The Septic Man Cometh

No Art Carney he. No loquacious talk meister. No, Bob was a soft-spoken fellow. I had to lean in to hear him when I was right next to him. His hand barely made an impression on mine when I shook it, and it was soft and cushy, not callused. But of course, as I soon learned, most of his work is done wearing gloves, rubber made. I think he was a little afraid of me. As my husband Richard loves to remind me in acted out stories, I can be a little much in the full blossum of my effusiveness. Stronger men than Bob have been sent into a balk or a slight shielding themselves, maybe even thinking of going for a weapon when I’ve charged up to them to ask directions or wish them a good morning. And morning is my electric time. Bob didn’t know what to make of me. He froze upon my enthusiastic approach, stock still like a rabbit. Bob doesn’t seem like a people person. First impression. And let’s face it, his line of work doesn’t lend itself to conversation, to a give and take, to people coming out wanting to stand beside you and gab, as you uncap the cement block of a receptacle of mostly human waste from the past 3 to 5 years. Not really the kind of thing that conjures up a nostalgic look back. “Oh, look, that must have been when ...” No, septic tank cleaning doesn’t really do that. It’s a solitary undertaking. And Bob went to the beat of a different drummer. A drum with a very muffled beat. But I was garrulous. I wanted to keep him company. And I was curious. I wanted to ask him some tricks of the trade. Incisive journalistic questions like:

‘About how many tanks do you drain a day?’

(Slight pause)

“5.”

(Every answer was given staring straight at me, still, expressionless.)

‘And do you have to drain your truck’s tank after each one?’

“Yes.”

(Pause. Slurping sounds. Bob puts a shovel with an extra-long handle to work.)

‘How big are these tanks?’

“4 feet.”

(Another pause. Lots of looking down. Then he asked me a question, I was overjoyed.)

“You’re talking about how deep?”

‘Yes.’

“4 feet.”

And so it went. And Bob had a job to do. He had places to go, people to meet. Well, tanks to empty.

He was about 60 years old, a worn cap from some country club, thick white sideburns curling around the sides of his face, glasses. A kind-of-smile on his face. Somewhere in between a smile and straight flat line of an expression.

His job finished, he methodically wound the hose, packed up his tools, and then sat in his truck cab with the door open and wrote up the bill. I replaced the dirt and sod back around the green plastic raised cover to the tank. He walked over to me with his clipboard.

“You want to mail this in or ... ?”

(I had to lean in to hear what he was saying and that may have been why he trailed off instead of finishing his sentence, but it seemed as if he stopped speaking because he was too shy to ask for outright payment, as if that would have been an affront.)

‘No thanks, I’ll mail it in later. ’

He slowly fingered through the receipt and ripped it from beneath a carbon. When was the last time I’d seen carbon paper. He handed me my receipt and a card saying the day’s date of cleaning, almost 4 years from the last time.

‘Well, thanks Bob, good job.’

(I shook his hand. He had a faint, faint smile on his face.)

‘Have a good day.’

“Thank you. You too.”

Some people gotta do the dirty work. And Bob walked over to his truck without looking back, got in, started his motor, and drove right out of my life.