About 'double pierced belly button'|Tis Another Survey
"Maintenance, Stan speaking. What broke?" Stanley Mallet refused to cave in and recite the whole Declaration of Independence like the boss insisted every time he picked up the phone. It was demeaning. He'd do it if the boss was standing there, but this hadn't happened in years. The last time was four years ago around the same time old lady Harrigan's parakeet flew out her window and banked left into an open window where three bungling counterfeiters were counting fake twenties in a smoke filled, dingy room. The nervous crooks jumped out of their skin when the screeching bright green bird flew in their faces and nearly took out Joey's good eye. Joey "Bag-o-Donuts", whose reflexes were sharper than his mind, fired the double-barreled shotgun and summoned the authorities quicker than if the old fire alarm had worked. The blast pulverized the bay window and sent shards of glass and debris out and onto Broad Street, seven flights below, where its remains nearly hit the C Bus. All that remained was a gaping hole large enough to accommodate the Mummer's Parade. The parakeet immediately took the hint and decided on the spot this would be an ideal time to see what Miami was all about and flew out the new exit. Last seen, he was heading due south, straight as an arrow. During the trial at City Hall, the jury lost any semblance of order and roared when Joey "Bag-o-Donuts" took the stand. The felon admitted he thought the small tropical bird was his aunt Griselda with the glass eye who had returned from the dead and had come back for him. Joey panicked. Lucky for the parakeet, the gang's "muscle" was a lousy shot. He missed the bird and nearly took off his own foot during the assault. "Griselda's Glass-Eyed Ghost Caper," as it came to be known, landed the inept crooks in Holmsburg Prison where the three counterfeiters were wisely placed in the facility's printing shop to keep them out of trouble. Stan's boss was a constant pain in the neck; always ready to "jump down your throat and tie your shoes". Stanley hated the `bean-counter' and complained to whoever would listen. He outlasted the nine previous bosses and dubbed the latest skinhead "Chrome Dome". Only once was he forced to sing the blasted telephone greeting song when his idiot boss pressed the wrong button and stepped off the elevator in the basement instead of the first floor. Stan's workplace was down there. Frozen solid and blinking as if mesmerized by headlights coming towards him, Chrome Dome inadvertently caught Stan off guard as he clipped his fingernails and had his feet up on the desk. Just as their eyes connected and Chrome Dome was about to launch into a long-winded speech, Stanley was saved by the annoying telephone ring that would no doubt reveal the nature of the most current emergency facing the building. Forced to recite the "Declaration of Independence greeting speech" because the boss was breathing down his neck, he carefully slid his desk drawer open a couple inches revealing the script he cleverly taped inside the drawer for occasions like this. Stanley picked up the phone and spoke clearly into the mouthpiece with what could have been the passionate voice of the late Gene Hart announcing Bobby Clark's unassisted goal and the Flyer's fifth hat-trick of the season. "Good morning! High Soar Towers Maintenance, where your pest is our pest and nobody rests until it's out of the nest, ha ha ha. Stan's-the-man Mallet. How may I help you this bright sunny day, ha ha ha?" How humiliating. Next, he'd be wearing a monkey wrench costume and handing out lollipops. Stan was the building superintendant at the homely ten-story apartment building rumored to have been built by slaves shortly after they put up the Sphinx. Pushing sixty, he was proud that he outlasted all the employees who did time in the old building. Good Help is Hard to Find Only his helper, Bucky, had hung on as long. Some people believed Bucky came with the place and was the eternal custodian. He appeared at different locations around the building at all hours with an interesting assortment of odd tools dangling from his leather utility belt which lent him the "gladiator look" although Tinkerbell could knock him over with a feather. He always seemed to be doing something important so no one ever asked what he was doing. It's still a mystery what he was doing on the flat roof that day with a mop, a box of light bulbs, a tape measure, a step-ladder, and forty feet of rope when the near tragic accident occurred and he still isn't talking. Scared senseless, Mrs. Gazinski on the top floor, screamed like a loose fan belt on a Volvo when she saw the bottom half of Bucky kicking the air outside her window directly behind her television during Jeopardy. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head and she almost ripped the phone from the wall when she called for help. Stanley rushed up there and came to Bucky's rescue within a minute. He pulled Bucky back up onto the roof just in time but within a week Bucky's hair turned ghostly white and he began mumbling to himself. He seemed involved in an argument that he was losing. A thirty year chain-smoker, he muttered inaudible words and stumbled about with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. The long ash on the end of the cigarette appeared ready to fall off at any second which held people's interest more than than the small talk about the Eagles' victory over the hated Cowboys. His hacking cough announced his presence and the familiar tinny "clink" his large metal cigarette lighter made as he flicked it open followed by the loud resounding clank heard four seconds later when he snapped it shut pinpointed his whereabouts. He never quite caught up with the tasks Stan assigned and was constantly playing "catch up". Bucky definitely was a permanent part of the building's anatomy but exactly which part was unclear. Stan signed on at BM, or Building Maintenance, back when headlights were round, skirts were short, and the quality of stereo speakers were determined by size. He was certain he had replaced every light switch, toilet seat and window shade in the joint at one time or another. Stanley fixed everything from knocking radiators, squeaking doors, pilot lights that had gone out, dripping faucets, collapsed beds, jammed locks, burned out bulbs in hard to reach places, drafty windows, clanging pipes and things that went bump in the night. He dealt with the cockroach infestation that worked out of the the north side of the building adjacent to where a two-egg, home fries, coffee and toast breakfast could be had for a buck back in the day. Dirty Ernie's had been a Philadelphia institution, a landmark as it were. The Lurking Roach Problem The exterminator showed up every other Wednesday but was spotted and outsmarted before he even got out of the truck. The original "Broad Street Bullies", the binocular wielding cockroaches would stand on their hind legs and look around for the uniformed man with the tank and spray gun. Once spotted, the "lookout" would sound the alarm and send the gang scurrying below amidst shouts of "Hit the dirt! Dive! Dive!" The little six-legged dinosaurs would scamper into deeper recesses beneath the building with SWAT Team efficiency. Like clockwork, minutes after the man drove off, the scout-roach would announce "all clear" and in no time things returned to normal under the kitchen sink and behind the toilet. They were extremely organized. The Ups and Downs of the Elevator The elevator was a constant aggravation on top of everything else. Stan fixed the finicky elevator weekly but the minute he'd put his tools away the prima donna elevator would come down with a new ailment. Apparently, the elevator preferred some floors over others so when it did manage to stop at one of its more unpopular floors, out of spite, it would stop short and force the passengers to step up, down, or stub their toe and stumble out into the hallway. When Judgment Day comes and certain souls are dispatched to hell, there is no question as to where the line will form and who will take them there. In addition, the coffin-sized box had a vindictive streak a mile wide that chased the prudent tenants into the stairwells which made room for the brave who felt meeting death head-on was the best way to avoid it. The adrenalin thrill seekers wondered what a plummeting elevator would feel like and planned to jump straight up at the exact moment it hit bottom. Even the brave, however, could not suppress a gulp once the door squeaked closed and the "hellevator" rose from the dead. Jiggling the Handle Doesn't Always Work Stanley endured many hardships on the job, but the outdated plumbing took the cake. Just as presidents blame previous administrations, Stan felt the original plumber deserved a slow, painful death involving toilet plungers, cockroaches, and a long ride in an elevator. As toilets flushed on the lower floors, shrieks broke out on the upper floors. Hysterical in nature, these shrieks shattered glass and got the dogs going like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Likewise, as washing machines went through their cycles, wet, naked people were alternately frozen and scalded and, no doubt, just as the soap got in their eye. Further, when fickle toilets clogged on the lower floors this caused the drains on the upper floors to back up with raw, lumpy, juicy sewage and in no time the dominos would fall up and turn High Soar Towers into a time bomb that Stanley had minutes to defuse. Over time, he wore out hundreds of toilet plungers so everyone at the local plumbing supply knew him well. As soon as they'd spot him they'd reach for a new plunger and try their best to stifle a laugh. After the transaction, as he'd turn to leave, someone would yell "Have a nice day Stan. Go with the flow!" and then laughter would erupt at Stanley's expense. Beauty is Only Skin Deep But Ugly Goes to the Bone High Soar Towers, commonly known as "Eye Sore Towers", was situated on Broad Street and back in the day when they put her up she was the tallest building for blocks and helped define the city's skyline: boring. For years, a city ordinance prevented any structure to surpass City Hall in height which afforded Philadelphia the "Pygmy look". The architect spent nine grueling months laboring over the building's facade, sides, roof, andthe plain details that culminated into the monstrosity called "High Soar Towers". The building included the infamous double-hung windows that required Superman to open but if a pigeon landed on the sill they'd slam shut with such force the cat would land on top of the refrigerator. The architectural industry made reference to the building when illustrating how things should not be constructed. It was mockingly referred to as "This Old Apartment Building" after the popular television series. The place was doomed from the starting gate and now it was barely limping along. A Novel Idea to Sit On There was one innovative idea the designer came up with, though. Everyone applauded the architects' novel idea of placing an actual roadside billboard way up on the roof, ten stories high. This could be rented out to local businesses for a fee. The accountant pounced on the concept of reducing the costly overhead by advertising overhead. Unfortunately, little thought was given as to what could be advertised so nobody thought anything was askew when Virgil walked in with a toilet seat tucked under his arm. Virgil's Tip-Top Toilets rented the sign to promote his award-winning, cutting edge toilet seat. Touted as "safer than a Congressional seat", the thing was available in a rainbow of colors and offered different ranges of contoured comfort ergonomically designed for both the "petite" and the "eighteen-wheeler frame". No one had ever seen or sat on one before. After the historic unveiling, Virgil personally threw the switch and splashed the bright floodlights onto his avant garde sculpture. The event was timed to coincide with the sunset over the Spectrum and the evening news. Glued to their tv's, millions watched; some in awe, some in horror. The sign became an instant success and a Philadelphia landmark. Before long people were hanging a right or left at the giant toilet seat as others glanced at their odometer to calculate distance to and from the seat. It was a visual success and the last thing seen on televisions when channel 3 signed off at 3am to the national anthem. Rather than painting a picture of the next generation toilet seat up there, Virgil went all out and constructed a thirty foot diameter, real-to-life, bright white painted toilet seat made from wood, metal, plastic, Elmer's Glue and eleven rolls of duct tape and anything else he could get his hands on. For safety's sake, the flagship up on the roof, employed luminescent paint which allowed the seat to glow in the dark should the power go out. This was done on behalf of low flying aircraft but the conumer's model boasted the same feature should the night light go on the fritz when the bladder was full. Sadly, the accolades it stirred up were not worth it. Complete with a "clam style hinged back" he had the unwieldy toilet seat mounted onto the very top of the sign at a peculiar angle that caught the eye. Unfortunately, the smooth aerodynamic contours caught more than the eye. When Hurricane Bob ripped through with ninety mile an hour winds it launched the gargantuan toilet seat, back and all, frisbee style, across town over horrified faces, certain the Martian invasion was underway. Some even reported a low "whirring" sound as the mothership hovered overhead. There was even a report of an alien abduction but the investigation was dropped after animal control officers located Barkley beside a dumpster behind Dunkin Donuts and returned the mutt to his owner. The storm carried the glowing seat eerily through dark clouds as it flew down Market Street and crossed the Delaware River. With a miraculous precision rarely seen in events such as this, an updraft gently set the craft down on top of Camden's City Hall where it looked like it belonged in the first place. The Philadelphia Bulletin applauded this event as "Philadelphia's Present to Camden, NJ". New Jersey authorities failed to see the humor in the headlines and convened the following day. The Army Corp of Engineers determined a squadron of helicopters was necessary to remove the maverick toilet seat and transport it to the train yard where it would ride the rails to Roswell, New Mexico where it would be stored in a top-secret hanger. Virgil faced financial ruin when the train engineer took the wrong fork and delivered his toilet seat to Roswell, Georgia by mistake. Virgil's toilet seat business was "wiped out", as they say, but fortunately this introduced him to a lucrative career in UFO exploration where he'd devote himself to uncovering whatever mischief the government was up to and what they were hiding inside hanger 51. People have a right to know these things. Once the Defense Department got wind of Virgil's invention it began a secret investigation of its own and explored the feasibility of developing the Stealth Toilet Seat as a viable weapon in future conflicts. It was hoped the graceful lines of the craft would make it undetectable to radar. When flown upside down the seat would drop to conveniently dispense the latest bombs technology had come up with. To cut corners, propoganda notes would be printed on toilet paper (two-ply) and dropped to the necessary targets below. The secret plan hailed "Clean Flush" had the Pentagon buzzing but it gave up this pursuit, however, after the Minister of Defense, Tonya Lasagna, a proponent of Feng Shui, closed the Toilet Seat Project and insisted it remain in this position to benefit the national budget. The Air Force retired Project Bluebook in favor of Project Comic Book to handle encounters of any kind. The publicity was handled so well the public never found out about Clean Flush. In fact, some people began believing flying saucers were real but the Air Force didn't exist. The initial investigation revealed shoddy workmanship and put the blame squarely on the integrity of the nails used to secure the toilet seat to its mooring on the roof. "Faulty mounting" put an end to overhead advertising at High Soar Towers. Soon after, clotheslines, pigeons and television antennas sprouted atop the ten story structure and little else. The Dive Just Ain't Worth the Pearl The dilapidated building effectively hid the chaos within the walls. Hundreds of miles of wires, pipes, and things that made noises at night were crammed into the walls, ceilings and floors creating a fire hazard that would make the California hills envious. Even the rats were scared to go in there. An "accident waiting to happen", the fire marshal got writer's cramp when inspection time came around and he'd earn his oats at the High Soar. As access panels were removed, workman smacked their flashlights to make them flicker to life and reveal the unimaginable clutter jammed between the walls. With morbid curiosity, electricians poked around and soon found themselves overcome with the same awe archeologists experienced when they uncovered King Rootn' Tootn's grave in Egypt. With the blueprint gone, the workmen came to the sober realization that they just remembered they left the light on under the coffee and must go home right away. Some things are beyond repair and this building was one of them. A Catacomb of Mazes Stanley spent the better part of his life working out of the boiler room where he had a nice, surprisingly warm office equipped with an old oak desk, a sink, a small refrigerator and an old discoloredcoffee urn that worked. The walls were lined with doors that opened into hallways with yet more doors and rooms. This created an interesting and intricate catacomb of a monstrous size surpassed only by the sewers of Paris. It was believed Bucky lived back in there somewhere but nobody knew for sure. Every so often Stanley swore he heard the unmistakable "clank" of Bucky's lighter off in the distance or smell cigarette smoke but he just wasn't sure. The various rooms were filled with interesting collections of furniture, lamps, appliances, nick-nacks, you name it. There were even car parts and boat and train parts that had somehow found their way into the cavernous cellar. This junk must have been important to someone at some time but now these silent rooms resembled a grave yard or what the muddy wastelands of the ocean floor off Atlantic City must look like. There were even bald tires and shopping carts down there. Most of the rooms were dark, spooky, alien chambers with high ceilings that caused echoes. Some spaces were large enough to drive the 59 trackless trolly through. Originally, Louis and Clark mapped the place out but no one in their right mind had ventured into some of these rooms since. One room even had spare parts from steam engines and possibly a horse-drawn buggy. One corner held the paddle wheel from the Madam of New Orleans who ran aground on a sandbar back in 1869. If only these walls could talk. The tool room was the only room Stanley visited with any regularity. This was where Stanley had his workbench and kept his tools neatly arranged on the pegboard wall. This was also where Stanley smashed his thumb on occasion and filled the air with a one-syllable word which echoed throughout the cellar. More importantly, the tool room was where Stanley kept "Mighty Max." The Heart of the Beast The basement boasted a dramatically high thirty foot ceiling to accommodate the three monstrous boilers that loomed through the dim light like some mighty secret weapon that may have altered the course of the Civil War had it fallen into different hands. These rust colored iron boilers had double and triple rows of rivets along the seams that bore a familiar resemblance to the remains of the Titanic.Half the gages didn't work or were missing altogether but Stanley knew which spigots to turn, which cranks to crank, which levers to yank, and where the beast needed a good swift kick whenever the boilers hissed and shot blistering hot steam into the air. The view resembled what probably went on insidetheBismarck just before she sank. The spinning propeller, suspended from the motor which hung from the ceiling, spun horizontally and dominated the stage. Hanging directly above the boilers, it kept them from overheating. Set to "low," the monstrous three-bladed prop was a dark blur and sounded like a plane about to take off (and for good reason). The blade was powered by a motor that had once been the powerhouse on Conrail's Engine 2569, a switcher from Philadelphia's 30th Street Station. Switchers were small locomotives used in train yards to shuffle box cars from trains to sidings and then to other trains. No one knew exactly how much horse-power was involved here, but just to play it safe, nobody daredto increase the speed on this elaborate contraption. No telling what could happen. Stanley was grateful for the six foot cyclone fence surrounding the deal. In 1942, the blade propelled Germany's Messerschmitt Me 609 as it unleashed havoc and devastation during its short service in World War II. To the tune of Yankee Doodle, young pilots proudly belted out "Schnitzel Struedel" (Victory To Herr Fatherland) as they emptied their payload from twenty thousand feet. After the war, this Berlin-made airplane propeller was proudly displayed on a wall in south Philly as a souvenir someone snuck home after the war but the high-grade aluminum prop was recommissioned and called back into action during the summer of 1968 when temperatures soared to an intolerable one hundred and ten sweltering degrees down there in the High Soar boiler room. The "summer-winter hookup" meant the boilers would run all year long which was okay in the winter but by August the heat and humidity could steam clams. An enterprising plumber, and veteran from the great conflict, "John" had cleverly mounted this "blade of death" onto a diesel train engine and made the cover of Popular Heating & Plumbing shortly after the ribbon cutting ceremony in that dank, dark boiler room beneath High Soar Towers. The Bowels of the Beast The ulility room, in the back somewhere, contained the controls for both the water main and the electrical equipment which is like storing dynamite and matches in the same room. Conveniently nestled together, this precarious combination waited patiently to meet and dance. The overcrowded room had the unmistakable stench of grease, electricity, water, and danger and could have passed for the control room on a submarine. Seven hundred thousand gallons of fluids and solids and God knows what else flowed in and out of the control room twenty-four hours a day. Loud belching, zoo-like noises pierced the air at unexpected intervals causing innocent bystanders to jump back and catch their breath. Gurgling, wretching, farting, hissing noises played horrific tunes as the main drain inside the utility room swallowed, chewed up, and digested whatever came its way. Stanley hated to go in there and, besides, entry into this room was nearly impossible. Blocked off by a pile of broken radiators, leaky toilets, scraps of unknown, unidentifiable, mysterious and menacingly sharp, jagged things, the room was avoided at all cost. The oil-soaked floor attracted dust, dirt and debris from all over the world. Coined "the Bermuda Triangle of the basement", things both vanished and mysteriously appeared out of nowhere in the muggy, hot, stuffy claustrophobic atmosphere that surrounded the pile of junk. People felt uncomfortable in this vicinity and reported a feeling of "being watched" as if a ghost was connected to the eclectic collection of garbage. Most of the things in the pile were unidentifiable due to the coating of a solid black shell that may have been some kind of oil or lubricant at one time. Every ten years or so someone would get industrious and spearhead a detail to carry the junk out to the dumpster but once the hand truck and staircase got involved, the journey was just too overwhelming. The dumpster may as well have been in Valley, Alabama. It was easier to wait until Stan was out buying another toilet plunger and then sneak downstairs to drop off that old three-legged chair, the busted fan, the baby crib with slats missing, the leaky cooler, the ripped lampshade, the dead televison ...consequently, the junk stacked up. Up and out. Bigger and bigger, it grew and grew. Sometimes slow, sometimes fast, but it always grew. To Stan it was clear some form of "supernatural magnetic power" was going on here and it would only be a matter of time before every loose part on the planet would wind up on the heap. Like the blob from outer space, the pile of rusty metal, wood, cardboard and conduit became animated and took on a menacing life of its own which was guided by an insatiable appetite for more. It had an agenda and you never wanted to turn your back to it.Twisted wires and bent pipes reached out like suction-cupped tentacles from a giant octopus hoping to strangle and drag its prey into its mouth and belly where it would be consumed; dinner today, a mere cloud of noxious gas tomorrow. Stan avoided this area too and warned others to keep away. Dirty Ernie's Years ago, when the greasy spoon next door went up like a tinder box, the firemen had to get into the tight utility room behind the junk pile to throw switches, flip circuit breakers, open and close valves, turn spigots, and do what firemen do. The courageous men fought like Spartans but lost to the junk pile in a long battle which precluded any hope in saving the little eatery next door. Dirty Ernie's famous "blue plate special" was no more. The main drain in the utility room serviced the entire block and thanks to Ernie, it was severly obstructed and required major surgery so the waste could flow down into the sewer again. Over the years, along with High Soar's sewage, a million gallons of Dirty Ernie's French fry grease washed down this drain and, like Ernie's customers, the pipes and arteries were clogged so trouble came a knockn'. It was a "bad day at Black Rock". The newspapers suspected the liklihood of another Bubonic Plague once things got moved around and stirred up down there. The bare 20 watt light bulb way up at the ceiling over the blob was useless. It had the same hopeless effect a picture of a weiner has on a woman. It seemed to get darker when you flipped the light on. If the firemen had to wage war on the junk pile today they'd need a backhoe, a bull whip, and a tetanus shot just to get to the light switch. The firemen did everything they could but Dirty Ernie's slipped into the annals of time and faded before everyone's eyes. Fortunately there were no injuries, but Dirty Ernie's at 15th and Arch was washed upso now people had to contend with the bizarre vending machines at the Horn and Hardart automat. Perhaps the strangest restaurant in the New World, this cafeteria-hybrid featured the first half-human-half-machine androids. Customers would line up along abank of vending machines and dig into their pockets for change as employees on the other side fed freshly made sandwiches into the same vending machines but from the other side. Inevitably, the vending machines screwed up and more than one customer dropped their change and clutched their chest when a hand came out of the machine holding a tuna on rye. Yep, Dirty Ernie's was sorely missed. Back to Reality Stanley jumped when the phone shattered the silence. It was Monday morning and the phone went off just like clockwork. Every Monday, Stan went through the same routine and was well practiced in this event. He had it down pat. In fact, no Monday would be complete without this annoyance. He took a deep breath and picked up the phone. The monotony was suffocating. Stan knew who was calling and the bubble-head on the other end knew who would answer. Still, they both went through this dance over and over, year after year, every Monday around nine as if it were the first time. Like convicts on a road crew shackled together, they each played their part out of necessity and strained toleration. To an onlooker they appeared respectful of each other which hid the contempt Stan had for Oscar. Oscar, the tenant in apartment 101, had clogged his toilet for the four thousandth time. Embarrassed, he'd act surprised and pretend this was an isolated incident which never failed to piss off Stanley. Stanley would clench his teeth but calmly respond with the casual "Yeah, Oscar. I'll be up in fifteen minutes. How serious is the clog?" A carefully timed pause proceeded the critical moment when Stan would ask "Do I need Mighty Max?" The hunter sensed the prey. The severity of the clog determined if Mighty Max should get involved or not. At some point in the conversation either Oscar would suggest Stan enlists Mighty Max's help or Stan would ask if heavy artillery would be necessary. Every so often, however, Max's involvement would not seem necessary until the fatal moment when Stan would raise the lid of the toilet and behold the mighty Mississippi at flood stage. Oscar would innocently blink his eyes like Laurel which would trigger a reflex in Stan who'd smack his own forehead like Hardy and exclaim "This is a fine time to tell me we need Mighty Max". Of course this meant a trek back down to the tool room in the basement where Stan would sling the wide nylon strap over his shoulder and lug the "hundred pound ballistic percussion drain clearing gun" known affectionately as "Mighty Max" back up into the combat zone. Stanley hated when little projects turned into big projects, especially because of Oscar. The same pattern repeated every Monday as everyone played their part; Oscar was embarrassed, Stanley was enraged, and the clogged toilet didn't care one way or the other.This time, however, Oscar did remember the crucial question, factored in last night's refried beans into the equation and suggested reinforcements. Stanley knew what he had to do. The prey was in his sights. Stanley made Oscar wait the customary fifteen minutes for no particular reason before making his entrance with Mighty Max. With the three foot drain-clearing steel and rubber marvel slumped over a shoulder, he stuffed a handful of charges resembling .38 caliber bullets into his hip pocket and trudged off toward the staircase. He was on a mission. He was hunting big game. Fifteen minutes was as much time Stan dared to enjoy Oscar's inconvenience.There was a "window of time" he couldn't ignore. If Oscar's toilet was clogged too long the second, third and fourth floor, etc. would join the parade and soon every toilet in the house would choke to a gurgling halt and before you knew it every toilet up to the tenth floor would be constipated. This never happened yet although it nearly did once and that was when Mighty Max joined the team and came to the rescue without a moment to spare. Once everything backed up, the "spiraling clog" could go viral and Stanley wanted no part of this. The Jet Propulsion Lavoratory The "Spiraling Clog Viral Theory" was discovered by accident at the Jet Propulsion Lavoratory at Pasadena, California, when a rocket scientist stepped out to fetch his lunch and left the door open between the high-velocity wind tunneland the cyclonic whirlpool water tank. Talk about a bad hair day, production was halted at nearby Universal Studios, Walt Disney Studios, Warner Brothers,and Paramountwhen a triple-funnel cloud touched down and treated Hollywood to an authentic reality show featuring real people, real events, and real man-made tornados. With typhoon-like gales,190 percent humidity, and lightening bolts powerful enough to light San Jose when all the computers are running, the storm unleashed a mayhem far worse than anything the San Andreas fault could ever hope for. Credit for this great new invention was awarded, however, to a gifted physics student who returned to work after recovering from a major gastro-intestinal virus following a three day sushi binge at Susie's Sushi. A week after having what can only be described as "an intimate relationship with his toilet," Sven Peterson made public the principals governing his spiraling clog viral theory and the ramifications this dreaded affliction poses on both mankind and plumbingkind. His supposition at the annual Suction Convention in nearby Rancho Cucamonga was received so well it inspired a standing ovation at its conclusion. Sven's theory was later tested, substantiated, and documented with experiments on the space shuttle which exploited the profound and weighty burden of zero gravity. In addition, the experiment took into account the staggering effects of centrifugal force, the moon's gravitational influence, the Farmer's Almanac, and the current laws of hydraulics and solid waste dynamics at ambient temperatures that harbor the liklihood of the much feared "reverse tornado" that can result as toilets clog in sequence in a vertical manner. On paper, some of these reverse tornados measured 11 on the Richter Scale. Mighty Max to the Rescue For now, things fell into place in Oscar's bathroom as usual. Stanley loaded Mighty Max, set him up, yelled "fire in the hole", pulled the trigger and in one quick ear-splitting moment everything was saved from ruin. Andthere was hardly any "splash-back" this time. Mighty Max came through again. Oscar's drain was cleared and would remain open for the week. Stan even received the customary five dollar tip in the discreet "hand-off" as the two men shook hands and went their separate ways. Oscar was a retired longshoreman who used to wrestle refrigerators onto and off cargo ships, docks, tugboats and barges or pretty much anywhere you could find gravity and steps. Throughout his strenuous career, Oscar had lifted everything imaginable, known (and unknown) to man. He used to wonder what was inside these crates, cartons, boxes, drums, and what the heck was steel-banded to the wooden skids but somewhere along the line he lost interest in the nature of these objects and focused his efforts on getting the dam things to wherever they had to go and in one piece. He'd never forget the time a cable snapped and an eight foot long, three foot wide, four foot high wooden crate from China marked "fragile" dropped two stories and busted apart in the concrete parking lot. He had never seen so many chrome ball bearings at one time. The dam things looked alive as they gathered in formation and rolled as one shimmering mass along the walkway and onto Delaware Avenue as if they had a purpose and knew where they were going. The motorists encountered something a lot worse than "Volkswagens swallowing potholes" that day. What a mess. It looked like the bumping car ride on Atlantic City's Steeple Chase Pier. After the traffic finally came to a standstill, people got out of their cars, danced around like their clothes were on fire and wound up doing the crab walk on on all four. The cops weren't much help although the flares they provided helped guide the Coast Guard who dropped the baskets and air-lifted the victims to solid ground. It was hours before peace was restored and the miserable bumper to bumper traffic could resume. Officially retired, Oscar was still an imposing six-foot-six hulk of a man who had to concentrate on using less, rather than more strength when doing things. He was all thumbs and had the grace of a drunken elephant with a twisted ankle. These days his big thrill in life centered entirely on his Sunday night gorge. Not seen on this planet since the week before Rome fell, Oscar's private feast included a side of Black Angus, a Virginia ham, an entire turkey, six pounds of angel hair pasta (al dente) with marinara sauce, dinner rolls, two pounds of guacamole, a few baked potatoes with sour cream and chives, a rasher of bacon, and one Jewish pickle for good measure. He'd wash all this down with a six pack of beer before moving on to desert tray. Over time, all this food had more impact on the plumbingthan on Oscar and it was Stanley Mallet who paid the toll. Mighty Max was a commercial grade "toilet drain clearing gun" invented in Russia during the Cold War. It was discovered by accident beneath the Kremlin as some of the greatest and most productive evil minds collaborated and developed the "X99 Toilet of Death". Designed to remove unsuspecting infidels permanently, the KGB was pleased with the weapon's capabilities. Enemies of the state were washed up (down, actually) with such spectacular force their head would spin when they'd innocently retire to the bathroom with a Popular Tractor magazine, drop their drawers and plunk themself down on the toiletski. The press of a button and infidel would be sucked down the drain never to be seen again. Fortunately, Boris's X99 Toilet of Death never saw the light of day but an enterprising understudy, Vladimir Kaputski, applied the same attributes to indoor plumbing and developed what became the drain cannon Stanley and Oscar swore by. Indeed, Vladimir's off-shoot from the exploding toilet won him unprecedented world-wide fame. When he defected to the United States in 1973 he was welcomed with open arms by plumbing unions far and wide who glowingly presented Vladimir with the coveted "Golden Toilet Plunger Award" which is proudly displayed at the Toilet Hall of Fame in Conshohocken. The Cold War and the Cold Toilet Seat The X99A- Waste Eradicating Cyclonic Main-Drain Rehabilitating Double-Action Cannon, (Mighty Max for short), accepted a "bullet-like charge" into its breach. Similar in design to the Browning Automatic Rifle to which Bonnie and Clyde owe much of their success, Mighty Max also employed the basic physics of the "power hammer" seen at construction sites and used by men wearing eye and ear protection. It looked like a slim version of the common jackhammer used in tearing up streets and bore an uncanny resemblance to a three foot long steel hypodermic needle. A rubber suction cup was attached to the business end of the "needle" which was fearlessly thrust into the toilet and into whatever muck was residing there at the time of the clog. With the great forces at play here, once the trigger was squeezed and the hammer dropped on the charge, the impact of this tremendous energy would be registered at the sewage treatment plant thirty miles downstream at Doylestown. It could have been invented by NASA, for all Stan knew, but as long as it worked on clogged toilets Stan didn't care. With a bang and a clang like the 'hammers of hell', Mighty Max would clear any clogged toilet on the face of the planet with the squeeze of a trigger. This was always followed by the familiar, comforting "BERRUUUP-WHOOSH!" as the toilet would belch and then clear its throat. The bigger the clog the bigger the belch, which in Oscar's toilet, fell in line with the Paoli Local and feeding time in the lion den at the zoo over on Girard Avenue. The soothing whoosh was music to the ear. Max always won. And now, thanks to Mighty Max, those embarrassing gyrations up and down and the obscene sucking noise the manual plunger produced were no longer part of the show. These performances only became an issue when smiling women watched and children laughed while the dogs barked but now, with Mighty Max, women and children fled and the dogs hid under the bed. Mighty Max always added the element of adventure too. It was a real nuisance dragging Max out and setting everything up but once his finger was on the trigger excitement was in the air. With an explosive charge and the dreaded catastrophic threat of "less than pure liquid backwash," (hopefully liquid), care and caution were key to avoid getting soaked from head to foot. The instructions suggested appropriate foul weather gear, but once Stan figured out how to load, unload, and fire the instrument, the instructions became intolerably boring. Besides, rain slickers are for wimps. Stan lived on the edge. Friday's Rush Hour Begins Thursday At Noon Thursday morning when Stan drove to work things unraveled and went downhill quickly. As Stan guided his car onto the ramp, he was already worried about things at work. His gut feeling was right on this sunny Thursday in May. Overhead, helicopters buzzed like bees and urgent impending traffic alerts came over the radio warning motorists of the usual delays ahead. No sooner was he clipping along at fifty when the rush hour traffic came to a complete stop on the infamous Schuylkill Expressway.Stan found himself frozen like a fly in sap. A few minutes later the traffic alert warned of this tie up which was like a tornado siren going off after the tornado had passed which only aggravated things. Until the brain issued new orders, his foot would remain pressed to the brake pedal even though it had other ideas. Inbound traffic took the brunt of the morning rush as everyone raced to work with the speed of a tortise. The "rush," consisted of a breath-taking twenty-five miles an hour race as the tortuous, pot-hole infested road followed the snaking Schuylkill River, only slower. Stanley glanced at the poluted sludge-like river as it consumed shopping carts, tires, washing machines, and anything else in its path, not unlike Hawaii's Mauna Loa Lava flow that goes anywhere it wants and takes its time. Then he looked at his watch: 8am. At the same time (but unknown to Stan) back at the High Soar, dripping, stinking sludge began falling from a crack in the ceiling onto the propeller-fan over the hot boilers. At first a mere spattering dropped and the fan blade promptly sent a "crud missil" to the wall faster than a shot. A moment later a full-fledged "proper" splattering poured down onto what was now the buzzing nose of a fighting mad Messershmitt Me 609 from the World War II. The polished aluminum airplane propeller belonged in the Smithsonian Institute but thanks to an innovative plumber named "John", it found its way into the basement of High Soar where it remained somewhat dormant as it waited for the next war to erupt and "erupt" it did. The sludge poring down wasn't really sludge but raw sewage in a sludge state of mind. High Soar Towers had clogged solid through the night causing the pressure to build until the main drain split open directly above the worst place in the world- the spinning vintage World War II propeller down in the boiler room. When John combined technology from the German war machine with the Philadelphia diesel train engine, he unknowingly tapped into a pefect harmonic resonance that balanced the blade with the precise torque and created what Gerhard and Wolfgang, back at the factory, only dreamt about. The speed control switch never, under any circumstances, ventured beyond the "low" setting for fear the contraption would remove heads. This fatal day, however, the spinning pride of the German Luftwaffe planned on returning to its 1942 glory days. Someday this event would be re-enacted on television for the whole world to see. It would fit perfectly between the History Channel's "Can We Stop Big Foot With Athlete's Foot?" and "UFO Update: Yes, They Were Here But They Took One Look And Decided To Go Home". The Beginning of The End The first radio news bulletin had the familiar three annoying "gongs" with typewriters click-clacking in the back-ground as if a room full of reporters were hard at work. (Nowadays this wouldn't fly. Somehow the composed sound of a computer keyboard softly clicking away just doesn't convey the necessary level of peril no matter how feverishly the keys are struck.) Then came the announcement: "This just in!" as if Stan had been desperately holding his breath and waiting for this. Drivers directed their attention toward their radio with the same morbid enthusiasm the Roman Gladiator Tournament produced as the spectators crammed down hot dogs and pounded down beers. The news bulletin yielded further information about the car accident ahead and how bad it was. Cars weren't going anywhere. Only the helicopters were going anywhere. Then came the big news. Apparently a careless resident at the High Soar Towers had left something cooking on the stove all night which over-heated the fetzer valve inside the appliance causing a minor explosion that set the drapes on fire inside the apartment. Fortunately, the heat triggered the sprinkler system on the ceiling which subdued the fire until help arrived and finished the job. Everybody thought the crises was over. Boy were they wrong. This Just In! According to the second bulletin (8:30 Am), there was great concern for a lady held captive by an elevator that refused to stop at any floor and release her. Witnesses claimed It clanged louder than usual and actually "sounded angry" if this were possible. The elevator took the old woman on a ride some people would have paid money for at the Willow Grove Amusement Park. Rescue workers listened as her desperate shrieks and screams echoed up and down the elevator shaft. As the elevator flew past, up or down, the poor woman shouted "HELP! WHAT FLOOR AM I ON? HELP!" as if the floor she passed by made any difference. The mad elevator finally let the dizzy woman out on the ground floor. Rescue workers escorted her outside High Soar Towers where she joined the other tenants who safely escaped. Everyone blinked their eyes and realized their day of fame had finally arrived but nobody cared. Because of all the excitement not one person noticed the door on the wild elevator slam shut as it took off to catch another tenant, anger flying off its cables. This was easy pickings' day. The elevator news seemed anti-climactic but the Channel 7 News Team from City Line Avenue had their hands full soon enough. The fire was nearly out but things were escalating in the dungeon of the old building. Nobody knew the nature of the problem but it was big. It smelled pretty bad too. The Ripple Affect Shortly after nine, a wide-eyed Luke Anatello, at the Water Treatment Plant, dropped his coffee and tapped the gage with his finger after noticing the sewage intake meter registered an additional four full increments of fluids coming into the plant at a dizzying 200,000 gallons a minute. This meant the the backup reservoir was filling and would overflow soon. This was worse than any disaster the Philadelphia Zoo ever whipped up. With panic setting in, Luke lost control and feverishly began jiggling every handle he could lay his hands on. Unknown to Stan, still stuck intraffic, the floodgates of hell opened and gallons of human waste fell directly on the Messerschmitt Me 609 propeller which never flinched. The precision prop kind of leaned into it and valiantly displayed a show of force that matched the Pinatubo Volcano eruption that spewed thousands of tons of water vapor, carbon dioxide, sulfur dioxide, hydrogen sulfide, hydrogen chloride, hydrogen fluoride, carbon monoxide, halocarbons and anything else it could get its hands on. This deal was worse. Fresh, steamy, raw, lumpy sewage, centrifugal force, simple aerodynamics, and Newton's Law of Gravity combined to unleash this torrential downpour onto the World War II aircraft propeller that served as the turbine and redirected the sludge onto the red glowing boilers with such efficiency Gerhard and Wolfgang must have sat up in their graves and saluted. Steam filled the cavernous boiler room. It was difficult to tell if a new star was forming or if a black hole was consuming one. While all this was going on inside, traffic was gridlocked on the streets surrounding the High Soar. The police closed off the street in front of the building and blocked the corners incase any drivers conveniently "didn't noticed" the thirty-nine foot hook and ladder, the ambulance, the three other fire trucks or the sea of squad cars and the television news crew that were scattered up and down the block and thought they might drive through. The Fairmount Mounted Police positioned their horses at either end of the block ready to pounce on any motorist who smelled even the ghost of a chance to sneak through the mess to get a better look. Over five hundred feet of white fire hose zigzagged in what had to be the world's leakiest water hose contest that had all the makings of a six-way tie. The thick hoses slid around on their own as if they were alive. They resembled mature Venezuelan Anacondas that had come out of the ground and gone off searching for a mate. The fire was finally extinguished and the firemen began winding their fire hoses back into the trucks. Life Really Sucks Sometimes Just then that the waste pipe above the boiler room completely let loose. The explosion sent a piece of debris onto the controls setting the rotating prop to "high". The excessive speed caused the vintage World War II Messerschmitt propeller to whine. It pushed the envelope. It spun so fast it created a vacuum which sucked the waste from the ceiling with enormous strength.The process employed the same dynamics behind the jet engine and it accelerated all on its own. Anyone who happened to be on the toilet upstairs wasn't going anywhere soon. They were glued to their toilets as air whistled between their legs and into their toilet creating what can only be described as the Symphony form Hell complete with devil trombones and demented didgeridoos. Thanks to the "lock-jaw reflex", these poor souls were prevented from opening their mouth and becoming a reverse human kazoo. The gas and water departments had been notified and came running just as the third radio bulletin found its way to the hearts and minds of the trapped motorists who rubbed their eyes in disbelief as they looked ahead at the "parade to work" and actually saw some movement. Traffic was moving at funeral procession speed up there. Hallelujah! As the final bulletin came over the radio, Stanley removed his foot from the brake pedal and allowed the car to inch forward another generous yard or so. Running late, at first he thought he'd be stuck in traffic for at least another hour, but now the clogged expressway seemed to be opening up and traffic began to flow. Other things were flowing too. The news team mentioned a resident named "Oscar" forgot to turn off the stove the previous night. Apparently he was cooking enough pasta for a block party when he dozed off. That knucklehead, thought Stanley, oblivious to the nightmare unfolding beneath the building. It was a good thing for Stanley (and the entire population of High Soar Tower) that the toilet had overflowed during the wee hours. A sea of excrement crept across his living room floor, through the kitchen, and into his bedroom, where the bubbling-gurgling noise woke him from his re-occurring dream about hauling grand pianos up never a ending staircase. Apparently, the gastro-intestinal mudslide gurgled and alerted Oscar who stepped out of his bed into a foot of warm sewage and immediately proceeded to trip the fire alarm outside his door enabling residents to wake up and flee. Once in the hallway, Oscar felt threatened by the impending flood from the spouting toilet in his bathroom and the fire. The evacuation followed shortly after the sirens wailed throughout the building. The brave firemen had to pry some people from their toilets but in the end everyone escaped with little harm. The tenants who had to be pried off their toilets sported a permanent red ring which became a "rarely seen unique battle scar," only showed to close friends and relatives, or seen on late night TV. Under these emergency conditions, Oscar felt he should drop any misgivings he may have had for Stanley and convey a short message to him via the television news team, who had compassionately asked Oscar, in front of forty-three million people, if there were any important words that he thought might assist the public or anyone listening. Oscar seized the moment as Stanley, still stuck in traffic, immediately recognized the familiar nasal voice and put a face to it; a big dumb face. Stan was certain he was palpitating. Stanley listened carefully. A sense of unease coursed through his bowels as Oscar relayed a message from his heart to all the ships at sea "and to Stanley Mallet'. (Gulp!) Oscar looked directly in the camera and nearly crushed the microphone in his huge hand. He spoke into the microphone and Stan nearly had the "big one" when he heard his name come through the speaker. Later, he'd watch the events on the six o'clock news but for now the radio in the dash board was more than enough. "Stan -- I hope you hear can this", the awkward, nasal voice rang out to Philadelphia and New Jersey. "If you can, pick up some heavy duty power loads for Mighty Max on your way in. We're having some problems here and we need your help. The whole building has a major clog here and I know how upset you get when you bring Mighty Max to unclog my toilet. I hope everyone who can hear this, everyone within the sound of my voice knows Stanley Mallet can unclog a toilet better than anyone. Stanley Mallet has been unclogging my toilet for many years and has a spotless record." A small look of question crossed the newscaster's face at the words "Mighty Max" and he wondered for a second if it had been a good idea to hand the mic over to "John Q. Public". Stanley felt helpless "helpless and embarrassed beyond belief". First he feared he'd have a heart attack. Next he believed he was actually having a heart attack. After that, he was hoping he'd have a heart attack. He quietly gripped the wheel and looked straight ahead and clenched his teeth. Flashes from news cameras grew as news reporters, hungry for news, circled Oscar and planned their attack and when the feeding frenzy would commence. Who were these super heroes "Stanley Mallet" and "Mighty Max"? Everybody wondered. The media sensed a juicy story here and knew they had their follow-up story for the evening news in the bag. Back on the Schuylkill Expressway, Stan was hoping and waiting for the heart attack, convinced this would be the most merciful thing that could happen to him. He winced as he listened to the continuing report and how a Water Department technician needed to access the "control room" in the basement to reach the water valves. This couldn't be good. Stan found out what had unfolded later on the evening news. Unfortunately, the worker from the Water Department was armed only with a flashlight and a monkey wrench which was no match for the blob. The junk pile spotted him first and all the old scraps of iron and twisted steel, plastic, and wood went right for the man's jugular with a "viciousness rarely seen this far from the equator" and landed the workman in the emergency room at Pennsylvania Hospital where he is, no doubt, waiting for his number to be called. Fuel Injection Meanwhile, down in the dungeon the Messerschmitt propeller wasn't showing any signs of stress fatigue. A radio was blasting away in the maelstrom down there to Wagner's The Flying Dutchman. The mixture of waste and air compressed, forming a volatile mixture that needed but a spark to send the High Soar to its eternal rest. The National Guard had to be called in. Through the use of a bomb diffusing drone, a small tank-like robot was deployed into the boiler room where it aimed its camera towards what scientists, in the weeks ahead, termed "The Murphy's Law Scenario." It was a three-part event that consisted of a) four thousand gallons of human waste pouring straight down from the ceiling onto b) the precision made, German crafted 3.6592 meter aerodynamic propeller blade which injected a fine, pulverized spray, a mist, directly onto the glowing boilers forming a hot compressed explosive mixture which filled the entire basement and finally, c) the unknown source of ignition that occurred shortly after the robots reported a metallic "clank-like sound" resembling that of a common cigarette lighter snapping shut. The sole survivor found was wandering around dazed in the crater that was left behind and he wasn't talking. Go With the Flow Stan watched the news that night and knew this chapter in his life had slammed shut loud enough to be heard in Merchantville, New Jersey. He silently shook his head and turned the television off. Maybe an early retirement wouldn't be so bad after all. |
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