Basement Disaster

Wasn't ready for this. I thought I was going to paint the new walls. One of the storm cells that just glanced off the ridge hammered downtown. Smelled it when I unlocked the door, flooded basement. And I'd just cleaned the space out on Saturday, so I could paint. At least nothing was on the floor. The drains backed up and the toilet regurgitated. It's a mess. Life. Walking out this morning, lovely though overcast (because of that new color) and passing the puddles, there are two dead frogs, head-shots by quarter-sized hail. They're big enough to eat, so I go back to the house for a plastic bag; cut of the legs with poultry shears, slit and peel off the skin, two minutes maybe. I'll just pan fry them with a little garlic, served on toast, to soak up the juices. The debris in the basement, back-flowed through the drains, looks a lot like macerated paper pulp. It could be cast, no question about that, I've cleaned a lot of it up before, it sets-up hard. I need to talk to Anthony. We should probably save it, and cast something obscene. The smell is terrible, Pegi has to breathe through the neck of her blouse. Jack Vetter said it rained three inches in fifteen minutes. He offered me a job, either full or part-time, as his second in command, renovating some apartments; eight of them right now, plus a 10,000 foot home and hall he wants to make into a B&B. Interesting, and flattering, to be asked. I might work with him a day a week, for a few weeks, to see what he actually is about, what he's like. Work with someone on a project like that, you need to be able to communicate. At this point in my life, I need to like someone, before I can work with them. So, I'm controlling my gag reflex, in the basement, thinking about casting really awful crap into offensive pieces. And the elevator inspector arrives, for our annual certification. I know, from past experience, that the bottom of the elevator shaft, the lowest point on the building, is ankle-deep in water. I tell him, up-front, that we have a problem, and that I wished he'd inspected the damned thing last Friday. He agrees to pass us if I swear to sump the water out. Fucking promises are killing me. Hydrostatic pressure is an interesting thing. I met with two board members today, both off the cuff, and we talked about that very thing. The insidious ways of water. The second board member was the Chairman, also sitting on the board of some bank, holding their monthly meeting at the pub. My kind of board. And I called him out, a little, that we had to address this problem. He's right there, it's cool, everything is really under control, because he runs a huge plumbing retail business and understands drainage issues. A few frogs are still fucking, but way slowed down. Last night it was an overlapping chorus, tonight it's just an isolate, a blues guitar, over in the corner. Slack, delta stuff, teasing meaning from a stroke, what Ry Cooder learned from Mississippi John Hurt; listen closely, it's slightly off-beat. There wasn't a point. No Entry is just a sign.