Calamities and Fathers

Days to remember

“Suffering builds character.”

—My father, the late Lawrence Paul Fitzsimmons, A.K.A. The Master Sergeant

Day 1 of the Calamity

I was at my drawing board at home designing a Birthday Card for Ellen while she was at work.

Tomorrow’s the big day! What do you want for your birthday, sweetheart?

Hm. I don’t know. I have everything I could possibly want. Maybe a book.

Every year it’s the same ritual.

Oh, nothing for me, thanks. I’m happy here with my Buddhist begging bowl. I could use a sackcloth. And some ashes.

As I drew Ellen’s Birthday card I hoped she’ll like the gifts she’ll find on the dining room table in the morning when she wakes up and stumbles to our kitchen to pour some brew. There on the dining room table under the HAPPY BIRTHDAY banner she’ll find this card and an array of gifts accompanied by a gluten-free sugar-free joy-free cupcake with one candle.

My birthday scheme reverie crashed when I heard my adult son Matt cursing from the bathroom at the front of our humble hacienda. I ran to see what horror prompted the epithets and found Matt standing over an overflowing toilet, plunging away.

Goddam my brother’s high-fiber diet! What the Hell!?

What happened? It looks like Fukishima in here!

It was the toilet blockage from Hell.

And then I heard Fukishima Reactor 2 gurgling in our Master bathroom. Both bathtubs began filling. I did what dads do. I ran and returned with a second bathroom plunger in one hand and a worthless rusted plumber’s snake in the other.

Dad! What the Hell! You look like a some kind of Tooltime Transformer. Which Avenger are you? Commander Crapper?

I’ll be in the other bathroom! I’ll plunge Reactor Two. You keep plunging Reactor One.

Okay!

I yelled as I plunged. Did you ever see “The Poseidon Adventure” son?

Really, dad? Really? you think this is the time for Boomer trivia? Jesus.

I’m starting to feel like Shelly Winters in here. Did you know she died halfway through 9 of the blockbusters she starred in?

Together we plunged farntically and stopped the rising tide. I turned off the main water line and Matt asked me if he could tell the local villagers it was safe to return to their homes.

As the sun was setting I did the toughest thing a father can do. I admitted I was out of answers.

Son, I have no clue how to fix this.

Uh-huh. We look like Swamp Things 1 and 2, pop. Pull up Yelp for help.

Hm. These guys here seem to be the best. Good reviews.

I lied to Matt. I called “Rooter Rangers” just because their name sounded like the name of a Saturday morning kid’s show.

Good Evening! This is Sean with Rooter Rangers dispatch team. We are reaching out to let you know that we’ve received your Plumbing Service Request and have you set for a time window tonight of 8pm-12midnight. We will reach out 30-minutes before our arrival. Have a wonderful day!

Hey, Matt, do you think they’ll be wearing masks like the Lone Ranger?

Who’s the Lone Ranger?

Never mind. What do you think is down there? Something the grandkids shoved down the toilet?

Some cable my brother laid. he’s been bingeing on smoothies and Grapenuts.

Naw. Not possible. I bet this is my fault.

How so?

Yesterday I made a terrible mistake of saying aloud that life couldn’t be any better.

Are you creating a problem for me, right now?

—The Master Sergeant

Luis arrived at our door, slapped on his booties and sent a snake down into Fukishima Reactor 2. Rather than snaking down into the depths, the snake cranked straight across the line shared with Reactor 1 and I heard metal grinding on porcelain and saw sparks and then Reactor 1's containment vessel cracked.

The Prime Minister of Casas Adobes texted me to ask if they should evacuate within a 30-mile radius.

No. Luis has got this!

Luis was a good man, a devout man, so I did not use the coarse phrase shit storm in his presence.

An experienced plumber, Luis, explained his diagnosis the calm thorough way Jeff Goldblum described what went awry in the dino disaster Jurassic Park. The good news? We wouldn’t have to get off the island.

Hi, Ell! How was work today?

Hey, babe. What happened? Why are there towels all over-

Don’t worry. We got this, sweetheart! Hey. Tomorrow’s your birthday, baby! Happy Birthday! I made us a latrine at the side of the yard. Sorry I didn’t have time to gift wrap the shovel and the toilet paper. Hey, Ell, you always loved to camp, right? A birthday to remember, right, baby?

My heroic partner rolled up her blouse sleeves and we went to work.

Day 2 of the Calamity

Thinking of the cost of the calamity, I couldn’t sleep so I got up to arrange her gifts on our dining table. As I strung the HAPPY BIRTHDAY banner across the dining room picture window I watched the sun rise over the mountains.

The real men, Luis, Teyon and Roger arrived and using a beeping radar thingamajig they found the culprit wasn’t Professor Plum in the library with the lead pipe. It was every plumber’s nightmare, the pipe running out to the street.

The problem is out front, Mr.Fitzsimmons. Six-feet down. We’ll have to dig and replace the line.

The Calamity

Teyon and Roger, the best beasts of the trade, commenced digging.

Let me know if you guys need anything like water or a-

We’re good, man, thanks.

Don’t die in the sun. I got 911 on speed dial.

We got this.

The night I took Ellen to see “Georgia McBride” at Arizona Theater Company for her birthday. What did you think, baby?

I loved it. It was great! It was so funny and good and the cast was amazing!

Yeah, I liked it, too. And the toilets at the Temple of Music and Art are fantastic!

I’ll say.

Yeah. They flush and everything! And they’re indoors. Happy Birthday, baby. I love you.

I love you, too.

We saw our neighbors Dave and Kathe there at the show and told them what had happened. We learned our meltdown was not that uncommon.

Day 3 of the Calamity

The digging continued. Mid-morning I found a gift from my neighbor Dave on our porch.

Roger, did you see who brought this?

Yeah, some guy walked up and dropped it off. Said he was a neighbor of yours.

Hm. Need anything? Water? Defibrillator?

Naw. We’re good.

Ellen, my Birthday Girl, documenting our mysterious gift

Thanks, Dave. Very funny, Dave. And very useful. A beautifully homemade camping porta-potty! Thanks brother!

Ellen and I spied through our drawn blinds on the real men doing real work out there in the jarring heat of June.

Reminds me of that movie… “The Dig”… remember when we saw it on Netflix?

Sure do. That was a great movie.

I loved that movie! When was the last time you showered?

Yesterday, Ell.

You smell like a javelina.

Tell you what I learned from that movie, sweetheart.

What?

No way we’re telling the British Museum about our dig because those busybodies would just get in the way.

Later in the day I brought ice water and dad jokes out to Teyon and Roger as they kept digging. I waved to neighbors walking past our Sutton Hoo work site with looks of horror and pity on their faces. Here are my 5 proudest shoutouts to my understandably curious neighbors:

1. There’s an Anglo-Saxon King buried down there.

2. I bought a treasure map at the Swap meet for a dollar.

3. I had a dream! Cochise is down there.

4. We’re digging to Wuhan, China.

5. It’s a grave. For uncle Charlie.

That afternoon Teyon and Roger hit gold. They’d discovered a sewer line that had been placed there by the ancient Romans around the time of the birth of Christ which, coincidentally, was when our home in Casas Adobes had been built. Casas Adobes: Where all the casas are made of adobe and chicken-wire.

A probe was sent in and I watched the proctological exam on a small screen. It was a terrifying edge of your toilet seat thriller. Four stars. Five! Halfway in I expected to see Pennywise, the clown from “It”, smiling in the darkness as huge fat roaches the size of hamburger buns scurried ahead of the advancing probe.

The good news? We saw no polyps in the colon of our home. The bad news? A transplant was the only way to save the patient.

I had grown to like our rangers from the land of rooter. Luis, Teyon and Roger were smart good-humored hard-working men. As they sweated we talked about family and work and customers who insist on hanging around talking about family and work and telling Dad jokes when you’re trying to dig to China.

Jackasses, right, guys?

Hell yeah.

Luis and I talked about kids and family. Luis grew up here. Former boxer. Remarkable survivor. Friends and family either went to prison or OD’ed.

Mr. Fitz, I credit my faith and my wife. Known her since we were kids. She teaches Sunday school.

You should teach Sunday school, Luis. You are an excellent communicator, brother.

Thank you, sir.

Sir? me? If only he know.

We shared family pics. I bragged on mine and he bragged on his. I guess because I look like Yoda, Luis asked me how do you keep from spoiling them?

I told Luis the Master Sergeant used to tell me that suffering builds character. I didn’t want mine to suffer but I didn’t protect them from adversity. Or hard work. I gave my kids every good thing I could. I trusted that policing their peers and being a good role model was enough. On that score you’ve got nothing to worry about, Luis. You are an outstanding role model, brother.

I didn’t tell Luis I knew I was right because a few years back I was on 4th Avenue with my kids, Matt, David and Sarah and as I came out of POPCYCLE I saw them chatting by the car waiting for me and I stopped to spy on them and as I watched my three beautiful adult kids I realized if I had left the world at that moment they would all be fine because they were good people with good hearts. I had done my job.

That night I feel dead asleep.

Day 4 of the Calamity

The line was replaced, the waters of life flowed back into to our hut and our toilets sang.

And I got to meet Luis’ charming wife online when she FaceTimed him about whether or not he’d be home for dinner. Luis handed me his phone.

This is Mr.Dave.

Hey! Is this the woman that puts up with Mr. Luis?

Yes, I am. You’re that cartoonist aren’t you!

Yes, I am. Thank you for loaning us your husband. He rocks.

In gratitude to our saviors Ellen and I hugged Luis, Teyon and Roger and we said our goodbyes.

Me, Teyon and Roger. Where’s Luis? Crap! Did we bury him?

That night I thought of Luis, his sweet wife and his happy kids and fathers and that I’d forgotten to mention the importance of empathy. Some study I’d read when I’d fathered my first kid nearly 40-years ago found that moms teach everything while dads teach empathy. When I read that story I thought of the Master Sergeant, remembering when he’d call me out anytime he caught me picking on anyone.

Think that’s funny, son? Come here, boy. Let me show you how that feels.

Sorry, pop, sorry.

I got the idea.

My father, the former featherweight champion, never once raised a hand to me. Or anyone. I never questioned the irony that a former street punk, a survivor of Hell’s kitchen, an amateur boxer, a marksman, a paratrooper and a veteran of war would be so forgiving, gentle and kind in manner. I never fully appreciated the goodness he modeled until long after he died.

My dad made me the father I became.

The next day our air conditioner died. After 17-years of service. The very next day! Clearly it was my fault. After the plumbers left I had made the mistake of saying aloud it doesn’t get any better than this.

Damn. When will I ever learn?

After making the call to our HVAC guys I wandered out of our hotbox to checked the mail and there it was: A Father’s Day card. I was right. It doesn’t get any better than this.

And then I set about doing what we dads do.