Chapter 3
My heart always swells with pride when I show up at the headquarters of Toiletmasters Plumbers.
There, painted on the front wall of the building, next to a caricature of a plumber brandishing two plungers like six-shooters, is my slogan In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters!
True, the building is located in one of the San Fernando Valley’s seedier enclaves, and my slogan is now festooned with several X-rated works of graffiti, but I still get a kick out of seeing my words splashed across the wall.
And that afternoon was no exception as I pulled into the lot to meet up with Phil Angelides and his Touch-Me-Not commode.
I found Phil in his back office, his battered desk drowning in a sea of papers and assorted wrenches. Sitting amid the clutter was a supersized jar of hand sanitizer.
“Great to see you, Jaine!” Phil said, leaping up to greet me as I walked in the door.
A mountain of a guy with hair everywhere on his body except his head, Phil’s got the personality of a Labradoodle, happy and slurpy and bursting with enthusiasm.
He gave my hands an eager squeeze, almost breaking a knuckle or two in the process. Then, the minute he let go, he proceeded to douse his hands with sanitizer.
It never ceases to amaze me that Phil, who still goes out in the field and sticks his hands in God knows what, is worried about catching my germs.
“Wait’ll you see the Touch-Me-Not!” he gushed, leading me out to his showroom. “You’re gonna flip over it! But first, you gotta see what I just bought for my collection.”
The collection to which Phil referred was his stockpile of celebrity commodes.
Yes, you read that right. The guy collects toilet bowls of the rich and famous.
Whenever he learns of a celebrity home demolition, he’s the first on the scene to pick up the commodes. Apparently, there’s a market for this stuff. He’s even been known to bid on toilets from overseas. The crown in his collection is a nondescript white porcelain number that used to belong to Johnny Carson, which he has proudly dubbed Johnny’s Johnny. He claims to own commodes used by Winston Churchill, Cary Grant, and J. K. Rowling (Potter’s Potty).
“Look!” he said, pointing to an old-fashioned toilet with a wooden seat and a pull chain. “Queen Elizabeth’s toilet from Windsor Castle! “Just think!” he beamed. “I own the queen’s other throne!”
After several minutes of oohing and aahing over the royal toilet, Phil finally got down to business.
“Time to see the Touch-Me-Not,” he said, heading over to his display of toilets for us mere mortals.
“Here she is,” he said, pointing with a flourish to a sleek white toilet.
The guy was so darn proud, I almost expected to hear a fanfare of trumpets blaring in the background.
“I just hold my hand over the tank,” he said, placing his hammy palm over a small round sensor atop the tank, “and like magic, the toilet flushes.”
Of course, the sample we were looking at did not flush, since it wasn’t hooked up to any actual plumbing, but Phil assured me it worked like a charm.
“Isn’t it great?” he said, waxing euphoric. “Fewer germs to pick up or leave behind!”
He grinned at me expectantly, waiting for me to be amazed.
“It’s a miracle!” I cried, fearing I might be overdoing it just a tad.
But if I was overdoing it, Phil didn’t seem to notice.
“You’re going to have so much fun writing the brochure,” he said. “C’mon back to my office and I’ll give you the specs.”
Back in his office, Phil started rooting around the papers on his desk, looking for the info on the Touch-Me-Not.
“By the way,” he said, tossing aside a stray Danish, “I hope you can make it to the Fiesta Bowl.”
No, Phil was not inviting me to a football game. The Fiesta Bowl to which he referred was Toiletmasters’ annual employees bash, held at Phil’s house out in Tarzana.
It’s usually a rather raucous affair, featuring lots of beer, hot dogs, and plumbing jokes. Not exactly Noel Coward territory, but who was I to turn down a free hot dog?
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I assured him.
“Aw, honey, you’re the best!”
By now Phil had dug up the Touch-Me-Not info and handed it to me in a manila folder dusted with Danish crumbs.
“I can always count on my Jainie, can’t I?” he said, giving me a loving pinch on my cheek and then immediately splorting his hands with sanitizer. “One more thing,” he added. “I almost forgot. My nephew Jim just moved to town and started working for me. He’s a great guy, and I thought maybe you might want to go out with him.”
He shot me his Labradoodle smile, eager and hopeful.
A blind date? Wasn’t gonna happen.
Blind dates are God’s way of telling you that nuns don’t have it so bad, after all.
No way was I subjecting myself to a torturous evening with some goofball with whom I was certain to have nothing in common and who would at the end of the night no doubt whip out a calculator to figure out my share of the bill. Don’t shake your head like that. If I had a calculator for every time that happened to me, I’d own IBM.
And Phil’s nephew? I could just imagine what he’d look like. Phil’s a darling man, but he’s got enough hair in his ears to stuff a throw pillow. And his nephew was a plumber, to boot. Call me shallow, but I didn’t want to date a guy who spent his days elbow deep in poo. I wanted someone creative—a writer, a musician, an artist! Someone intelligent and sensitive, with impeccably clean fingernails.
“So, Jaine? How about it?” Phil asked. “Are you up for a date with my nephew?”
Not if he were the last plumber on earth and I needed my shower snaked.
Time to haul out my imaginary boyfriend.
“Thanks so much for thinking of me, Phil, but actually, I’m seeing someone.”
“You are??”
He needn’t have sounded so surprised. I mean, it’s not that impossible, is it?
“Yes, Collier and I have been dating for a couple of months.”
I’ve always wanted to date a guy named Collier.
“Aw, that’s too bad. I was hoping you and Jim might hit it off.”
“Sorry, Phil,” I shrugged, trying to look disappointed.
I gathered my purse and was just getting up to leave when the door to Phil’s office opened and in walked the Collier of my dreams, a studmuffin of the highest order—tall and rangy, with a fab bod, streaky surfer-blond hair, and blue eyes no doubt reincarnated from the late Paul Newman.
“Speak of the devil,” Phil said. “Jaine, meet my nephew Jim.”
This hunkalicious piece of hubba hubba was Phil’s nephew? I simply could not believe that these two guys swam in the same gene pool.
“Jim, I wanted to set you up with Jaine.”
“That would have been really nice,” said Mr. Incredible, revealing another weapon in his arsenal of good looks—a megawatt grin.
Suddenly dating a plumber seemed like a Must Do on my bucket list.
“But, unfortunately,” Phil said, “Jaine has a boyfriend.”
“That’s too bad,” Mr. Incredible said, with what looked like genuine regret.
Why on earth had I told that ridiculous lie? Why couldn’t I be one of those people who always say Yes to life? Why did I have to be the eternal pessimist, certain that any blind date of mine would inevitably turn out to be a loser and/or serial killer? If only I hadn’t invented that stupid imaginary boyfriend!
“Actually,” I said, “my boyfriend and I aren’t all that close. In fact, last night Curtis and I had a bit of a spat.”
“I thought his name was Collier,” Phil said.
“It is. It’s Collier-Curtis. Hyphenated. He’s a Brit.”
By now Phil was looking at me like I was nuts, but I plowed ahead.
“So maybe we could meet up,” I said to Jim, “just to see how things work out.”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly intrude on a relationship. I’d feel funny about seeing you when I know you’re involved with someone else.”
“But we’re not involved. Not really. Collier-Curtis and I have always been more friends than boyfriend and girlfriend. Really, we’re just friends. Honest. I’d love to go out with you.”
My God, have you ever seen such a disgusting display of groveling?
“Well, if you’re sure you’re not in a relationship . . . ,” Jim said.
“I’m positive.”
“How about dinner?”
“Sounds fab!”
“I’ll give you a call, and we’ll set something up.”
“Yes! Absolutely!”
And with that, I waved good-bye and headed out the door, a new assignment in my hands, and not a shred of dignity to my name.