The following is an excerpt from The Humorist: Adventures in Adulting & Horror Movies, which is now available in paperback, ebook and audiobook.
My new life as a plumber was going better than I ever imagined.
Gone were the days of feeling like an outsider at hardware stores any time I took on a house project — which, by no coincidence, always seemed to happen in the wake of romantic separations. After a focused bout of wallowing, it would occur to me exactly what was missing in my life: a fire pit! Sure, the weather in Florida might only be cold enough for bonfires about sixty days out of the year, but those days were fast approaching in just ten short months, and I had marshmallows to burn in effigy, molten-red centers of flame to stare longingly into, and lies to tell myself, that my eyes were only misty because of the smoke.
“Refinishing some furniture?” a worker asked after watching me wander the paint section for the past forty minutes, stopping for long stretches of time to squint at the microscopic directions printed on the backs of cans of wood stain. He was right — I was giving my dresser a makeover — but his tone was dripping with judgement. “Wow. All by yourself?” he wanted to say; it was obvious. “Sure you’re up for that, little guy?”
Workers back then could smell the stink of post-breakup desperation all over me, especially the guy at the tool-rental counter, who tried to hide his concern when I told him I needed a table saw — and quick.
“You’ll have to sign this waiver,” he told me, pushing a contract across the counter. “Ever use one of these before?”
“A pen?” I shot back, grabbing the contract and angrily squiggling on the dotted line. “Uh, yeah. I think I could manage.”
His patronizing tone got me so riled up so that I didn’t even bother reading the waiver. “IN CASE OF DEATH OR BODILY HARM …,” it probably said. “NO LIABILITY.” “INSTEAD OF USING POWER TOOLS, HAVE YOU CONSIDERED MAYBE, YOU KNOW, TALKING TO A THERAPIST INSTEAD?”
“I meant the saw,” he replied, the lines of concern on his face growing deeper. Then he showed me where the emergency off-switch was. “And always use gloves and goggles.” And then he showed me where the emergency off-switch was again.
But that was the old me.
The new me felt a deep and undeniable surge of respect emanating from not just the Home Depot staff but also my fellow shoppers. Everyone from the manager to the contractors hauling loads of lumber that they’d soon craft into docks and decks and mansions looked in my direction with a knowing nod. They didn’t see a clueless suburbanite with something to prove anymore, no, no. They saw a tried-and-true tradesman.
I was one of them now.
NOW PLAYING
— THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE (1974) —
Takeaway: Own at least one power tool.
“Finding everything you need?” a man with white bushy hair and an orange apron asked me. The apron meant that he definitely knew his stuff, but I had fifteen views of a YouTube tutorial under my belt and wasn’t afraid to use them.
“Me? Naw. I’ve been down these aisles a million times, pal. Know ‘em like the back of my hand.”
“Okay then.” He turned to leave.
“Just looking for flanges is all,” I said, half to myself, turning away from him to gaze upon the shelving. “Love a good flange. Nothing like ‘em. Crazy for the flange.”
He turned back in my direction. “A toilet flange?”
“What’s that?” I asked. The guy was clearly eavesdropping and desperate for my approval, but I figured I’d play along. Throw him a bone. You know how these tradespeople are. They like to feel needed. I felt for the guy.
“Ain’t no other kind, are there, friendo?” I said, realizing immediately that that was the first time I’d ever used either “friendo” or “ain’t” unironically in a sentence.
“Well, actually, there are quite a few different kinds—“
“Let me stop you right there, chief,” I told him. “I’m not here to buy a flange. Just to admire ‘em, got me? You plumb?”
He shrugged. “Just basic stuff around the house, you know.”
“Oh, sure, I know. Do I ever! I know all too well.” I let out a deep belly laugh and slapped his shoulder.
He nodded and forced a smile.
“But about those flanges,” I said. “I’ve got one at home, a whole set of ‘em, really. I’m all set on the flange front, okay? Absolutely no problems there.” I looked at him sternly.
“Okay….”
“I’m just changing a toilet, that’s all,” I said. “A little renovation, you know.”
I motioned toward my cart, where I’d stacked tile, bags of grout and mortar, and a trowel. He was clearly impressed.
“M-hm. Doing some tile work?”
“Eh, I hardly think of it as work,” I explained. “Find something you love, you never work a day your whole life, am I right?”
He turned again. “Well let me know if you need any help….”
“Now that you bring it up,” I said, waving him back. “I’m updating the whole bathroom — just me, not some bozo gun-for-hire. Guys like us, we want a job done right, we do it ourselves, if you catch my drift.”
He stared at me blankly.
“Well, I’m also installing a sink. Where ya’ll keep your PVC pipes?”
I flipped through my mental rolodex. “Ya’ll” — yep, that was another first.
“Next aisle over,” he pointed, and I flashed him a salute.
In my pocket, I had exhaustive handwritten lists of the parts and tools I’d need to complete this job. Hours of internet research outlined exactly how to change the toilet, retile the space and install the new vanity — a job that would require something called a P-trap, which I learned is essentially a curved pipe that stops sewer gases from pushing up into the house through the stink drain. I found the P-trap aisle, perused the 897 different sizes of P-traps available on the shelves — 1.25-inch, 1.5-inch, 1.75-inch, etc. — picked the one that looked about right then headed home with the last of my supplies.
Then: It was demo-day.
“Rebecca! Charlotte! Come on!” I handed them both safety goggles and a hammer. “Okay, now get in there and take some cuts.”
Rebecca dropped the hammer on the top of the old countertop, but the thing barely cracked.
“Really get in there,” I coached her. “Stride forward with your front foot for extra torque. Pivot on your back foot. Turn on it and keep your eye on target. Swing through the stone.”
Rebecca reared back. “You can’t hurt us anymore!” she primal-screamed, and shards of fake marble went flying.
Then, Charlotte took the hammer: “Hiii-ya!”
Smashing the ‘90s-era vanity became an act of violent bonding for us. Each hit served as a symbol of ownership over that house, not only in how it looked but how we lived within it.
“BONZAIIIIII!” I yelled, swinging for the fences. And the beast was slain.
That bathroom became my obsession in the weeks that followed. I pried baseboards and ceramic towel racks off the wall, then chiseled up old tile. Soon, I was down to just a concrete floor with a toilet hole that I plugged with an old pink rag. I spent even more time researching the tile work than I did the toilet, learning so many exciting new words along the way that I couldn’t wait to bust out in the future to impress my know-nothing friends and family. Subfloor! Wet saw! Wax ring!
“Wait, you mean to tell me you didn’t know you have to use spacers to lay tile?” I looked so forward to mocking them, in between sloppy bites of a Disney-sized turkey leg. The meat was key. How else would I subliminally showcase yet another layer of my manliness? “Bush league!” I’d laugh, mouth full, greasy chin. “Please say you at least have floats and paddles.”
Tile by tile, I became Pinocchio. I could feel myself turning into a real boy — I could even see it. My white collar was turning blue. The floor was transforming from a slab of concrete to a sparkling spread of white octagonal tile, with grout spread perfectly in between the seams. Like Tom Hanks in Cast Away, I’d rip off my shirt and yell at anyone who stopped by the house: “Look what I have created!” I’d wave my arms theatrically in front of the bathroom to show them my progress, before running off to grab another turkey leg.
Once the grout dried, I used a miter saw to cut and install the floorboards, then I moved in the vanity, using glues and brackets to under-mount the sink, just like YouTube taught me.
“I don’t want to overstate the point,” I told Rebecca. “But I should have my own show on HGTV.”
The P-trap I bought for the sink slid into place like a dream, and I fitted it with plumber’s tape. But when I turned on the sink, there was a drip underneath. I took everything apart and did it all over again. Still a drip. I tightened things, loosened things, applied more tape, less tape. I tried screaming obscenities at it.
Drip.
“Maybe you just need some space from it,” Rebecca told me. “Just get the toilet in then worry about the sink later.”
It was good advice, except that when I set the new toilet in place, there was about a quarter-inch gap between it and the floor. I dug deep into my memory to try to remember if any toilets I had encountered in the past seemed to hover above the ground like this. Did any wobble? Maybe this was totally normal? Maybe a rocking toilet could actually be fun! Maybe — just maybe — I created a hot new trend.
But I was kidding myself.
I stepped outside the bathroom and could see all my hard work coming together. The walls were freshly painted above the glossy tile, with a new wooden vanity and sparkly toilet. It looked almost perfect — except, none of it was usable. I had dark visions of the drip getting worse and worse, until one morning I’d come downstairs to find the entire house flooded halfway up the staircase. Even more nightmarish, I imagined chunky brown water seeping out from underneath our home’s most unique feature: the Cavaliere Signature Rocking Toilet.
That’s when I caved and called a real plumber.
“It’s right over here,” I told him, leading the way to the bathroom. “It has to be — I mean, I think there might be something wrong with the flange.”
“Let me stop you right there, chief,” he said, kneeling down to open his toolbox. “I’ll take look, get it fixed for ya.”
And he did. An hour later, everything worked perfectly. He didn’t consult a single YouTube video while he was working, either. It was both impressive and infuriating.
“Can I get you some water or anything?” I asked him, suddenly reduced to the role of assistant but opting to think of myself more as a good project manager, a strong servant-leader and big-picture thinker, the type whose time is far too valuable to waste on menial toilet-related tasks.
“Naw, I’m good.”
“You sure?” I asked. “Working with your hands has a habit of making a man thirsty. I know from experience — trust me.”
Wait — there’s more! This was just a sample from the book The Humorist: Adventures in Adulting & Horror Movies.
For the full story, and many more tales set at the intersection of life and cinema, order your copy today!
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Mike Cavaliere 