It Came From The Shower Drain
If you never hear from me again after today, it is because we’ve been sucked into a hell dimension. I’m pretty sure that the Forces of Darkness have taken up residence in our bathroom.
On Saturday, we woke up to find a few inches of dark, murky water gurgling up from the drain, into the bathtub. Yes, gurgling. Oh, and yes – UP from the drain, even though “up from” is the preposition you least want to use in association with the word “drain.”
It was a disturbingly slow gurgle, with the occasional bubble thrown in, as if it were trying to communicate with us. Sort of like an evil Lassie. “Okay, good Drain! Gurgle once if little Timmy fell into the sewer… ”
It was like one of those scenes from a horror movie when you think to yourself: Why don’t they just get OUT OF THE HOUSE?
I turned my head to make sure it wouldn’t go all the way around before calling our building super, whom I’ll call Marcello. Marcello, who's originally from Italy, is around 40, and one of those rare skinny dudes who can be described as “jovial.” To be jovial, a man has to be either fat, or Italian, or both. (No, really. Check the dictionary; SEE ALSO “Dom DeLuise”). Let's just say that Roberto Begnini will play Marcello in the movie version.
Marcello speaks in that sing-song accent that people sometimes use when imitating Italian waiters. I hate to admit that it has a downright Pavlovian effect on me; I get hungry just listening to him talk. Even if the subject is draining toxic sludge from our bathtub.
“We must-a snake-a the drain-a, because the – how do you say? – ah, yes, raw sewage-a …”
But all I hear is pasta, pasta, pasta. I lick my lips.
It’s hard not to like Marcello, but he usually takes a very Mediterranean approach to property management. For instance, you call him up to say that he left a ladder in your apartment. You know, the time he came over to install the smoke detector but forgot to put it up and just left it on the kitchen counter, so you installed it yourself, but you’re kind of sick of tripping over the ladder?
Marcello says he’ll come over around 7 PM to pick up the ladder, which is sitting in what the broker called “the dining room,” but which looks more like a “hall closet.” You cancel your plans and stay home to wait for him, but he never shows. This is in January. Then, one random evening in June, there’s a knock on the door. It’s Marcello, looking for the ladder. Remember?
Ater all, he said he’d be coming by around 7:00. He just didn’t specify on which day or month, or which calendar year this might occur. But he’s so nice and smiley, and you expect him to jump up and down and kiss everyone after he wins the Academy Award, so you don’t have the heart to complain.
The thing about Marcello is that he never seems to be surprised by anything. So far this month, I’ve had to call him because a) my tub was going all Linda Blair and b) we got stuck in our own bedroom in the middle of the night.
In both cases, our super was not flummoxed. Instead, he was totally … whatever’s the opposite of “flummoxed.”
“Ah, you stucka in da bedroom? No problems.”
The way he says this, it sounds as if this the most normal thing in the world. As if he worked for the 24-Hour hotline of the Stuck in a Bedroom Crisis Center.
“Yes, yes, this same-a thing, it happens the other day, to an old lady in the another place.” (He’s the super for several buildings owned by our management company.) “She stucka in the bedroom for three days.”
Three …? How does this shit not end up in The Post?
Or, about the most recent crisis, after I explained about the tub, the next question was, “The sink – does it work?” I tell him it does. This was on Saturday.
“Ah, bellissima! So we can wait until the Monday,” Marcello says. “Because the plumber, he is not working on the Sunday.”
I’m not sure I buy that. Unlike in Italy or France, you can find people in America who are willing to work on the Sunday, even in the month of August. Besides, this is New York City. If you really wanted to, I’d bet you dollars to donuts that on any given Sunday at 3 A.M., you could find a naked midget plumber willing to come out and snake your drain, both literally and metaphorically (although the metaphorical part costs extra). If you want, he/she will even bring you a falafel.
Heck, that’s why we live in New York, for the naked midget all-night plumber/stripper/falafel delivery services. It’s certainly not for the reliable buildings.
My theory is that there’s another reason the plumber couldn’t come on Sunday. Because by “plumber,” Marcello meant to say “priest,” which is what the situation clearly calls for. And priests tend to be busy on …. Sundays! Coincidence? Don’t be naïve.
By this morning, it had risen even higher, but still not over the edge of the tub. I feel like a smart-ass robot should be making wisecracks from the audience, like in Mystery Science Theater 3000.
Because the shower was full of Satan’s vomit, I had to wash my hair in the kitchen sink this morning. As a result, I looked like Courtney Love. Really, all I needed was some uneven red lipstick and track marks on my arms. As an added bonus, it happened to be the one day in the year that they take the staff photos. It’s a thing. Later, they give everyone a copy in a frame. It sounds really weird, but I work for the French, so it’s not the weirdest thing that happened all day. If you don’t believe me, I could tell you about the new staff member who introduced herself vis-à-vis a mock telephone conversation with a fictional literary figure (Mrs. Dalloway, from Virginia Woolf, but it was all in French and there was an off-key piano in the mix … No, really - I have witnesses.).
This morning, as I was picking lettuce out of my hair after washing it in the kitchen, it occurred to me that indoor plumbing should probably be included in our rent. For what they charge us, they should probably throw in a small island-nation, or possibly even an archipelago, in addition to a small 1-bedroom apartment that may or may not be Possessed.
Hopefully, by this afternoon, the whole thing will be resolved. But just in case, does anyone know how to get ectoplasm to get out of velour upholstry?
On Saturday, we woke up to find a few inches of dark, murky water gurgling up from the drain, into the bathtub. Yes, gurgling. Oh, and yes – UP from the drain, even though “up from” is the preposition you least want to use in association with the word “drain.”
It was a disturbingly slow gurgle, with the occasional bubble thrown in, as if it were trying to communicate with us. Sort of like an evil Lassie. “Okay, good Drain! Gurgle once if little Timmy fell into the sewer… ”
It was like one of those scenes from a horror movie when you think to yourself: Why don’t they just get OUT OF THE HOUSE?
I turned my head to make sure it wouldn’t go all the way around before calling our building super, whom I’ll call Marcello. Marcello, who's originally from Italy, is around 40, and one of those rare skinny dudes who can be described as “jovial.” To be jovial, a man has to be either fat, or Italian, or both. (No, really. Check the dictionary; SEE ALSO “Dom DeLuise”). Let's just say that Roberto Begnini will play Marcello in the movie version.
Marcello speaks in that sing-song accent that people sometimes use when imitating Italian waiters. I hate to admit that it has a downright Pavlovian effect on me; I get hungry just listening to him talk. Even if the subject is draining toxic sludge from our bathtub.
“We must-a snake-a the drain-a, because the – how do you say? – ah, yes, raw sewage-a …”
But all I hear is pasta, pasta, pasta. I lick my lips.
It’s hard not to like Marcello, but he usually takes a very Mediterranean approach to property management. For instance, you call him up to say that he left a ladder in your apartment. You know, the time he came over to install the smoke detector but forgot to put it up and just left it on the kitchen counter, so you installed it yourself, but you’re kind of sick of tripping over the ladder?
Marcello says he’ll come over around 7 PM to pick up the ladder, which is sitting in what the broker called “the dining room,” but which looks more like a “hall closet.” You cancel your plans and stay home to wait for him, but he never shows. This is in January. Then, one random evening in June, there’s a knock on the door. It’s Marcello, looking for the ladder. Remember?
Ater all, he said he’d be coming by around 7:00. He just didn’t specify on which day or month, or which calendar year this might occur. But he’s so nice and smiley, and you expect him to jump up and down and kiss everyone after he wins the Academy Award, so you don’t have the heart to complain.
The thing about Marcello is that he never seems to be surprised by anything. So far this month, I’ve had to call him because a) my tub was going all Linda Blair and b) we got stuck in our own bedroom in the middle of the night.
In both cases, our super was not flummoxed. Instead, he was totally … whatever’s the opposite of “flummoxed.”
“Ah, you stucka in da bedroom? No problems.”
The way he says this, it sounds as if this the most normal thing in the world. As if he worked for the 24-Hour hotline of the Stuck in a Bedroom Crisis Center.
“Yes, yes, this same-a thing, it happens the other day, to an old lady in the another place.” (He’s the super for several buildings owned by our management company.) “She stucka in the bedroom for three days.”
Three …? How does this shit not end up in The Post?
Or, about the most recent crisis, after I explained about the tub, the next question was, “The sink – does it work?” I tell him it does. This was on Saturday.
“Ah, bellissima! So we can wait until the Monday,” Marcello says. “Because the plumber, he is not working on the Sunday.”
I’m not sure I buy that. Unlike in Italy or France, you can find people in America who are willing to work on the Sunday, even in the month of August. Besides, this is New York City. If you really wanted to, I’d bet you dollars to donuts that on any given Sunday at 3 A.M., you could find a naked midget plumber willing to come out and snake your drain, both literally and metaphorically (although the metaphorical part costs extra). If you want, he/she will even bring you a falafel.
Heck, that’s why we live in New York, for the naked midget all-night plumber/stripper/falafel delivery services. It’s certainly not for the reliable buildings.
My theory is that there’s another reason the plumber couldn’t come on Sunday. Because by “plumber,” Marcello meant to say “priest,” which is what the situation clearly calls for. And priests tend to be busy on …. Sundays! Coincidence? Don’t be naïve.
By this morning, it had risen even higher, but still not over the edge of the tub. I feel like a smart-ass robot should be making wisecracks from the audience, like in Mystery Science Theater 3000.
Because the shower was full of Satan’s vomit, I had to wash my hair in the kitchen sink this morning. As a result, I looked like Courtney Love. Really, all I needed was some uneven red lipstick and track marks on my arms. As an added bonus, it happened to be the one day in the year that they take the staff photos. It’s a thing. Later, they give everyone a copy in a frame. It sounds really weird, but I work for the French, so it’s not the weirdest thing that happened all day. If you don’t believe me, I could tell you about the new staff member who introduced herself vis-à-vis a mock telephone conversation with a fictional literary figure (Mrs. Dalloway, from Virginia Woolf, but it was all in French and there was an off-key piano in the mix … No, really - I have witnesses.).
This morning, as I was picking lettuce out of my hair after washing it in the kitchen, it occurred to me that indoor plumbing should probably be included in our rent. For what they charge us, they should probably throw in a small island-nation, or possibly even an archipelago, in addition to a small 1-bedroom apartment that may or may not be Possessed.
Hopefully, by this afternoon, the whole thing will be resolved. But just in case, does anyone know how to get ectoplasm to get out of velour upholstry?
posted by Marguerite at 11:24 AM
1 Comments:
No I can't help you there, but it your bath tub is gross. And whatever happened with the bedroom. I was getting excited thinking you were going to share the story. Or have you already? Did I miss the story? Please tell me. I love your super though. He sounds so cute.
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