Yesterday my shower was interrupted by urgent knocking. My co-worker's voice, kind and apologetic but determined to be heard, came through the door asking me to please stop showering as the sink downstairs was overflowing. I finished up quickly (not wanting to repeat the time in grad school when I forgot to finish washing my hair, then had to take an emergency rinse-shower five minutes before a class in which I was giving a presentation), then went downstairs where I was met by the bucket brigade. Apparently the accumulated filth of hours had been too much for the sewage system, and it had given vent to the overflow of its burden all over the basement floor. The plumber (a stop-gap job: our regular maintenance savior was out of town for the day) was called in, he diagnosed it as a problem restricted to the washer, and told us to feel free to shower. He'd be back in two days to fix the washer.
Today buckets were set forth just in case the plumber had been mistaken, and when I went downstairs after my shower (the fourth of the day) to see if it needed emptying I was met by a scene from Genesis. I took one look (and smell), turned on my heel and called A Man (the real one this time, as he had returned riding in a white Cadillac). I felt like a failure for doing so, but a great part of wisdom is knowing the limitations of one's own powers.
The Man came, saw, exclaimed, called rotorooter (one of my favorite words) and the carpet cleaners, banned us from using any water in the house, and generally made me feel like I'd been right to wring my hands and wail. Now I can return to Mr. Henry James and the joys of escaping solid mercenary provincialism with a light heart.
