The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Karla’s Kut Above sits below the WindyRear real estate offices right across from the fire station. We don’t have much commercial on the South End so space is limited and rent is astronomical. Karla does okay, despite the overhead. She has a couple of stylists who rent chairs, Billie and Veronica, neither from around here, which keeps the gossip almost under control.

Veronica kept saying Camahno for Camano the first year, but tomahto, potahto, who cares? One of the recent candidates for Island County Commissioner pronounced it Camahno too. Who knows, maybe Veronica styled his hair? Actually we do know cause he said he’d never been here before. It’s an odd name for an odd island. Billie called it Commando Island and still does.

Karla figured she’d get to experiment a bit on styling, become the tonsorial artiste she’d dreamed of being. Course, mostly she does perms and blue hair touch up for our more geriatric crowd. It pays the rent, but she would be the first to tell you it doesn’t exactly set her soul free, but hey! life isn’t a chick flick.

Veronica plans to move on soon, so she says. Set up a salon herself closer to Seattle and Gomorrah, maybe draw a hipper, younger clientele than here. Course, the competition is worse, rents are even higher and there’s that whole nuisance of accounting, advertising, payroll and hiring, stuff that sort of ruins capitalism for her. Me too, if you want to know….

Billie’s my stylist … although maybe that’s not the most accurate description. I get a Lop Job about once every 9 or 12months, depending on my need to look halfway respectable at finalist art presentations, what you might call job interviews. The rest of the time I wear hats in various stages of decomposition. Hair style is pretty much moot. I know Billie’s been at the Kut Above a long time because she’s cut my hair 3 or 4 times. Might explain why she never remembers me. Well … at least until I put the hat on over her tonsorial artistry. Also explains why I always leave a generous tip.

Quite a few islanders ask me if they’re South Enders or not, thinking, I guess, there’s a geographical demarcation, a Mountain View/Dixon Line. I usually tell them it’s more a psychological barrier, but then they think I mean psychotic and before you know it, misunderstandings turn into subtle hostilities and they decide they don’t want to be one of us after all. It’s not exactly a social club. Most of us down here didn’t choose to be South Enders. These things just happen.

Nevertheless, it does get a person to thinking: maybe we should annex a few acres here and there, suburbanize the backwashes and the bayous, zone them as Free Thinking refuges, then while we’re at it, liberate the gated communities trapped behind remote controlled bars and alarms with their high def TV’s and their BMW’s. Lower their taxes, if nothing else, fair compensation for the loss of their overvalued self esteem. Get em off their High Horse and their high property tax.

Hellfire, sometimes I get grandiose and imagine we could bring our enlightened way of living clear up to the north end, maybe even Stanwoodopolis. A little Shucks and Awe or maybe Aw Shucks and Law, liberate them from their backward ideas on government and philosophy. South End Exceptionalism! The 21st century’s answer to Manifest Destiny. I know, it sounds good to me too.

But then I pause and think: if we break it, we own it. Iran just went to pieces this week and if we couldn’t bring those folks some good old fashioned American Values, how do we expect Utsaladians and Camalochers to get behind our South End Ideals? They got their tribal ways, entrenched for decades and barely hanging together by a thread. Upset the delicate balance and we’ll reap the whirlwind. Onamac vs. Finistere, grabbing for that northern gas pipeline. Juniper Beach sweeping down on Twin City Food, overtaking its strategic barricades on the river. Terry’s Cornermen capturing Cascade Lumber. It would make Middle East sectarianism look like Wednesday night women’s mud wrestling at the 282 Pub. No, I think to keep the peace we need to keep the boundaries defined. You folks envious of us South Enders, well, you probably need to talk to a realtor down at Windy Rear. Or just wait til you lose your job. You’ll find your way here….

Mama said there’d be days like this. You get up on a sunny hopeful morn, you take your shower, brush your teeth, wash the breakfast dishes, toss in a load of laundry, help yourself to another cup of joe. You’re psyched for another day in the mine, just glad to be alive. You go back in the bathroom, get rid of those first two cups of caffeine … and hear the sink gurgling like a bad gargle. Odd, you think. The kitchen sink chimes in, a drain duet. Then you noticed the toilet water isn’t going down, it’s coming up!

What the …? And then you find the bathtub filling up … with … omigod! With what should never be in your bathtub.

Who ya gonna call? Crapbusters? Being a modern South Ender, I postpone my optimism and pull the shades down on the mocking sun. Ain’t no sunshine when the sewage comes home to roost, trust me. Then I go to my computer and google up Invasion of the Turds, pass up the first ads and go to the How-To and You-Tube and the Suicide Hotline. I pick the How-To. The Hotline will come later, I’m half certain, but it’s a last resort. I have the internet — I have a global support team.

I’m no novice to this plumbing paradox, I pretty much know the bad news that’s coming. I’m just hoping to find a glimmer of hope, some yahoo who sez check the toilet float, jiggle it, you’ll be good to go. My ‘team’ focuses instead on more likely and infinitely worse diagnoses: a plugged sewer line, a ruined drainfield or a full septic tank. Pick yer poison! The tank was pumped recently so I’m down to 2 options. I choose the only one I can fix myself — the line.

That was yesterday. I started at the tank and dug down, found the line a few feet down, then trenched back toward the house. An old growth forsythia thwarted my forward progress. I sawed it off, whacked at its roots, chained it to my truck and jerked it out like a bad wisdom tooth. Sure I felt bad. For me! Its roots were what had clogged my line where the pipes had broken. Iron to clay to PVC. It was like an archeological dig through plumbing eras, Roman to modern.

Today I joined the new pipes, ran some serious water as a test then filled the grave. I tell you, there’s a damn good reason to keep the old outhouse!

I was following a Cadillac SUV with a bumper sticker that read: YOU’RE THE REASON YOU’RE SUFFERING. This is bad news indeed for most of us down here on the South End, but at least now we know who to blame for our misfortunes. Although … I don’t think I care for the Winners in the Game of Life telling us Losers we deserve what we got. Some of us sure do. And I’m one. But I don’t ask for favors … or sympathy … or welfare either. I’m not going to make it to the 1% and I’m not gonna work myself to death trying.

But there are folks like Janet down the road, two kids in preschool and daycare, a husband John back from the Oil Wars with one leg and a head bounced too many times in IED explosions who’s pretty much a permanent casualty. She’s trying to hold a job and hold things together too. She’s 24 going on 60 and I seriously doubt she thinks her suffering is on account of her.

Joe the Plumber — and no, not that Joe the Plumber — has meliosomethingorother, the cancer from breathing asbestos when he unknowingly worked with the stuff in his youth. I doubt he’s going to take kindly to a Cadillac bumper sticker that thinks his Attitude must be to blame for his disease.

The rich think the rest of us are lazy, I guess. The 1% think the losers are takers. The corporate boyz think they made it on their own, no help from the education system, no assistance from the government that built the infrastructure, no subsidies or tax credits or loopholes in the law. They got theirs and if it happens to suck up most of yours, well, tough. You coulda done it too. Course, you might have been born black or Hispanic, you might be autistic or handicapped, you might be a single mom or a laid-off worker, you might get sick, you might be discriminated against, you might have been born on the South End.

We all want to believe we’re the captains of our destiny. But the waters we sail are more treacherous for some. It doesn’t take much compassion to pick up survivors in the water from the lifeboat off your yacht. Course, when the time comes we take the yacht away from you, I hope you’ll understand, it’s going to be your fault.

When I bought my truck about 16 years ago, the nice salesman wanted to sell me a warranty, I forget exactly, but parts or labor, once the original guarantee of 50,000 miles for the drive train expired. I said, gee, I sort of expected not to have problems with your fine line of vehicles. And declined the offer.

Warranties, seems to me, are insurance policies. Against breakdowns, accidents, fires, hurricanes, you name it, against Fear. Maybe you’ve noticed how much your car insurance went up recently. Or your homeowners’ insurance spiked. Or, get ready, your health insurance going through the roof this month now that Obamacare subsidies have expired.

Our new dryer just broke down, nothing I can fix, and yeah, you guess it, I turned down the warranty, thinking this expensive appliance would last longer than 6 months without requiring repairs. The nice man asked if I wanted that extended warranty. Covers parts, not labor. Or vice versa — I never remember. Of course I declined the offer, what, me worry?

Plane reservations, vacation rentals, auto reservations — you want the policy if anything comes up, sickness, death in the family, temporary insanity and god forbid you can’t make it, only a good chunk of the fees to relieve your anxieties, save you losing a bundle, even a marriage, possibly that sanity you hold so dear.

Nearly everything now comes with a proferred warranty. Lawnmowers, vacuum cleaners, power tools, cookware, new children. Why take a chance?? Why risk owning a defective product, a lemon, a missed vacation flight? When, for a few extra bucks, okay, a lot of extra bucks, for a signature on the dotted line, that gizmo you bought, when it breaks, when it blows up, when it leaves you stranded on the side of a rush hour freeway in the pouring rain, you know that company that sold it to you will make it good.

If you believe that, call me, I got a warranty for their warranty. You’ll sleep a helluva lot easier.