DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

(By popular demand, I’ve fashioned another story out of our recent septic tank pumping, an experience rich enough in sensation to spawn entire philosophies. Coming up with a measly journal entry was, you could say, a piece of cake.)

As soon as the “wastewater removal” guy opened the tank, a cloud of foul-smelling air rose up to envelop us both, and indeed all of West Sonoma County. I wanted to ask, “do you ever get used to the smell?” (a Fletch reference, I just realized) but I was too horrified to speak, as the guy had dipped down into the tank with his “stir stick” to break up the floating mass of, err, byproducts. Immediately I realized that Manning The Septic Stir Stick is the worst job in the world, narrowly passing Hot Dog On A Stick Employee, the previous record-holder for stick-wielding professions.

The pumper was talkative, perhaps taking advantage of the fact that he was breathing through his mouth. He delivered an impromptu lecture on the origins and composition of the thin layer of funk coating the inside of the tank. Subsequent research indicates that his explanation was completely incorrect, but at the time, even if I’d known, I would not have challenged him, for he still held the evil Stir Stick.

The actual pumping process is not one you’d have to study long to master. Given my physical proximity to the world headquarters of O’Reilly & Assoc., I feel okay about providing this “Nutshell” reference to septic tank pumping:

1. Don HEPA air filter or oxygen mask if available (optional)
2. Apply the Stick: break up any large floating mass. If you spot anything you can identify, civility demands that you not mention it to the homeowner.
3. Lower a vacuum hose into the soup.
4. Suck the tank dry.

You’ve just earned $330 — enough to invest in rubbing alcohol, boot covers, gloves, leather aprons, autoclave… a coliform containment system so you don’t contaminate your truck’s interior, your pants, shoes, arms, face, and hands with other people’s feces.

Or, like the guy who pumped my tank, you could disregard the need for cleanup and pocket the full payment, blissfully ignorant of the virulent germs running freely over your entire being. I realized that my pump guy belonged in this category when I saw that he had not marked the “up” end of the stir stick. Think that through.

The worst part was still to come. After the pumper had coiled up his hoses and driven away, I realized that having the septic tank open on a breezy day creates an unfortunate air channel: the pipe that feeds the septic tank terminates, at its far end, in my kitchen sink.

Air moves at the slightest provocation, like, even from the wind. This seems especially true when malodors are present. When I returned to the house, having withstood and, to some extent, habituated the great stink in the back yard, I was bowled over by the far greater stink in my kitchen. I guess that was a little going-away present from the pumper, a virtual prepayment for any future tales told at his expense. (As if I would ever do that!)