It’s a big day here at Chow Acre. This afternoon we’re having the septic tank pumped. Always looking for an excuse to wear my blue hardhat and manly Red Wing work boots (steel-toed, of course), I can’t wait to assist in the operation. I made a mental note not to ask the poop removal professional if I can hold his hose; thus avoiding the awkward silence that ensued after mistakenly personalizing the truck’s thick plastic extractor. This time I’ll replace pronoun with definitive article and avoid an embarrassing conversational faux pas. Although accustomed to being an anomaly, I can’t help but find it strange that other septic tank owners don’t enjoy participating in the fascinating process. According to Carl, I’m the only homeowner who takes such an active interest in vacuuming out their human waste. Last year, after we finished sucking the concrete tank dry, he said that I had missed my calling. Carl stubbed out his Doral and left me with this dangling participle of hope: "Juan, I'd be tickled shit-less to sell you my business...assuming my rotten luck ever changes".
My fingers are crossed. Damn it, I’m due for Disney’s blue bird to alight atop my shoulder!
Too excited for wheel-spinning politics, I’ll await the outcome of the Brown/Coakley contest before officially announcing my retirement.
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