EXCREMENTAL-ILLNESS

by

Judd Hampton

Puppies

You lie in bed ill--all the days it snows. I hush the kids, usher them outside to play.

"Let's build an igloo," one suggests.

I don't know how, so we improvise. We shovel snow eight feet high. It freezes. Tunnelling in, we scoop out the centre, shaping our igloo from the inside out. The Inuit can fashion an icehouse in two hours. Ours takes two weeks, and it has Shadow's dog shit lodged in the walls--I bet that never happened to the Inuit. The kids refuse to play in it.

I look out the window and watch Shadow chase her last truck--she never really grasped ice: not in relation to momentum and prospective stopping expectancies.

"I want two puppies," everyone agrees, but me. Large breeds. Playful like Shadow.

Winter ends. The snow recedes, and like spring flora the droppings emerge. While the children jump on the trampoline, the puppies steal their shoes. Our boys give chase, tackling dogs, wrestling footwear from slobbery jaws. Everyone laughs, but me. I peel off the mucky socks and scrub stinking feet. I steam-clean the carpet, bleach linoleum. The doctor can't name your affliction, but I know mine.

Now I carry a scoop-shovel.

Kitties

I don't know how to throw a cat--not well anyway. Scars running down my forearms prove it.

I built our house. Banged every nail. Concrete, framing, roofing, wiring, plumbing, gas-fitting--you name it, I did it. My investment's obvious. Remember the over-priced wallpaper you chose? The colonial doors? The oak trim? Shredded like my forearms. One man giveth and your four cats taketh away.

"Lack of ventilation is the cause," the doctor says of your malady.

I open windows, drape a cold cloth across your head. The cats hang off the screens, ripping holes for the mosquitoes to find. I shut the windows and fill the room with plants. The cats chew off the leaves and squat in the pots and our house smells like a litter box. I throw the plants outside. The cats squeeze beneath the basement floor, shit between joists.

"What should I do?"

"Buy a litter box," you say.

I buy two. As you fitfully sleep I clean the cat boxes. Every morning I cart pails of grey clumps to the porch, where they accrue. Huge plastic bags of the stuff proliferated, spilling over the railing.

"What should I do with it?"

"Spread it in the garden," you say.

I rake cat litter into the soil like mulch. The backyard stinks. The puppies go wild, rooting through what I've laid, rolling in it, gobbling up grainy nuggets. They fall ill, leave behind fresh lumps, and lay like bumps at the bottom of the stairs. Your health finds no improvement.

"Perhaps she should see a psychiatrist," the doctor says.

Family

I cook dinner--gratis Kraft. The front door flies open, blasting against the drywall I hung, plastered and painted myself. Our son runs inside, dirty fingers smudging white walls.

"Look at all the poop," he says, tugging me toward the door.

He hasn't watched his step, doesn't pull his shoes off at the door, or spot the spots he smears into the carpet. I mop the floor and scrub the rug, change socks, start laundry. You rest in bed, an open palm draped across your eyes. I fetch you water and something to read.

"Daddy, the toilet won't flush," says our son, cinching his pants.

I trade my macaroni spoon for a plunger. Soupy water splashes my pants.

"Daddy, there's a bad smell downstairs."

The sewer is backed up all over the basement floor: our family albums are floating like buoys.

The pump quit and the septic tank overflowed. Outside, I crawl into the cesspool, black crud staining my skin. Gasping for air, I unhook the pump. Everything spins. I drop a screwdriver and hose clamp into the fetid abyss and pray not to pass out. With a weary heave, I toss the sewer-pump up on the lawn. Dismantling it, I find dental floss wrapped tightly around the impellers, which has seized the pump. I grit my teeth, crawl back into the septic tank and reinstall the pump.

After supper I scoop-shovel effluence from the basement floor.

"I don't need a psychiatrist," you say, "I just need rest."

I throw a cat out the window and toss all of our dental floss in the trash. Our Blue's Clues Band-Aids hardly stop the blood draining from my forearms.

Work

Away from home, I drive a vacuum truck. It has dual axles and an air-ride cab and when it bounces over bumps, the tank rattles with oily gravel, mud and grass-a rhythmic concerto to my ears. When petroleum companies spill oil, I clean up. Pipeline ruptures, tanker rollovers, well blowouts--everyone wants me, everyone needs me. God, I love it. My vacuum hose spans eighty feet and can suck a bowling ball through a steel fence. The world bows prostrate at my feet.

But petroleum companies stop spilling oil.

"What do I do now?"

"Empty septic tanks," you say.

So I do. I drive from farm-house to farm-house, sucking out septic tanks. Farmers stand in dusty coveralls, eyeing the clouds, scratching numbers on checks and stuffing them in my pocket. There are plastic orb tanks with centre weirs, steel tanks with barriers and screens and a shelf to house the pump. I empty big ones, little ones, tanks made of wood, even tanks with bloated cats rotting in them.

"What do I do with all this waste?"

"Dump it in a field," you say.

So I do, but it's someone's farmland. And now I'm not allowed to drive a vacuum truck.

Our bed is soft and warm and conspicuously absent of you. I tug the covers to my chin, sink my head into the pillow and drape an open palm across my eyes.

"We'd like to observe her in a clinical environment," the psychiatrist says, tugging you out the door.

I ask you to fetch me a cold cloth for my head as you leave. You scoff at my request, flick hair from your eyes and say, "My life is shit."

§ § §

When Judd Hampton isn't crawling in sewers, he writes about them. His work appears or will appear in Unknown Writer, Insolent Rudder, Eyeshot and Night Train. His artwork may be viewed online at Outsider Ink, Aileron and Opium Magazine.

Judd can be reached via email at:stiksnet@telusplanet.net .

Send the URL for this work to a friend!

GO TO NEXT PAGE