Dear forum friends,
Writing about water here recently brought a story to mind, that actually happened to me in December of 1993. My office was at that time, downstairs in a smaller office building. It was owned by a friendly Italian man, who also had a Men's Wear Store in the building. I'll call this story
"The Trouble with the Confounded Urinal"
You all know what a urinal is. Or at least have heard about it. Of course it is a unique de-watering device for the male half of the population, hidden away behind a door from female eyes, and one of the reasons why men have openings in the fronts of their pants.
These receptacles have various ways of being flushed, because without flushing they soon develop odors at first resembling sardellen, (a small salty fish used as a condiment), and then progress eventually to a downright unpleasant stink.
Most men being forgetful, (which is why toilet seats are often found in the upright position), also forget to flush. This is why self-flushing urinals were first invented by a kind person -- but most likely a self-serving plumber with a sensitive nose. The invention is quite old. I encountered it in Germany as well as here in North America. Good inventions circle the globe, or at least those areas where the inventions can be used and paid for. In the African bush, on the desert or in the jungle, as well as on many farms they would be unnecessary. Ours, being in an office building was in the right place.
That morning Peter Grande, the owner asked me (in private and in confidence,) "I wonder if you could help me once more. The upstairs urinal is not going right." I know a little about plumbing and had adjusted both the upstairs and the downstairs ones the year before. The downstairs one I did purely in self defense. The odor emanating from the Men's was just too obnoxious, especially with our office close by, so it was an easy step for him to ask me to adjust the upstairs one then, and now to do it once again.
The trick with these adjustments is to know there is a tank mounted high on the wall which fills with water from an everflowing tap When the reservoir is full a syphon sends the water down through a pipe and flushes the whole urinal. In this case, through long neglect, the drain did not function very well any more. When the reservoir discharged, the urinal overflowed onto the floor creating a mess. To stop this, someone had turned the water supply above almost off so it caused only occasional floods, but a stink most of the time.
I easily fixed the drain with Draino and boiling water, and then when it drained better, it tried to flush more often. I guess with age the drain had built up calcium deposits that even an application of vinegar did not completely cure so last time I had fixed the flooding problem by sticking a water-filled two litre pop bottle into the reservoir to decrease the volume of water going down. This, rather unorthodox and not plumber-approved method was very effective, just the same. It was then easy to adjust the waterflow for regular flushings, but not too frequent ones to avoid wasting precious water. When it was all done Peter presented me with an expensive shirt from his store.
This is the rambling explanatory preamble to what follows:
Peter asked that his sixteen year old son be present for my next attempt to cure the again odorous appliance in the upstairs Men's room so that he could learn the trade secrets. At the appointed time, around 3:30 pm, Peter's son and I took a step-ladded and pliers, and disappeared behind the mysterious, malodorous door.
One look told me something was wrong with the control valve. No water was reaching the fawcet. I decided to take the fawcet off to see why and confidently asked for a wrench which the lad procured in record time from downstairs. I began the disassembly. After I loosened the valve there was no water in sight. Without giving any thought to the strangeness of disappearing water, another half turn brought a gusher that pushed the valve from its seat and showered me with an onslaught! I frantically pushed the valve back onto the pipe, but I could not get it in. I felt like the proverbial Sorcerer's Apprentice: water, water everywhere! Up to the ceiling! Down to the floor! In great quantities. Controlled only by how much pressure I could muster against the force of water rushing in at over 70 lbs. per square inch.
I shouted to the lad to go down and turn off the water main, meanwhile valiantly, desperately holding the valve in place while teetering on top of the step ladder. I was afraid of being forced to let go. I could see more and more water on the floor. It was winter and the water I was holding back and receiving was icy cold, I had my fingers jammed against the pipe and it was freezing cold! "Why can the lad not hurry, and give me relief!"
It seemed to take forever, and now I began to call: "Help! Help!" And low and behold, -- three ladies from adjoining offices dared to penetrate the inner sanctum to see what all the hollering was about. I asked for the shut-off! For mops and pails! An emergency brigade soon formed while I held out at my desperate post on top of the the ladder. My tie was drenched. My trousers, my jacket and my shirt were all soaking, and very cold.
Finally the lad came back. He did not know where to turn off the water! So he came to ask me. Why ask me! Am I the All-Knowing? No. I shouted: "Where it comes in by the water meter, for sure!" Back he hurried again. After what seemed like forever, and my strength was just about gone, the waters finally stopped pouring. What a relief.
We took over from the kind ladies, and because mopping was too slow and the water too much, I asked the lad to bring a dustpan. With me swinging the dust-pan and him following with the mop we rid ourselves of pails and pails of water. Of course, without my hanging on to the valve opening for dear life it would have been at least ten times as much. I got the valve back on and that was enough to clear whatever had blocked it before. The job was done. The lad was taught.
When Peter saw the state of my cothes he gave me a new tie, and paid the dry-cleaning costs next day. I escaped without even a cold and there were three ladies that night in Kelowna who had seen the secret workings of the Men's room.
Hope you laughed.
Best wishes, Uncle Ben
