A Place Upon the Throne

“So, what’s doing with you, dude?” The waitress delivered O’Donnell’s usual coffee, slice of lemon pie and banana. “I know I’ve been up to my neck in it at the plant.”

“I have been occupied constantly, too,” Sullivan said crisply. “There’s no rest for those of us who are important cogs in society’s ceaseless wheels.”

“You’re still not on that higher-calling crap, are you? Come on, Sulley, you’re a –”

Sullivan held up his hand. “Don’t call me that. Mine is an occupation more dignified than that word. We have been over this many times.”

“If that’s how you’re going to be, I’ll counter your professional dignity by saying I think it’s more civilized to take a dump in the woods,” O’Donnell said, smirking. “How can it be civilized to take that kind of activity into the house? Think about it, Sulley. Let’s say you’ve been eating greasy food all day, you’ve got to GO, man. You’re gonna find the nearest hole, fill it with whatever, and end up stinking up the whole place. If you go outside, nature airs it out for ya, it becomes one with the ground. Poof! It’s all taken care of.”

“You, sir, don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sullivan replied. “No self-respecting person is going to go outdoors to answer nature’s most urgent call. What if it’s raining? What if it is cold? Not only does such behavior leave one vulnerable to coyotes, snakes and brave spiders ... it would frost one’s particulars before the business transaction is completed.”

“Ah yes, Sir Sulley. But I know that if you get a bunch of guys who are not strict in their culinary adventures, the whole dang room just ‘bout knocks you over after all the grunting and carrying on. I stick to my guns: the ditch provides more comfort than could a fancy hotel with smelly candles, a bidet and the most comfy Jacuzzi. We are the victims of our own unwillingness to face the fact that crapping indoors should be left to the realm of felines and small children.” O’Donnell snorted loudly at his own remark.

“The great city of ancient Rome was made great by its system of waste disposal, O’Donnell,” Sullivan retorted. “That early sanitation system, and continual improvement over the years, has made our lives greater in our lifetime.”

“Rome, huh? I have it on good authority from a research paper my boy wrote for his Western Civ class last month that ancient Rome wasn’t all that great. Open sewers, buckets of poo tossed out of high-rise windows, lack of the finer scents. Rome was not built, nor did it fall, in one day. It took years of unsavory practices to lose its luster.

“My boy's research convinced me even more that the best option is to dig a hole in your back yard, fill it, and then dig a new one. No chances for commodes to back up or bacteria to collect in the bowl. No chance for septic systems to reverse gears and haunt you with the ghosts of dinners past. Happier marriages because they lack the seat up/down arguments. Mother Nature uses her power and fury to break down the waste and use it for good as soon as it hits the ground.

“As for ‘continual improvement,’ I must say that today’s mandatory low-flow toilets are made just so people like you can stay in business. They come preclogged so you don’t even have to bother wadding up tissue to make it stop working."

Sulley felt his blood pressure rise within his neck. “You will not degrade the importance of my profession, sir. I will not let you soil the honorable name of my family. You will leave now, sir, before I introduce you to the knuckles of my right hand in a way that won’t make you comfortable.”

“Honorable profession? You’ve told me before there are days when you are knee-deep in crap. Others have you with your hands halfway down some old lady's infrequently scrubbed toilet. Come on, Sulley! The odor alone makes yours a career that ain’t all it’s cracked up to be! Even as a layman, I know it’s a dirty job ... you’ve got to overlook stains that got there by way of lazy excretion. You are a low man on civilization’s ladder.”

“I warned you!” Sullivan stood, knocking his chair backward, his bulk blocking the light of the rising sun streaming through the diner’s front window.

O’Donnell’s wiry frame rose to meet him, but rather than presenting an imposing facade of defense, he started to laugh.

“What are you laughing at?” Sullivan demanded. “I see no humor in your ridicule of the world’s most noble profession or my family name. I help those little old ladies relieve themselves without encountering the elements. I make the world respectable by removing the possibility of tripping over excrement after using a ditch. Mankind is better than the bears who do it in the woods. You are a weasel of a man, and I’ve got no time for you.”

With that, Sullivan polished off the remaining swig of his coffee, put on his crown – er, hat – that is emblazoned with a cartoon character saying, “Take the plunge.” He slapped a five-dollar bill on the table, glared at O’Donnell one last time, and hurried to his chariot.

The old white van’s engine sputtered to life and, despite the rather tasteless graphic of a toilet with a crown sitting on the tank painted on both sides, the words “King Sullivan’s Plumbing Service” retained their significance for those who are experiencing clogged toilets, backed-up septic tanks, or the need to quell the annoying drip of an oft-used shower.

Hundreds of years before, peasants lined the dirt passageways of a faraway kingdom, and whispered excitedly before a royal procession passed them. “Here comes King Sullivan,” they would say, “friend of all man and ruler of the throne.”