Who gives a crap?

Sometimes, despite the best of intentions, I find myself doing things that can only make a bad situation worse. I acknowledge that what I am doing is wrong and then proceed to do it with gusto. Flushing the toilet for a third time in a fancy hotel while thinking this time it will go down might be one of those situations.

Scrambling for towels I start searching for a plunger hidden somewhere in the room. At this point all logical reasoning goes out the window. Maybe there is a plunger in the closet, or the dresser, or the night stand? Then it becomes clear, fancy hotels do not stock their rooms with plungers. It’s not as if they simply forgot to put one in the room, but more of a conscious decision.

Most people would give up and call the front desk; not me. I begin to wonder what objects in the room might make suitable substitutions for a plunger. My eyes quickly dart around the room; the lamp, the bar tray, a power cord? Nothing seems to fit and then I open the closet door and experience an epiphany, the little wooden rod on the hanger that holds pants, perfect!


I just can't quit you!
 
Clearly I have learned nothing from my first round of illogical thinking. I bend the rod back and forth until it is free. My socks are drenched from walking through the water on the bathroom floor. I poke the rod into the toilet attempting to push whatever is stuck down the drain. The rod slips out of my hand and is now floating in the toilet.

I begin to pack my bags. It has only been thirty minutes since I checked in. This is the way I found the room. It seems plausible.

“Hello Mr. Dameron, how can I help you?” The hotel clerk says

“Um, yes, it’s my toilet; it seems to be stopped up.” I say

"I am so sorry Mr. Dameron. We’ll send engineering up immediately.” She says and before I can elaborate, she is gone. I peel off my wet socks and unzip my suitcase looking for dry socks. Then there is a knock on the door. Shit, shit, shit! This is the south; no one moves that quickly here! My escape plan has been foiled.

“Hello Mr. Dameron” Engineering says as I open the door. Does everyone in this hotel know my name?

“Let’s see what we got here” the engineer says while walking towards the bathroom.

“I really must apologize” I start stammering and then he lets out a whistle as if to say what the hell?

“You wouldn’t believe the shit I’ve found in toilets” he says. I want to lighten the mood and say isn’t that exactly what you would expect to find in a toilet? But “Mike” as his name tag implies does not seem to be in joking mood.
 
“I’ve found car keys, bottles, a Polaroid of a nekkid woman, looked like from the 1980’s”. Mike continues. How does he know that the picture of the woman was from the 1980’s, I mean if she was “nekkid”? Did she have Farrah Fawcett feathered hair? Mike interrupts my thoughts.

“I’ll be back with help.” He says and leaves.

Within ten minutes Mike returns with some type of industrial looking plunger and a sidekick. After thirty  minutes of listening to the sounds of heavy machinery and dialogue between Mike and his assistant, which consists of mostly “what the fuck?” and “shit!”, the pair re-appears and announces that they are going to need to “Lift the toilet”. I have no idea what “lift the toilet” means, but it seems that the prognosis is not good.

“Ok, well do whatever you need to do.” I say. They are consulting me as if this is my child on an operating room table. After ten more minutes, I hear Mike say “Ok, let’s flush it one more time.” This is it, clear! Then I hear the most beautiful gurgling noise. My toilet has been brought back to life.

Mike and his assistant emerge from the bathroom looking triumphant, but exhausted.

“Thank you so much. I’m sorry you had to do that.” I say, considering shaking his hand and then thinking better of it.

“It wasn’t you, it was a damn woman.” Mike says with one eyebrow lifted. “There oughta’ be a law against them.” Again I consider lightening the mood by asking if he means a law against women or tampons? I decide to give him a five dollar bill instead. "Nasty things" I say and I can see Mike thinking Does he mean women or tampons?

Finally alone in my bathroom I unpack my clothes and try to hang them on the shower rod, the hanger hook is too small, so I hang them on the shower curtain hooks instead and turn the shower on full steam hot and close the door. A little tip I learned to get rid of wrinkles. A half hour later I remember to check on my clothes. A blast of steamy air singes my eyebrows as I open the door. My pants have become too heavy for the shower curtain hook and have landed in the water. Shit, shit, shit! Is that wallpaper curling? There must be some glue in this room somewhere.



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