Tuesday, October 21, 2014

It took some elbow grease, the perfect angle of approach, patience, and the right posture, but I finally prevailed, and I’m not talking about tennis or running or any other sport. I’m talking about a toilet. The toilet, shared by all the businesses on our floor, and while I may not have clogged it, I sure as shit unclogged it last Thursday. Poor choice of words, I suppose, since urine and paper, thankfully, were the only obstacles at hand, and I was doubly thankful I knew who dispensed the urine because, y’know, Ebola and such.

To understand why I bore the mantle of bowlmaster, rather than a qualified plumber, you have to know the contours of our office. It’s a little– How do I put this? Gritty. Whereas some spaces pride themselves on furnishing the creature comforts of the corporate world, this building celebrates the exact opposite. We take out the trash. I refill the paper towel dispenser. Most of our furniture was scavenged. Direct sunlight is a rare commodity.

We share the floor with a rich cast of characters. One masseuse is occasionally seen making coffee, but otherwise toils out of sight. Another masseuse insists on splaying her business cards everywhere, even affixing them to the goddamn “issues” of Coffee News. There is a tech startup peopled by bros and a younger, balder Phil Robertson. And then there are the electronic cigarette distributors–mellow folk who go about their craft in practiced, monastic silence.

This is where we–the Chief, Rawketeer, Professor, and I–weave our magic, and we’re certainly no saints. We’re the loudest group on the floor, and while we usually shut the door when we’re at our most profane, it’s more for gesture than effect. That porous piece of wood, splashed in builder white circa 2002, does precious little to suppress our passion for home loans. But we gave back to the community last Thursday. There’s something primal and satisfying about fixing something. When that blockage cleared, after a good 40 minutes of effort, I was exultant, and the sentiment was singular: I am man. Hear me plunge.