Commode

This has to start with a geography lesson. Years ago Sullivan County (a very Irish name, Sullivan,) was predominately Jewish, the Jews having settled in this Catskill region around the turn of the last century. The Jersey shore, the area around Brielle, Spring Lake, Mannesquan, was called the Irish Sullivan county although it is doubtful that the Irish predominated in this lovely region. White Anglo Saxon Protestants were more likely because the homes were on one of the loveliest stretches of Atlantic shoreline and had been there for decades. Back then the “Micks,” arriving from stricken Ireland, were living five to a room in Boston and New York.

Spring Lake was a superb summer community dominated by three or four old and classy hotels. So old, in fact, that one, at least, had bathrooms at the end of the hall rather than in the rooms themselves. But the middle class Irish flocked to them and many a “jar” was consumed of a Friday and Saturday, Sunday being devoted to Mass and hangovers.

During a summer between semesters at NYU, I was a room service waiter at one of these “grand dame” hotels. It was an interesting experience because as soon as I had finished getting food to the rooms I had to set up the large gazebo on the beach for those that wanted to consume their victuals to the sound of gulls and surf. The afternoons, the staff kids spent on the beach getting exercise and super tans, that’s when being tan was looked upon as healthy rather than a precursor to basal or squamous cell skin cancers.

As is usually the case, there was one enormous drawback to this idyllic, if working, summer. She was a harridan who occupied a choice corner wing of the hotel, had done so for donkeys years and made my life miserable by invariably ordering an enormous breakfast at one minute to 9 a.m., just when I was supposed to be setting up the beach house with beer and sodas. Got so I would make sure the pancakes hit the floor a couple of times, the bacon likewise and the toast was harder than the hammers of hell before it reached her door.

It wasn’t that she was such a consistent pain in the ass, it was also that she was mean-spirited and took her wrath out on anyone within shouting distance. She never tipped anyone and the young staff were college kids trying to make tuition. She was everyone’s cross to bear, when the devil intervened.

I had received the late order, as usual, bitched mightily, as usual, and took the serving cart up to the fourth floor, as usual, and knocked on the door. What was unusual was that she didn’t answer with her usual bellicose, “God damn it, come in.” Instead I heard muffled sounds and knocked again with the same result. Running short of time I timorously turned the knob and peered in. She wasn’t there and I was puzzled until I happened to glance into the mirror affixed to the inside of her bathroom door. She was on the commode, or rather in it, since the toilet seat was up and she was firmly wedged in the bowl itself. She must have thrown something down the toilet, probably a piece of pie or cake she kept for emergencies, and failed to lower the seat.

Her great, cellulite backside was stuck and stuck wonderfully. She was cursing, roaring her anger as I pulled back before she could see me, and a totally evil thought entered my ever-active mind. What if I backed out without any noise and left the cart in front of the door, indicating that there had been no response from within? This could cover my ass and she could sit there for several more hours before the housekeeping staff came in to change the bedding and straighten up the room. No sooner thought than acted upon, and I closed the thick oak door to the muffled roars from within.

Leaving the cart, I called housekeeping and told them not to clean up the tyrant’s room since she wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want to be disturbed. They said O.K., probably thinking about the tips they never made, and the dye was cast. I set up the casino and glanced up at her room until I was so busy I forget all about her until after the lunch rush. Suddenly it was 1:30 and I was headed for the surf when she came to mind.

Frankly the temptation to let her sit there for another twelve hours was strong but my better angels prevailed. I went back to allegedly get the cart and opened the door and called within. Of course she heard me and started giving me three kinds of hell for not helping her. I took a look and said, “Looks like you’re really stuck, I’ll send the plumber,” which I did. The plumber and a maintenance kid tugged with all their might. and all the while she howled and berated them. Being either awed or nauseated by the sight of her, they had draped a sheet over her shoulders. Nothing happened until one thought of pouring olive oil around the side of the bowl.

Now it was getting interesting and some guests had gathered to discuss her plight. Various remedies were tried, including a stout rope, which was duly tied around her mid-section and a team of young bravos pulled, but to no avail. Maybe all that cellulite had bonded together and formed a powerful ring beneath the bowl’s rim. I sincerely hoped so but I was in the forefront of the group trying to rescue her.

Another forty-five minutes passed before someone said, “The hell with it, let’s call the fire department.” Sure enough, half an hour passed and three burly firemen arrived, took one look and almost choked on their laughter. She called them every kind of sons of bitches, Protestant bastards. ( Being local, this pissed them off further, they might have to deal with the Irish during the summer but the town was rightfully theirs and their Protestant forebears.) Anyway, they didn’t prevail and a last ditch effort was called for.

A fire truck arrived and two more firefighters arrived with the tools they used to tear down buildings. More olive oil was poured while cocktail hour approached and the halls filled with guests who had made a party out of the occasion. Obviously they were black-hearted souls without a trace of compassion.

More olive oil was poured, the floor was awash in it and a firefighter moved into the bathroom, the rope around her waste was tightened and we pulled as the fireman swung his heavy-duty bar at the commode. Out she came like a shot, without pausing to catch her breath as she hurled inventive upon her rescuers alike.

Pandemonium prevailed while the staff tried to wrap her in beach towels, the firemen evacuated the bathroom with alacrity, went outside and fell on the floor laughing and I stood quietly down the hall. I think I started humming the “Londonderry-Aire,” “Danny Boy,” to you, and walked off into an uncertain future.