The Graveyard Shift

Have you ever called a plumber to fix a leaky pipe, and then when he arrived you told him not to use his tools and training to fix the problem? Instead, saying, “I know it’s the worst leak you’ve ever seen, dangerous, actually,” batting your eyelashes, “but can’t you just talk to it? I’m sure it’ll simply go away if you talk nicely to it.” Meanwhile, the two of you are soaked. By now, water’s pouring into the basement, down the front steps and out onto the lawn. Your dog’s on the roof and the goldfish are leaping from the tank, fearing for their lives.

“No, ma’am,” he says. “Talkin’ ain’t gonna git it done this time. I’ve already been here three times this week– ”

“But, I love my pipes. They’re good pipes. Please try talking to them. Just once more…”

Her tears drop into the knee deep pond that’s now swirling around their legs like a Bermuda Triangle whirlpool.

But the master of cold on the right, hot on the left, and the yucky stuff don’t run uphill, knows there’s no other way. They’ll both drown if he doesn’t do something soon. He reaches into his tool bag and out it comes, that 14-inch, red pipe wrench–The Big Boy. He turns to face the problem. Suddenly, all hell breaks loose. A half-inch copper line snaps, sending steaming hot water directly at the plumber.

But he’s ready. This is what he’s trained to do. So, he reacts without fear. A quick side-step, a firm grasp on the valve with his left hand, a lightning fast strike with the wrench, and it’s over. The chaos ceases. The adrenaline subsides. He takes a deep breath. Then…

“MY BABY!” she cries. “You hurt my baby!”

Sound silly? Well, hold on a second. This is what police officers all over are faced with every day of their lives. People who are in danger at the hand of loved ones call 911 begging for help. They fear death. They’re scared for their family members. Sometimes, they’re so distraught you can almost smell the fright over the phone lines. But, when the boys and girls in blue come sliding to stop in the driveway with lights and sirens spinning and wailing, this is what they encounter…

“911, do you have an emergency?”

“Help me! Little Johnny has a gun and he’s been pointing it me and Maw all morning. Now it’s loaded and he won’t listen to us. He ain’t taken his crazy medicine in pert’near a week. I’m skeert for our lives. And Maw ain’t here to talk to him.”

“I’m sending someone right away.”

“Good. We’s all locked in the bathroom now, ’cause that little bastard’s shootin’ up the place. He’s teched in the haid, his is. Gets it from my wife’s side of the family. They’s all one seed short of makin’ a whole watermelon.”

Bang, bang!

“Please hurry!”

“Sir, stay on the line. The officers are on their way.”

“Yes, ma’am. Please tell them to hurry.”

Soon, three officers arrive and they’re met by Little Johnny who’s now standing in the gravel driveway holding his father’s 9mm. Now, Little Johnny isn’t exactly little. He’s 6′2″, 235, foaming at the mouth, and both eyes are spinning like tops. He’s, of course, shirtless, barefoot, and highly UN-medicated.

As always, Maw comes driving up in family pickup truck, complete with a gun rack in the rear window and a sticker on the bumper that reads, DRIVER CARRIES NO CASH, JUST A BULLET FOR YOUR ASS!

She jumps out of the truck and tosses the remainder of her non-filtered cigarette into a pile of empty beer cans beside the plywood cutout of granny bending over in the flower garden. One officer goes to meet her, keeping her out of harm’s way.

Officers draw their weapons and order the human anvil to drop his. He points the 9 at the officers, grinning like the possum the family had eaten for supper. The lead officer starts talking.

“Please put down the gun, son. We just want to help you. Everything’s gonna be okay. I promise.”

“Don’t you hurt my baby boy!” Maw screams” He’s a good boy. Just talk to him.”

Little Johnny licks the barrel of the pistol, then holds it against his head. Spittle dribbles down his chin. He’s crying now.

Maw tries to push her way past the officer.

“Assholes. Let me go. That’s my baby. Just talk to him. Put those guns away! You’re gonna hurt my precious little boy!”

Little Johnny quickly points the gun at Maw. “You bitch. Wouldn’t gimme no money for beer. I’m gonna bust a cap in your ass.”

The officers have no choice. Each of them fires a couple of rounds. Now little Johnny lies dead in the dirt and gravel with four randomly placed bullet holes marking his flesh. The officers each feel that sudden drop of adrenaline followed by the sinking, sickening, gut-wrenching sensation that comes with taking the life of another human. The second-guessing begins immediately. Their lives are forever changed, and not for the better. Possibly ruined.

“My little baby! Why didn’t you just talk to him. You didn’t have to kill him!” Maw screams, and then begins fighting the officer. The rest of the clan now comes pouring out of the house—Pa, Andy, Sandy, Randy, Candy, Tandy, Mandy, Handy, Pandy, and Earl, Jr. They all begin to scream and struggle with the officers. Back up arrives to help quell the escalating disturbance.

“All you had to do is talk to the boy,” Pa says. “Maw knowed how to handle him. Talk to ‘im is all you had to do…He’s such a good boy.”

I guess the point I’m trying to make is, don’t call a plumber if you don’t want your leak fixed. But do know, that someday while you’re doing all that talking and ignoring the real problem, those rising waters will probably rush inside. And when they do, there’s a good chance that somebody will die.

*     *     *

I have to ask - Can Taylor Swift really sing, or is she another Milli Vanilli? One thing’s for certain, she butchered Rhiannon (the second song, with Stevie Nicks).

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