Tuesday, April 9, 2013

The Silicone Index

Parking's the worst part about this job. Manhattan's a total nightmare, tickets are just a fact of life, an additional expense to be factored into the price of any job. We're circling around in the mid seventies on Park Avenue in the vain hope that a spot becomes available soon. I could park on Lex but the meters are for an hour; by the time I've gotten to the job site given it the once over it's time to rush back and feed the friggin meter some more. All the parking garages have a sign 'No Trucks,' and it's a pain in the balls anyways; you always forget some tool or fitting and have to go back to the truck then you get hassle from the prick attendant who'd already parked two BMWs and a frigging Range Rover in front of you, even though you told him you'll be two hours tops.

Fuck it, I'll double park and leave the apprentice in the truck. What an apprentice, he could come to work in a Brooks Brother's suit, spends more time sat in the fuckin truck making sure I don't gt hit with a ticket than he does plumbing.  What can you do? I tell him to keep his friggin eyes open for the Brownies never mind the babes. Some hope eh? Park Ave in July, hot as hell all the trophy wives passing by. Jesus don't these guys know they're only in it for the money? They have to. Guy last week, wife's a straight 10, no question, he's a little fat fuck, baldie headed sweaty mess stuffed into some ill fitting Armani suit and Gucci loafers. Sad bastard would look over dressed in a pair of LLBean chinos. I seen her looking at me. You ain't telling me she don't fuck around?

So here we are, plastic surgeon's office, the John's backed up. It stinks like fuck, there's a turd the size of a friggin baseball bat curled up in there and half a fuckin roll of  Cottenelle (The Softest & Most Gentle Toilet Tissue For Extra Sensitive Skin) and they're surprised it won't go down! Funny thing is, the receptionist, the nurse, the doc, the babe who puts you under, they're all looking at me like I did it. I think it's the receptionist, she looks guilty but what you gonna do, there's money in shit.

I put on my rubber gloves, don't laugh, I wear a pair of yellow friggin Marigolds,  get the auger, drop the head in and begin to snake away. The shit mashes up with the toilet tissue in the bowl and the dirty brown water splashes up against the sides, the stench increases exponentially. I purposely leave the door open so the receptionist can catch a whiff of it too. There's nobody in the waiting room. I'd close the door if there were. I turn the handle and bear down with my weight. Turning, turning, the shit, the tissue, the water, it all goes around and around then burps up at me the sound I've been waiting for. We're 5 feet through the bend and whatever the blockage was is in the stack now. We're good. I retrieve the auger snake and drop it in a large PVC bag, snap off my gloves and write up the bill.

He's a dick this doc, a real wise arse. I hand him the bill.

'Whoa, $250s for five minutes work? I'm in the wrong game.'
'Things are not too hot in the plastic surgery field at the moment then doc?'
'Not too good? This economy sucks, I haven't done a boob job in 3 weeks.'


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