Deep in a dark, dank corner of our basement, which supports our house just fine but is pretty much otherwise useless unless you are conducting a study of fluid dynamics (specifically seep), self-treating your arachnophobia, or into the sport of growing odd things on your rutabagas, there is a red box with a red light and a buzzer that — when triggered — emits a noise similar to an army of angry June bugs trapped in a waxed paper factory.
As a guy who has carried an ambulance and fire department pager for most of the past 25 years, I’m used to things that buzz and deliver bad news, and I’ll run toward most trouble and trauma by reflex. But when that red box in the basement buzzes, I run downstairs to hit the silencer, then run back upstairs and phone a man called Phil, because that buzzer is hooked up to the septic tank, and that is not the sort of trouble and trauma I am looking to treat. I have a long record of attempting things for which I have no skills or qualification, but when the phrase “getting in over your head” slides past metaphor and drops into raw sewage, well, it’s time to hit the speed dial.
Phil’s name isn’t Phil, but he took over the business from a guy named Phil, so a lot of people call him Phil, and he’s OK with that. I like Phil because he’s one of those guys who just shows up and knows his stuff, and gets down to business, but if the kids want to see how the giant Wet-Vac works, well, he’s happy to take the time. Or if I wander over and peer down into the depths, he’ll explain how the float valve was hanging up, or show me the scorch marks on the wiring performed by the previous guy, who may have understood septics but was a tad undertrained in the administration of electricity.
We live in an age when techno-heads hold the keys to the kingdom, but Phil holds the keys to the chamber pot, and until digital transubstantiation becomes a thing, Phil wins, because even the breezy beautiful people in smartphone ads are contributing to Phil’s retirement fund, as it were. “Behold, children,” I have been known to say, cautiously leading my tots to the lip of the tank, “a problem not zappable by app!” Should those same children become the next world-surfing digital kajillionaires, I will happily retire aboard their yachts; in the meantime, I have also encouraged them to consider pursuing the alternate fine arts of plumbing and associated materials handling, because what you’ve got there is steady work.
This time it was the pump, which had given up the ghost after untold decades of worthy service. Phil set it on the lawn and then he and I stood there and looked at it, because that’s what you do when something’s busted, you stand there and look at it. After all this time it wasn’t specifically identifiable as a pump, and in fact what I thought as I stared at the caked lump of it was, well, there’s your mortality right there, whether it’s me, Phil, or the Queen of England.
It was a beautiful sunny day with just a touch of breeze. Phil lit a smoke and we visited; a little bit about the weather, a little bit about the business, and an entire cigarette’s worth about the state of things in general. Then he stubbed the cigarette out on the concrete cap and placed the butt beside three others. Later, after Phil left, I reset the red box alarm and swung by the tank to check that everything was in order. The new pump was neatly wired, the cap was secure, and the cigarette butts had been carefully swept up and removed, and right there is your master’s thesis on honorable work honorably done.
About the Author
Michael Perry is a humorist, radio host, songwriter, and the New York Times best-selling author of several books, including Visiting Tom and Population: 485. He lives in rural Wisconsin with his family and can be found online at www.sneezingcow.com.
