Snow Day

'Rhapsodic non-fiction...' A phrase I heard on the radio. I have to stop reading (Farley Mowat) and consider what's meant. Snow flurries in the morning, then waves of harder snow, but breaks in the cloud cover and shafts of light turn the gently falling flakes into crystals. It's beautiful, serene, restful, and lulls me into reveries and reflection. I've written non-fiction most of my life. The book I'm editing now, about a Janitor College that doesn't exist, seems to push the envelope, but it's rooted in non-fiction. Clogged toilets, for instance, occur with greater regularity in restrooms that are open to the public, because people will throw anything into a public restroom toilet. Came a time when a toilet at the museum was, I thought, hopelessly clogged, and would require mucking out by hand the masses of human excrement and sodden toilet paper. D, who had preceded me as preparator/janitor at the museum, said that there was a technique, for just this situation, that he had learned, that involved holding back most of the mass with the plunger and flushing it down in batches. Later that night, after a couple of drinks, I imagined a campus where there was a course in unclogging toilets. One thing led to another. I called Glenn, to clarify some points of syntax, and he was interested in doing a documentary film about Janitor College. You reach a point where things might as well be true. I would play myself, in a fictional version of a non-fictional story about myself. A part I was born to play. Glenn has already lined up a shooting schedule and decided on the single-malt scotches he'll be bringing, I just have to be myself. Begs several questions, not the least of which is who that is. The I that is me. I do, for god's sake, mop in a pattern that I call a Modified Chevron (because I have to refer to it as something) and consider it a practical stroke, it eases the pressure on my shoulders and lower back, and it gets the floor clean, which is the whole point, insofar as I can see. Another good title would be "Oh Crap" but that doesn't have the ring of a best-seller. "Side-Boobs And Great Asses" might be a good title, but it has no relation to the truth. I like for there to be some relationship. The film, for instance, could be called "Glendronach" which would pull several threads together, esoteric as they might be. Maybe they'd pay for us to use their name, cover the cost of production; Glenn owns the equipment and both our times are free. We could shoot this movie for a few thousand dollars. I'm struck and flattered by the fact that Glenn wants to use me in his next film; a simple guy that watches tadpoles, who would think. I make another skillet of potato-egg-chorizo, some toast, walk the logging road in the gathering dark, and take a nap. When I get up to pee the back porch is a sheet of ice and I have to come to full consciousness to keep from killing myself, which leads to rolling a smoke and getting a wee dram for my troubles, and turning on the radio. A show I really like called "Jazz After Hours" and it's Miles from "Bitches Brew" then some Hammond Organ that can only be Booker T. Later, I may have napped again, some tenor sax that stirs my sex in a pleasant way, reminding me I'm still alive. Traversing (magic word) the layer of clay near the top of the hill, I use the aluminum mop-handle to keep my balance; one time I throw my entire weight against it, my feet looking for a purchase, and it deforms, slightly, but I stay upright and continue homeward. Nipped that bastard in the bud. I can at least still walk, though stumbling. The accumulated hail is like walking on ball-bearings. Best to just pee in a pot and throw it out later.