Archive for April, 2024
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART V
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART V
The house had been on the market a long time, with the downturn of the economy not helping, but the realtor could not understand why there was so little interest in the property. So, when Laura and I came along, the family of Marcus Worthy was happy to sell, and I sometimes wonder if I could have gotten the price a little lower.
We sold our old house and the three of us moved into our new farmhouse along with our cat Molly. It wasn’t long before I discovered the first problem with our house, and it turned out to be the only real problem I could find. The sinks, especially the one in the master bedroom, would clog up periodically. It was weird though, because sometimes I didn’t treat the sink and it would unclog by itself. Other than the plumbing, the house was perfect.
Situated on the southeastern edge of the property, our back and western windows look out on our land. Not far from the eastern edge of our property stood a split rail fence and it is over this fence while out walking, that I met my neighbor Jack Small. Jack was in his late seventies and sat perched on an ancient tractor; he gave me a wave and shut her down, walked my way with hands in the pockets of his bib overalls, his work boots kicked at the newly turned earth.
“So, you’re my new neighbor,” he shouted as I noticed a hearing aide in each ear.
I introduced myself and told him about my family. He then told me about his. Jack was a widower and had grown children in New Jersey and Virginia. They visited and brought their children, but for the most part he was on his own.
“Sorry you moved in here,” he continued. This comment startled me. He saw my expression and hurriedly said, “Let me explain. I guess I didn’t hear you coming up the road when you came to look at the house.”
I focused on his hearing aids.
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART IV
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART IV
At closing, my wife and I learned a little more about the former owner from his sister Joan. “My brother,” she explained, “was Marcus Worthy, a scientist interested in both marine biology and genetics.” She went on to tell us that Marcus was part of a group involved in a start-up company, which discovered a breakthrough drug for the treatment of cancer. Joan said that her brother made a fortune with his investments in the company while working in their research department, but the company bureaucracy began to get in the way of his research methods, and he quit. He liked to dabble, do a few experiments that interested him and then move on to something new, answering his own questions and not the company’s.
Joan said, “His studies were in natural occurring substances existing in marine life. He studied the venom of mollusks and sea snakes, was intrigued by the fact sharks were immune to infection. His mind was full of questions he wanted to answer but the company had no interest in such work and so, in frustration, he resigned. Worthy found this house in rural Pennsylvania, sunk a great deal of money into renovations, and there he would study and live his life on his own terms. He never married and his only contact with the rest of the world was through me, his sister. By his own choice, he slipped away from society.”
Then Joan recalled, “One day I realized that I had not heard from my brother for an unusually long period of time. I tried calling for days but got no response, so I decided to pay him a visit. I had never visited before and had some difficulty locating the house. After parking on the circular drive, I went up the few steps to the screened porch and rang the doorbell. There was no answer. I tried the door and was surprised to find the door open. I entered the darkened house and proceeded to search every room but found no sign of my brother. I did find spoiled food in the refrigerator, moldy dishes in the sink and an ungodly mess in the bathroom, but no indication of what had happened to Marcus. It was as if my brother had just decided to leave one day, but then outside I found his car. I hadn’t a clue as to what happened to him. I thought that perhaps he took a walk and fell victim to an accident. I checked with the local police and hospitals, but they had no knowledge of his whereabouts. I filed a missing person’s report with the police, and in a confused state, left for home. No one ever saw my brother again.”
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART III
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART III
I’m Joe Crestman, a thirty-eight-year-old research scientist working in the pharmaceutical industry. I’ve always loved to tinker, and with a scientist friend in another company, came up with a new technology for isolating mitochondrial DNA. We managed to patent the idea and were soon selling the technology to other companies, which resulted in a nice side income. I also managed to talk my boss into letting me work out of my home two days a week, crunching data and preparing papers. With the increased income and time away from the office, Laura and I decided to buy a house in the country. On a beautiful spring afternoon, driving down a narrow two-lane road, we saw the For Sale sign long before we saw the house. Just the seclusion had me sold. When we finally did see the house, we were both impressed. A long circular gravel drive led to a red two-story farmhouse set amongst tall oak trees. The house sat on a twenty-acre parcel of land with a barn and pond behind the house. The pond was more like a lake with a boat dock and small beach. We drove up to the house, looked inside and around the property, and immediately knew it was a house we could not afford. “Sorry honey”, I told Laura, “I think this house is way out of our league.” Laura’s a part-time real estate agent and knew from experience that I was probably right.
“Probably costs a ton,” she answered, “but I’m going to check it out anyway.” She copied down the realtor’s number, and we set out looking for more For Sale signs.
I forgot about the house, or at least tried to, because it was exactly what I wanted in a house and land. We had the extra income coming in but not enough to afford that house. My wife, however, went ahead and called the realtor. What she discovered shocked us. The house cost much less than we had anticipated. In fact, the house had been on the market quite a while and the price had been reduced several times. The house was up for sale since the owner disappeared; that’s all the realtor, new in the office, could tell us. The owner’s family wanted to sell the property as soon as possible and get on with their lives. Laura and I had found our dream house.
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART II
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART II
My eight-year-old daughter Robin was crying uncontrollably; her cat Molly was missing. My wife Laura and I searched the entire house with no luck.
Trying to comfort Robin, I suggested, “She’ll turn up, she always has before,” but my efforts were useless. In frustration, Robin ran out of the house crying out for Molly while Laura and I continued to search. Later Robin returned covered in mud, dejected, and ran up to her room and slammed the door.
While Robin was crying in her room, I went upstairs to the master bathroom to clean up and could not believe the sight that awaited me. The place was a mess. There was a thick yellow slime all over the sink, flowing onto the floor, and the smell was horrible. Neither Laura nor Robin knew anything about the condition of the bathroom. Normally that would have set me off, but considering Robin’s current fragile condition, I thought it better to let the matter drop.
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART I
Published by Hadrosaur Press in Hadrosaur Tales Volume 21 in 2004. At one time Writers Digest considered Hadrosaur Press one of the 100 best websites for writers. I had a great deal of fun writing this story using my science background.
The story will appear in multiple posts. Hope you stick with it.
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART I
Marcus Worthy purchased the farmhouse and 20 acres of property in rural Pennsylvania two years ago. He immediately started the renovations required for the barn, and now the renovations for the house and barn were completed long ago. Marcus had a few decorating chores to complete, and his house would be to his liking. Grabbing two paintings, a hammer, and some picture hooks, he headed for the master bathroom. As he was hanging the pictures on the wall opposite the sink, he suddenly felt a constriction around his chest and a stinging sensation. He withered to the floor and lay motionless, paralyzed while he was slowly engulfed.
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: AN INTRODUCTION TO A SHORT STORY
Soon I will be beginning posting my short story, Plumbing Problems, published in 2004 by Hadrosaur Press. It is a rather ‘long short story and will appear in seventeen posts.
I hope you find this story entertaining. I’m a retired scientist and had fun thinking about the plot and discussing the science. There are both scientific facts and scientific fantasy in the story. I’ll let you figure out which is which.
Hope you stick with it.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: THE WHEATFIELD REVEALED
The following poem was published in the Clover Collection of Verse Vol. XII, edited by Evelyn Petry, in 1976.
THE WHEATFIELD REVEALED
Friendless you toiled with palette and brush,
Forlorn amidst wheatfields with only the rush
Of flying crows to mark the day,
Crossed paths unite yet yield no safe way,
Fulfillment beneath sorrowful skies
Painting with troubled soul once cries
Out for love but finds only torment,
Thus, your life spent.
Tramping through fields of cypress and corn
With stars and suns swirl in a morn,
Hatband-held candles yield flickering light
Sustaining your soul on last starry night,
Rooks swirled in violet a soul hungers still,
Standing alone – the wheatfield revealed.
THE DRIVING LESSON: A COMEDY
An unpublished story
THE DRIVING LESSON
Many years ago, while I was in high school, Sam Franks was my driving instructor. He was a good instructor, easy-going and fun. Then one day I had an instructor change: a change from hell.
I was a junior, and every Thursday, during, my study hall I was scheduled for a driving lesson. Mr. Franks taught me to drive a Honda, equipped for student drivers; I loved driving that little car.
The morning of my fourth lesson arrived and I went out to the parking lot to meet Mr. Franks, but he wasn’t there, and the Honda was nowhere in sight. I walked around the lot looking lost when I heard my name called out. I turned to see a man approaching, a stranger to me, and someone who seemed out of place in a high school parking lot. He appeared to be in his sixties, tall and thin. What really made him stand out were his clothes. He wore faded bib overalls, stained with oil and grease and a mixture of other things better left unknown. Under his overalls he wore a white sweatshirt, or at least a sweatshirt that was white at one time years ago. On his head he wore a faded green John Deere cap rimmed with sweat stains. Long white hair emerged from beneath the cap. Work boots completed the outfit. His heavily whiskered cheek bulged with what I thought was the largest piece of gum I had ever seen anyone chew.
As he approached he shouted, “Can I help you? Looking for a driving lesson?”
“Well, yes”, I replied,” I’m looking for Mr. Franks.”
“Well, you found him, “came his answer. Now my Mr. Franks was in his thirties, kind of preppy while this guy was old enough to be his – father. The fact that this man knew my name at first puzzled me, but I started putting two and two together – fast. “I guess you expected to see Sam Jr., well, he ain’t here, gone to Pittsburgh to interview for another job and I’m filling in.
“Are you a teacher?” I asked with an unsteady voice.
“Listen, I taught Sam Jr. how to drive a tractor. If I could teach that lunkhead son of mine to drive a tractor I sure as hell can teach you to drive a car. The principal of the school said I needed a teaching credential but I had a year to get it, so I figured what the hell, I’ll make some money for a year and then I’m out of here. Now let’s get your butt behind the wheel.”
That was the other problem I immediately identified, there was no car. I guess from the look on my face, Mr. Franks Sr. knew what I was thinking. “Sam Jr. loaned that little Honda to another teachee, so I had to bring my own vehicle.” With that, Mr. Franks pointed to a pickup truck older than me. Between the rust and the patching, I found it hard to determine the color, but I think it had once been blue. Now the Honda I loved had three peddles – a gas pedal and two brake pedals. The truck had three peddles also, but they were all on the driver’s side. This damn old piece of crap had a standard transmission.
“I can’t drive a standard transmission,” I said.
“Oh yes you can,” came Mr. Franks reply.
“What about the instructor’s brake?” was my next question?
“I got long legs,” he said, “and I figure after I squash your foot a couple of times you won’t make any more stupid damn mistakes.”
Did I want to go back into school or what – but the lessons were paid for and Mr. Franks did not look like the kind of man that would give refunds. When I entered the cab of the pickup I got a sickening feeling that it wasn’t gum that was bulging his cheek. There, attached to the dash, with a piece of coat hanger, was an old coffee can, which he wound up using often during the lesson. Reluctantly, I sat on the bench seat of the pickup, and with some difficulty, attached the lap belt. The next the thing I knew, Mr. Franks was shouting, “Damn it, what in the hell are you doing messing up the seat belts?”
“I’m using it,” I said firmly.
“I had them all laid out so nice and now you screwed them up,” he groaned, “don’t let it happen again.”
With the seat belt part of the lesson out of the way, I started the engine. We immediately lurched forward and the engine died. “What in the hell do you think the clutch is for, decoration?” he screamed. I thought maybe he could teach me the use of the clutch, but I kept that idea to myself. I felt a demonstration would be helpful and it was soon in coming. “Put your foot on the clutch,” he said, and I did. Before I knew it his size twelve work boot had smashed the clutch peddle, along with my foot, down to the floor. “You step on the clutch when you start the engine and when you change gears, you idiot.”
I will not describe the next fifteen or so minutes because it has taken me years trying to forget. I finally got the truck started and sort of found most of the gears. The fact that I didn’t have to wear a neck collar for months after the lesson was a miracle. By the time we made it out of the parking lot, my lesson was more than half over. “We’ll just do a little driving and then head back,” he said. After a little time on the road, I gained some confidence, although confidence might be too strong a word. We were driving along when I noticed that the light at the intersection about half a block away had turned yellow. I started to gently ease off on the gas when Mr. Franks’ size twelve mashed my foot and the gas pedal down to the floor. People dove for the sidewalk as we barreled through the red light. I sat waiting for the explanation for this maneuver and it was soon coming. “You heard about defensive driving?” he asked. I nodded yes. “Well remember this; the best defense is a good offense.” I rolled my eyes. Mr. Franks was into offensive driving, what a surprise.
The next thing I knew he grabbed the wheel and jerked it to the right. I felt a slight thump, thump as the wheels ran over something. “Stop the truck,” he yelled, “I think we nailed him.” I looked in the rearview mirror and could not believe my eyes. A squirrel lay dead in the street. Franks hopped out of the truck, retrieved a burlap bag from the truck bed, and bagged the poor critter. “Won’t have to go shopping on my way home now,” he said. “You know,” he went on, “all you need to do is skin ‘em and gut ‘em. The wheels act as kind of a natural tenderizer – breaks up the bones and the meat just melts in your mouth.”
I was going to be sick.
That was my first lesson with Sam Franks Sr., but not my last. I finished the course with him and went on to get my license, but I was never quite the same.
I’m married now and have a daughter who wants to learn to drive and wants me to teach her. She doesn’t think her dad has the patience. We’ve gone driving a few times now. Our seatbelts are always buckled, and when we approach a yellow light I make her stop even if she thinks she can make it. I’ve cleared most of Mr. Franks Sr.’s unique habits from my teaching techniques. But I still harbor the memory of that poor little squirrel.
Suddenly a squirrel darts out onto the road, I have a sudden urge, but I keep it under control.
THE END
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: CAMERA’S EYE
For a while I was living in Newark, New Jersey, working in the Bronx and driving to work on the New Jersey Turnpike. The drive took me through the marsh between Newark and the Hudson River. Along the way I noticed a small dock with a boat or two there. The surrounding area was less than attractive but, in my mind, I would imagine the dock on a tranquil lake or on an inlet leading to the ocean. This poem is the result of those thoughts.
The following poem was published in the Clover Collection of Verse Vol. XII, edited by Evelyn Petry, in 1976.
CAMERA’S EYE
Camera’s eye catches delicate flowers,
Views the graceful bee in pollination flight,
Spies the brushing of pollen – laden stamens,
Holds in time a scene most tranquil;
Yet does not discover the roadside trash,
The flower’s home amid mud and mire;
Does not smell the exhaust raining acid
On delicate flowers.
Camera’s eye gazes upon a child framed in a window,
Beholds the easy lean of chin in palm, elbow on windowsill,
Wide eyes looking out at the world in wonder,
Knows the innocent child – wisdom;
Yet ignores the window’s building,
Screens out the ghetto of rotted houses and dreams.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: CITY DEATH
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Whispers of the Unchained Heart in 1977.
CITY DEATH
Gone-
Murdered by concrete
And polluted air,
Witness to city’s growth,
Yielding shade on sultry days,
Forming crystalline sculptures in winter,
Morning drones with saws,
A barren stump your marker,
Death your reward.
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