruses, bacteria and every other imaginable human castaway. The torrent was so strong that it sent a continuous aerosol cloud up the twenty-five foot chamber, directly to my nose and mouth.
This is where Vicky really killed me. With Antoine supervising the vomiting hose, she took out her video camera. I stopped retching enough to laugh -- she had found nothing worth documenting about last night's tearful reunion, yet this moment she wanted to remember forever.
As Vicky archived this dump for the ages, Antoine started to recoil the hose and place it back into its berth. I would have thought anyone manhandling twenty-five feet of hose that had been bathing in a river of Chicago-style chili would wear gloves, or at least wash his hands afterwards. I guess my views are too Amerocentric; in France, they must do things differently.
Trying to be helpful, I went back to the RV and got a big pitcher of clean water and some Lysol disinfectant. I gestured to him, trying to communicate the intended use of my gifts. He rejected the Lysol and told me in broken English that the plain water would be adequate.
I was astounded. Picturing the foul blue hose that had just taken a dive into that putrid chasm, and the horrible things it must have wallowed in, I couldn't believe he didn't even want to use soap. I wanted to run home and take a shower just from watching the ordeal. "Must be a French thing," I told myself.
I watched Antoine closely for the rest of the day. He never washed his hands, even when he dove into a basket of bread at the restaurant.