Angela Dove: Award-Winning Writer

What happens when a plucky toddler and a geriatric toilet go head-to-head?

Nothing that a plumber, some kindness, and years of psychotherapy can't handle.

     It all began with a phone call. My husband had taken my mother to a business meeting out of town, and he was calling to say they had car trouble.

     “Are either of you injured?” I asked in concern.

     “We’re fine,” my husband assured me. “We were in a parking lot and there was a huge hole. Her car got stuck and the tailpipe crumpled. We’re at the garage now.”

     “Mama?” That was my three-year-old son.

     “Not right now, Torin,” I said, waving him off. “Go play in your room for a minute, all right?”

     “But Mama, I was bad.”

     That caught my attention. I turned and looked down into my son’s blue eyes. “You were bad?”

     “Yes,” he nodded, his blond hair bobbing. “I was bad in the bathroom.”

     “Mom!” That was my daughter, Nina, shouting in the bathroom. “There’s poop on the floor!”

     “Honey?” I said to my husband, “Can I call you back?” 

     I hung up and walked toward the bathroom with mounting trepidation.  It was a watery nightmare. The toilet was overflowing, and without putting too fine a point on it, there were a pair of industrial latex gloves and a lot of bleach in my immediate future.

     I cleaned. I used the plunger. I cleaned some more. The toilet was thoroughly blocked.

     Jerry the plumber entered the house an hour later with a small black hose and something metal. I tried to call my husband but got no answer. In twenty minutes Jerry went back to his truck for a big black hose. I tried to call again.

    “Yes?” my husband answered.

     “Where were you? I tried to call.”

     “We were in a car wreck.”

     “What?”

     “We pulled out of the garage and got about a block away, and some woman ran right into the car.”

     “Excuse me?” That was Jerry the plumber again. “This isn’t looking good in here.”

     “Who was that?” my husband asked.

     “The plumber,” I replied. Turning to Jerry I asked what “not looking good” meant in terms of toilets.

     “Well, I have to take the toilet off the floor. You might have to buy a new one.”

     My husband was saying something about the police, so I apologized to the plumber and turned back to the phone. “Are you hurt? Is Mom OK?”

     “Everyone’s fine, but the police just showed up. I’ll call you back.”

    The plumber came back in with a serious looking tool box. I sat down  in front of my three-year-old vandal. “What did you do to the toilet, Torin? Tell mommy.”

     “I was bad.” At least he had the decency to hang his head.

     “Yes, we’ve established that. How were you bad?”

     He seemed to consider. “Some people went swimming.”

     “Some people went swimming in our toilet?”

     The sound of all heck breaking loose in the bathroom almost drowned out the ringing of the phone. I yanked it off the cradle and yelled in near-hysteria, “Let me guess! A house fell out of the sky and landed on the car? You’ve been carjacked?”

     There was silence, then my friend Melanie said, “Um, Angela? Is there a problem?”

     “Yes, there’s a problem! My husband and my mother have angered the god of travel! People have been swimming in my toilet! A man named Jerry has moved into the front bathroom!”

     More silence. “OK, well, um, you sound really busy, so why don’t you call me back later?”

     “OK!!” I shouted, and hung up.

     There was more banging and sawing and within minutes Jerry emerged with a smile, much like a doctor who had just performed a very delicate surgery with much success.

     “I found Elmo!” he declared proudly.

     In his outstretched hand was my son’s Elmo bath toy. He held out his other gloved hand. “And a friend.” Another bath toy—a small purple whale.

     Both tiny plastic explorers looked like they’d been through hell and back; Elmo had clearly not survived the ordeal, and Jerry deposited his grisly remains in a plastic grocery bag, along with the battered whale.

     The phone rang again. I picked it up as Jerry drew up his invoice. He’d been working on the toilet for over two hours; I envisioned taking out a loan to pay the tab.

     “Hey, it’s me,” my husband said into the phone. “Everyone is fine. The other driver got a ticket, and the guy back at the garage said the car was OK to drive. At least, we think that’s what he said. He was laughing pretty hard as he said it.”

     Jerry left the invoice on the table and headed outside to pack up all his gear. I glanced at the total. He hadn’t charged me nearly enough. Obviously he had taken pity on me.

     “What about you?” my husband asked. “Did everything work out with the plumber?”

     “It did. We’re down one Elmo and a whale, but the toilet lives on.” I smiled. “And my faith in this day was just restored.”

     “That’s good,” my husband answered.

     “But your son is still grounded until he leaves for college.”