Bill’s Vent Pipe

     “Hey O, I need some help,” said the answering machine.  Have to respond.  After all, I am deeply indebted to Bill for all kinds of help, not to mention the tool loans over the years.

      “What’s up?” I asked when I managed to get him on the phone.  Since he had retired from teaching, I didn’t see him every day as in the old days, sometimes as seldom as twice a month at Lions meetings.

     “We’re remodeling the laundry room, rearranging things.  I need a plumber.”  I stopped by the next day after school.  He had moved the washer and dryer.  He had the dryer vent all done, the 220 volt receptacle wired and in place.  He had the water for the washing machine moved to his liking.  What he hadn’t done was the drain-vent pipe.  He had the hole cut through the floor for the drain.  He had the hole marked where the vent would go through the ceiling. 

     What was lacking was the drain with the standpipe and trap to drain the washer, and the vent that would serve the washing machine drain and protect the drain trap from being siphoned dry.  We agreed I would stop by the next day after school and do the plumbing, and Bill would cut the hole through ceiling and roof to accommodate the vent pipe.  It would all be ready when I got there.

     The next day, I threw in a pair of coveralls as I headed out for my day teaching school.  I knew from experience that if I went home after school, changed clothes and returned to Bill’s place, it could be late in the evening before I finished the job, especially if we ran into trouble, always a possibility where plumbing is involved.  There wasn’t much dirty work involved, as the cutting and crawling into the crawl space should all be done.

     It was done, too.  The drainpipe extended up through the floor a couple of inches, enough to get a tee glued onto it.  The hole in the ceiling was there, too, lined up with the drainpipe coming up through the floor.  The water lines were installed into the washing machine box.  All that was left was to cut and fit the drainpipe.

      I donned my coveralls, and set to work.  But Bill wasn’t there.  He had gone to get something, Jeanie said.  With a coupling and a short piece of PVC pipe, I extended the drainpipe up high enough to make room for the trap.  I lined the trap up so the standpipe went up to the fitting in the washing machine box, cut, fitted, and glued the trap and its connecting pipes.  All that was left was the pipe through the ceiling and roof. 

     The entire job took less than 45 minutes.  I was done.  The washing machine was plumbed. Bill still wasn’t there.  I removed coveralls and visited with Jeanie for a while, but still, no Bill.  I needed to get going, so I said, as sort of a joke, “Tell Bill when he gets home that you just got tired of waiting for him to get the job done, so you went ahead and did it yourself.”

      A few days later, I ran into Bill.  “Boy, do you have one coming from me!” was my greeting from him.

      “What are you talking about?”

     “You know,” he said.  I began to suspect, but I feigned ignorance.  “Putting Jean up to telling me she did that plumbing job.”  Oh.

      I didn’t press for an explanation.  The next time we all got together, we had a good laugh at Bill’s expense, but I needed to know the details.

     “I told him I got tired of waiting for him to get the job done so I did it myself.  Then he showed the pipes to everybody that came in and told them how I did it all by myself.  He had them admire how straight everything was and how proud of me he was.  So I had to tell him the truth so he would quit embarrassing me.”  Oh, again.

     The law of unintended consequences surfaces again.  The little lie was supposed to shame him into wondering why he couldn’t have done the job himself.  Pride wasn’t supposed to be part of it.

      I’m sure Bill retaliated.  I don’t remember how, exactly.  After all, there are quite a few examples of him pulling a practical joke on me, too many to know just which one served for that incident.       

     

Death Comes to the Country Club

     “I beg your pardon, I never promised you a rose gar-------“  The melody glizzandoed down the scale sagging through  bass into nothingness.  The jukebox went black.

     A brief two seconds before, the two girls marched past our table, both in obvious distress, one girl beside and slightly behind the other, the follower trying to comfort the leader as they headed for the exit door.  The leader slung her purse at the offending jukebox, hitting it with a bang.  That wasn’t good enough.  She took a slight detour as she approached the door and yanked the offending noisemaker’s electric plug out of the wall socket.

    “Damned alcohol!” she sobbed.

     Four of us were sitting at the table.  We had just finished our second round in the duffers’ tournament.  We were enjoying a little camaraderie at the nineteenth hole before we departed to each go his own way. 

     We were the early birds, starting our first round about 8 a.m. on that Sunday morning.  The duffers’ tournament was for those of us who hacked our way around with big handicaps.  It was also an attempt to get former members to come out and play a couple of rounds on the nine hole course, maybe get interested and take up the game again.

     It also appealed to the drinkers.  A tub full of ice and beer stood between the fourth green and the fifth tee box.  There was always the clubhouse, too.  At that time, a person had to belong to a private club AND bring his own bottle of booze in order to have a mixed drink in Kansas.  Count on it, there were plenty of bottles on the golf carts buzzing around the course.

     The tournament organizers started scheduling foursomes for tee-off about ten o’clock.  They worked their way backwards to accommodate all the people who wanted to play.  Four foursomes would tee off every hour.  The last hour or so was reserved for the good golfers, the ones who declared or qualified for the championship round.  There were always ten or twelve guys who played in the championship round, some deserving the privilege, some who flattered themselves and put themselves in the round.  There was an extra fee for those vying for the championship flight, and they would play a third round at the end of the day, 27 holes in all.

    The rest of us were put into “flights” based on our score for the first nine holes.  At the end of the second round, your score for eighteen holes was compared to the scores of everyone in your flight.  The lowest three scores in every flight won prizes.

     When all the championship guys had teed off around noon or a little after for their first round, then the early birds like us took off on our second round.  It was probably three o’clock in the afternoon when the two girls passed through and out of our life as we sat enjoying a beer and our comradeship.

     The door flew open and daylight flooded the basement room.  The steps led up to the graveled  yard that did double duty as parking lot and runway for golf carts heading to and from cart house to golf course.  We glanced at the girls as they stepped through the door.  They were both young, maybe in their early twenties.  Both were distressed.

     The door slammed and the girls were out of our lives as swiftly as they had come in.  We were sitting in the dim light again.  Nobody said anything.  We didn’t sit in silence too long.  Keith had been sitting with us.  He was the clubhouse manager.  He leased the kitchen upstairs and the bar downstairs.  He ran the small pro shop that sold mostly golf balls and wasn’t ever very busy.  He also had a small farm a mile or two from town.  He had left the bar in charge of a barmaid and was going out to do some quick chores at the farm before returning to close out the day in the bar.  He sat down with us for a while because his brother-in-law was one of our foursome.  

     Before we had time to say much, Keith was back.  He sat down and rubbed his forehead.  His face was white.  He said there had been an accident, an automobile accident just across the road from the number one tee box.  Two guys peeled out in a car, laying rubber.  The driver lost  control and ran into a tree beside a cart house.  The guy in the passenger seat was killed.

     We still didn’t say much.  What was there to say.  We did start trying to put two and two together.  It stood to reason that the two girls who just stormed through were involved somehow.

    There were quite a few witnesses to the accident.  Both guys in the car had been drinking. One of the witnesses was the local physician.  He ran to the scene.  He opened the passenger door and briefly examined the passenger.  “This man is dead,” he said.  Other witnesses said the doctor said he died of a broken neck.

     The driver walked away nearly unscathed.  Did he face criminal charges?  I don’t remember.

     Later reports said that all four of the people involved were from Goodland, that the distressed girl who squelched the jukebox was married to the deceased passenger. 

     All that information came out later.  As for that Sunday afternoon, the four of us finished our beer  with rather subdued conversation and departed.  My way home took me right past the scene of the accident.  The car was still there, up against the tree.  It wasn’t in that bad of shape.  Yes there was a major dent in the front where in met the tree, but nothing severe enough to have inflicted a fatal injury, it didn’t look like.

     The two girls who passed through the lounge in a few seconds, who flitted in and seemingly out of our lives, had a major effect on us it seems.  Some years later, our Lions club hosted a big meeting for surrounding communities, an anniversary or something.  I was manning the registry.  I didn’t recognize Rex when he came in.  When I looked at the name he signed, I realized he was one of our foursome that Sunday many years before.  He was Keith’s brother-in-law. 

     I introduced myself.  I said, “We played golf together once.”  He looked at me blankly, obviously not recognizing me.  I reminded him of the fatal accident that took place on that day.  He thought a moment, then lit up.  Yes, he did remember that.

     Now, thirty or forty years later, when I hear the tune “I Never Promised You a Rose Garden,” the scene in the country club basement pops into my head with remarkable clarity.  I have carried it with me all these years.  I probably won’t lose it any time soon, as long as my head continues to function normally.  Funny that a chance encounter lasting a few seconds would have such a lasting effect.