Chapter One

Here’s what I believe: If you are standing in a flood of shit and that shit isn’t your own, you’re in deep shit.

That’s where I was back in May; standing barefoot in a flood of shit. It spewed out of the toilet like a geyser of gore, a flood of feces, a torrent of turds, an exodus of excrement; well, you get the idea. I was barefoot, and I was screaming. Once the screaming started, I couldn’t stop it. I stood there, in brown waste, and screamed until my voice cracked. Then I called. I called my neighbors and screamed. I called Jonas and I screamed. He was in the middle of a poker hand, he said. What did I want? I didn’t know what I wanted. So I screamed. Then the door pounded and my neighbors came in. They were wearing galoshes and gloves, so I must have gotten the message across through my screams. I don’t remember. I remember loving them then.

The waste was flowing out of the flooded bathroom and into the hall closet, the bedroom and, to my horror, toward the couch in our living room.

“Not the couch! Oh my God, not the couch!” I ran interference. My neighbors ran interference. We armed ourselves with every towel in my closet and we braced ourselves to meet the onslaught. It came and we pounced. Well, I should say my neighbors pounced. I decided I was more useful screaming. They built a blockade with the towels so the crude oil wouldn’t touch the couch. Then they ran into the bedroom with the few remaining towels and tried to protect the closet and furniture. I followed to assist them with my screams.

My neighbors called the property manager, who, after seeing the flood for herself, finally called the plumber. The water was successfully turned off, the neighbors went off to bed, and Jonas was making the long trip home after playing just one more bad hand.

I was left standing in the vapors of volcanic ass. So I screamed.