Flushed Away

As humans, we each process our lives in very different ways. We find different things sad - because they resonate a little bit differently within each one of us -we take different amounts of pleasure in different things, we find different degrees of happiness in the same pursuits. There are certainly events and/or topics that create a more or less universal response among non-psychopathic people (tragic deaths, lost loves, Pink Panther films) but – on the flip side – there are those quirky responses that are so individualized as to be incomprehensible to others.

I, for example, cannot listen to music early in the morning. It’s far too dangerous. If I were to hear the wrong song before my mind had prepared, it would set the mood for the entire day and possibly even extend into the next day. I’m also terribly disturbed by the sight of an elderly person dining alone in a restaurant (I find this horribly, horribly sad – even if the person appears to be having a good time.) On the flip side, it takes only the briefest thought of the Cheshire Cat to put me in a cheerful mood and to inspire hours of rumination upon the many delightful characters and quotes of Alice In Wonderland (or Through The Looking Glass, depending upon your perspective.)

I try to embrace these eccentricities in humans whole-heartedly, and celebrate them for their very strangeness. They certainly make us a more interesting species. Throughout my life, I’ve had a number of experiences that reinforce the uniqueness of each of us. One of the most memorable – one that I still ponder regularly – occurred during a visit to my mother’s aunt and uncle.

Aunt Gay and Uncle Martin were retired schoolteachers. They lived in what was perhaps the coolest home that I have ever seen. It was created as a model home in the 1950’s and the builders had installed the "top of the line" appliances for that time. This meant that the kitchen was entirely furnished in aqua and pink, and that there was even a built-in blender in the counter. It was amazing. I coveted it immediately.

Gay and Martin loved their home – perhaps not with the same ardor that I felt – but what Gay REALLY loved were her frogs. Being an adorer of amphibians myself, I could certainly see where she was coming from. We differed, however, on one very important point. I like live things. She was enamored of inanimate frog objects. Upon our arrival, she wasted no time in showing us the focal points of the living room; two very large, very concrete frog garden statues. It seems that having these frogs outside was too depressing for Gay; she wanted them located where she would see them on – at minimum – an hourly basis. Gazing at the (frankly) hideous creatures, I pondered this with some bemusement. It hardly seemed logical. Not only was the slap-hazard application of the scarlet red painted mouths frightening, but these large concrete abominations seemed destined to be the demise of toes everywhere.

As exciting as these frogs were, they were not the most exiting thing that we would be invited to share in. We had been visiting – under the freakish, bulge-eyed watch of the stone amphibians – in the living room for some time when the conversation took a decidedly strange turn. "How was our toilet at home?" Gay wondered. This was certainly not something that I had been wondering about prior to the question, but now that it had been asked I, also, began to question the state of the toilet. My biggest question was "What in the hell is she talking about? Does she know something about our toilet that we don’t know?"

Gay’s next comments clarified the situation somewhat. It appeared that she was merely being polite in inquiring after our toilet; she was actually leading up to a rather lengthy discussion about the merits of her new toilet. This was strange. What was even more strange was the expression of rapture on her face as she spoke, and Martin’s affectionate eye roll and comment of "here she goes again…" as he gazed at her indulgently. What we did not realize at the time was that this entire conversation was but a pre-show activity. Before we fully understood what was happening, Gay was standing and waving at us, indicating that we should follow her down the hall.

Call us slow, but my mother and I – no doubt at the insistence of our minds, who refused to believe that this was happening – still did not fully comprehend this experience. Thus, when we found ourselves huddled as a threesome around a sparking white porcelain toilet, we shared looks of consternation. Gay reveled in the moment, looking from one face to another, allowing the anticipation to build. When the tension had reached what she must have felt was the peak, she slowly reached a hand toward the shiny metal handle and pushed.

"WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT!!!" She bellowed with glee, causing both my mother and I to jump in alarm. "HAVE YOU EVER SEEN A POWERFUL FLUSH LIKE THAT BEFORE?!!!"

Mute, my mother and I shook our head. I could honestly say that I had never seen a flush quite like that before.

Lost in her own joy, Aunt Gay was oblivious to our experience. Then, remembering her role as the gracious hostess, and perhaps finally considering our presence in a slightly different manner, Gay bestowed upon us the ultimate act of generosity.

"Would you," she asked, leaning in close to us and speaking gently, "like to use it?"