Necessarily Verbose

I hop in the shower for a quick cleaning, trying to wash Friday night off my skin. I grab the body wash – empty. I knew it was empty because it was yesterday. And the day before. And probably even the day before that. Somehow it’s emptier this time, and I can’t quite seem to squeeze or shake enough to get even a drop.

My usual contingency plan for when I run out of soap – and I run out too often to be considered a real grown up – is extra deodorant. Maybe expand the application area an inch or two further on each end. It’s not a scientifically proven strategy, and probably doesn’t do anything more than keep me from smelling me, but that’s better than me smelling me. If I can smell me, everybody can smell me. Nobody wins.  

Oh Christ, I’m out of deodorant too.

Plan three, a using-it-even-once-is-too-much strategy, is shampoo. Start with my beard and work my way down. Act natural, just like with a girl. Within a few lathers I’ll forget it’s shampoo.

The water is at my ankles now. I didn’t notice before because I was trying to convince myself the shampoo was soap. It isn’t, I’m not clean, and my ankles are wet. It was inevitable my ankles were going to get wet in the shower, I suppose, but the level of water is still bothersome. The shower was draining slowly before, but it’s not draining at all now. I didn’t buy drain cleaner when I didn’t buy deodorant and didn’t buy body wash, so I’m on to plan B already.

I turn off the water, remove the drain cover, and grab one of those stick-things with spikes you shove down the drain to pull out the hair or whatever it is that’s blocking it. Nothing comes out. The water doesn’t drain. I go back to bed.

I set my alarm for 10:30. I turn it off at 10:31 because there’s no point of getting up if I can’t take a shower.

I wake up naturally at 11:32 feeling worse than before and search the Internet for possible solutions to unclog my drain. After scrolling past ads reminding me to pick up drain cleaner, I read articles telling me not to use drain cleaner. I add buy drain cleaner to my shopping list.

The first idea I find without a warning not to try it is to use a plunger. My shopping list grows again.

I find some creative ideas I may be able to employ without leaving my house. Everyone seems to think vinegar and baking soda does the trick. I contemplate trying it with baking powder since I have no baking soda, but decide I don’t want to tell the plumber I dumped baking powder down my drain if it comes to that.

I do have a screwdriver, so I remove the overflow valve cap and pull out the lever and plunger used to close the drain to fill the tub. It’s covered in hair that was formerly blocking my drain, so that’s good. The water still doesn’t drain, so that’s bad. I used a screw driver though, so I feel like an adult for the first time today.  I feel like an adult who’s failing at everything.

I lay the valve cap, lever, and plunger under water next to the drain grate. I leave the screwdriver and screws in the tub too for good measure. I decide to buy a drain snake to “snake the drain.”

I go to the hardware store and buy a snake and nothing else. I know this will work because I saw the videos online. There’s no way there’s too much hair for this thing to work its way through. I should buy a plunger too, but I’m in the parking lot before I think of it. I’m not going back in.

Snaking a drain is fun. I feel like less of a failure because I’m doing something. I feed the wire through the overflow until it gets stuck. I turn the handle and there it goes. I feed more and it stops again. Turn the handle. Wash, rinse, repeat. Eight hours after first stepping into the shower, I’m starting to feel clean.

I pull the snake from the drain, hoping by some miracle a glob of hair will come with it and the water will flow out all at once. Nothing. I try again. Nothing. I give up, but return periodically, the feeling of failure growing with each attempt. I leave and close the door so I don’t have to see it. I go back to bed.

I wake up and this time avoid the bathroom altogether. When I have to pee badly enough, I contemplate going outside before I relent and go back in. I stop at the bathroom door for a moment and tell myself that maybe I made some progress and the water drained while I was sleeping. Maybe the clog worked itself out.

It’s worse now. The water level remains the same, but now it’s nasty and black, filled with sediment I loosened and pulled up from my pipes with the drain snake. I can’t see the screw driver, screws, drain cover or any of the small animals that probably drowned in my tub while I was sleeping. I better check on my cats.

I fight the urge to go back to bed and go to the grocery store instead. I buy drain cleaner, a plunger, and body wash, but forget deodorant. I have a small battle with a woman who has a service dog that behaves so poorly I don’t believe it’s a real service dog.  I have to step over its extended leash in several aisles, at the self-checkout, and again in the parking lot. When I’m driving away I get stuck in the crosswalk at a red light and she has to walk around my car this time. I finally feel like I won today.

It’s dark now. I’m glad. I’m sweaty and dirty and just want to hide from the neighbors sitting around their fire pit when I get home. I look straight ahead so nobody says hi. Someone says hi. I return the pleasantry without looking.

I go into the bathroom and sit down on the closed toilet, examining the grimy water and thinking about the possibility of sleeping in my filth. For a second I consider showering with my hose. My neighbors are outside though, so I might have to set my alarm for the early morning and do it before anyone wakes. They don’t look like they’ll be in any shape to get up before noon though, so maybe I won’t even have to get up that early.

If the plunger and drain cleaner don’t work, I might just have to call a plumber. I didn’t want to call a plumber at all before, but really don’t now that the water in my tub is black. I’m sure they’ve seen worse, but they haven’t seen it in my house and I don’t want them to tomorrow. And I don’t want to pay Sunday prices.

I position myself on the edge of the tub and realize I’m going to have to put my feet in the cold, black water if I’m going to get any leverage. I do it. I place the end of the plunger over the drain and work it several times. The water is still stuck. My feet are cold. I’m not going to bed.

If I walk away now, this saga will enter day two. I don’t want it to enter day two until it has to enter day two. I pour myself a drink, an idea I should have had hours ago. Two fingers of bourbon, neat. If I can’t take care of my home like a man, at least I can drink like one. I pour a second and drink it seated on my toilet, staring at the black water.

My confidence is rising, as it tends to do when I’m two bourbons deep. Now I’m talking to the water, and talking to the plumber who’s not going to be invited over tomorrow. Really, I’m just talking to myself.

I step into the black water, this time without hesitation. I don’t even notice how cold it is. I put the plunger over the drain and push. Black water comes flying through the overflow drain and into my face. Now I smell worse than I’ve smelled all day. I remember I didn’t buy deodorant.

This time, the drain’s fighting back. It’s scared. I find an old rag and plug the overflow so it can’t scream again. I strip down to my underwear and kneel down in the tub. I place one hand on the black plunger cup and start pushing with my other hand. Down, up, down, up, down, up.

I remove the plunger and wait for the water to disappear. I expect to hear a gurgle and watch the water exit down the drain. Nothing. I sit back on the toilet and start budgeting for the Sunday plumber surcharge and notice the ring of sediment surrounding the tub. The water’s lower. It’s draining!

The line is getting lower and the water is circling the drain. The sediment is piling up on the bottom of the bathtub in a pattern that looks like Earth’s terrain from a satellite image, but I don’t care about the mess. I’m close. I have a working drain and a bottle of body wash, and that’s all I need.

I grab the wet vac and a sponge and start vacuuming the area near the drain cover. I don’t want any more to seep in than has already. I vacuum my failures from the bottom of the tub. Good bye clog. Good bye water. Good bye failure. And then I take a shower.

That’s it. I’m clean. There’s no evidence left of my failures. Tomorrow I’ll wake up, go into the bathroom – door already open – step into a cool shower, and hope the day is as good as today.