Toilet Story (pt. 2)

About four weeks ago I had an unpleasant encounter with my toilet. Worse, I had the temerity to write about it. But before you run off to look for a get well card, you should know it wasn't biological in nature. Yes, I am indeed fortunate not to suffer from IBS, diarrhea, hemorrhoids or constipation.

This encounter was strictly limited to plumbing of the man-made variety.

You see, driven mad by a plastic hexagonal nut that had fused to the threaded stem of the fill valve and my subsequent inability to remove it, I began to attack the problem from the inside. Namely, this consisted of smashing the fill valve with a hammer.

Alas, one of my swings was errant and shattered the water tank. Regrettably, it was only then that I entertained the idea of grabbing the fill valve with my bare hand and bending it towards the bottom of the tank until it broke.

Fortunately, the valve snapped before I did. (Although in plumbing circles, this remains a matter of conjecture.)

In the aftermath, I commenced to look for a new toilet. It was then that I was struck by a most-welcome realization: I had a two-piece toilet! I needed only to replace the water tank and could certainly install that myself. Couldn't I?

(Longtime readers will be excused for turning away at this point.)

Yes, unburdened by my short-tempered excursion into home repair I recovered the toilet's model name and serial number and before long had located the tank I needed to put this problem behind me.

I needed only to order it.

Of course, it wasn't that simple. Oh, the agent I spoke with was a delight and we had a very animated chat about how I came to be searching for toilet bits on the Internet. But in the larger sense, it couldn't (and wouldn't) be a simple matter of ordering, receiving and installing.

Is it ever?

The first replacement was surreptitiously left in front of my garage by FedEx. No knock, no doorbell and no wonder. The second I picked it up I realized it was in pieces. The good folk who manned the manufacturer's call center immediately arranged for another replacement.

I waited, fearing to even imagine a positive outcome. Which was a good thing because replacement number-two also arrived in pieces. This was also dropped-off silently by my FedEx man (or woman).

Full of the kind of trepidation only the truly-innocent can harbor, I called the manufacturer again, fearful I'd be accused of fraud. For a third time I was met with an agent who listened to my story and after a brief response, put me on hold.

When she returned, she had a solution. Instead of allowing the tank to be sourced from their default location in Texas, this tank would be sourced from a location much nearer. Despite my best efforts, I felt relief. This sounded like a very promising alternative.

In a world where we take so much for granted, the radiant joy that washed over me after I opened the box and found replacement number-three in a single piece was a minor miracle. Of note is that FedEx had boldly left it on my porch.

I unboxed it and cradled it in my arms. An over-reaction? Probably. But with a home repair project gone so spectacularly wrong, even the tiniest success assumes the weight of giants.

Eager to restore the functionality of my second bathroom, I scanned the unit. The small plastic bag of parts that accompanied it and my array of tools. Then I looked at the installation instructions.

Like most, they were exceedingly optimistic, reducing the installation to two steps. I smiled knowingly. Hell, I'd be lucky if I got through this with just two trips to my local home improvement store.

I set about removing the old tank, which went surprisingly well. I cleaned the mount where the new tank would sit and examined the new tank's fittings. While slightly different than the previous model, they didn't present a problem.

All was going swimmingly until it came time to attach the supply line to the tank—per the instructions. Left with a heavily oxidized solid unit, I fell prey to ambition and decided I would upgrade it with a braided flex line.

(To those of you not flushed with the kind of satisfaction one receives at having successfully mounted a brand-new water tank atop a toilet—go ahead—laugh.)

In keeping with the tenor of this project, the trip to my local home improvement store was made unduly difficult by the fact that within the 4.3 miles of travel it takes to arrive at my local home improvement store rest seven (yes seven) traffic signals (often referred to as “red lights” by hard-bitten, seasoned drivers such as myself who fail to appreciate their purpose).

I would be remiss if I failed to mention the remnants of rush hour traffic, a surface rail crossing and the fact that, yes, all seven of these lights turned red upon my arrival, stretching a trip that by rights should have taken no more than seven minutes into eye-clawing agony that persisted for nineteen.

(If you're counting, that is exactly half the average speed at which normal urban traffic travels—and I live in what I fondly refer to as the middle of nowhere.)

With my ambition intact, I sought out the plumbing section and promptly selected two seven-inch supply lines (why not replace both?) and a 13 millimeter crescent wrench. Even with the knowledge of what awaited me on the area's roads, I practically danced to my car, certain this project had reached the home stretch.

Oh that my financial reserves were as boundless as my naivete.

Problem number-one was that I had followed the instructions, and had secured the tank before installing the supply line. When the seven-inch flex line didn't possess the requisite flexibility, I resorted to the one-piece.

But with the tank fully screwed on, the clearance was left wanting.

So I undid the three screws, lifted the water tank and installed the original supply line. I cursed the instructions for inverting this sequence. For a second time I attached the water tank.

Sigh.

I turned on the water. This was the moment of truth.

The tank filled and the toilet flushed without resembling certain scenes from Titanic, but the clumsy and ill-fitting monkey wrench I had at my disposal did not allow for the proper tightening of the toilet's water line to the home's water line.

I turned off the water, ignoring that which had already leaked, gathered the now-useless flex lines and set out yet-again for my local home improvement store. I was momentarily heartened by a green light, but sank when I realized I could have made a right-turn on red, anyway.

Yes, that was how this morning was going. Even my illusions of good fortune were frauds.

I re-entered the store where my money was cheerfully and expeditiously refunded.Then I realized I had left home without my wallet. Yes, I was in a truly special place.

So it was fortunate that the refunded cash was sufficient to cover the purchase of a 16 millimeter crescent wrench. I was again made fortunate when I realized that since this item contained so little alcohol, it was unlikely an ID would be required for purchase.

Back in the car I valiantly fought-off traffic, determined to keep my eyes on the prize. This toilet would be made functional or by God...I will, um, er... Hmmm. It appeared I was fresh out of vengeful oaths for the day. 

Once home, I deftly applied the wrench to the connecting nut on the supply line and watched with resonant satisfaction as its arms perfectly enfolded the nut's six sides and tightened it with a wordless certainty.

It was a moment of deep synchronicity. And of having the right tools.

Amen.

 

Cutting Off Your Nose

The most unsettling words in the English language are 'Installs in minutes'. Or 'No assembly required'. Things like 'Republican majority', 'Looming toilet paper shortage' and 'Road Construction Ahead—Expect Delays' pale in comparison.

In this careless creation of overly-optimistic expectations, they also create a craving for Maalox and various kinds of sedatives when those expectations go unfulfilled. (Am I alone in wondering about a connection between do-it-yourself home repair and Big Pharma?)

Take my toilet. A few weeks ago it was belching. This unseemly indiscretion morphed into a kind of high-pitched stream of constant re-filling. Whereas the burping had me well and truly flummoxed, I recognized the run-on from previous experiences.

I even allowed myself to believe the solution would be a simple one. But as investment counselors so often caution: past performance is not indicative of future results. Translated, this meant that just because I had successfully relieved two previous toilets of this condition didn't mean I was going to relieve a third.

That would be too easy.

Before we go any further, I want to point out that I'm not any kind of home repair wizard. But on the other hand, I'm not a total incompetent, either. I can fix stuff.

I successfully re-wired a phone jack. Replaced a basement light fixture. Ditto the cabin air filter in my car. And attached a new plug on my wife's vacuum. And you should know that in only one of these instances did I wind up with surplus pieces.

Let's be clear: I have yet to change a light bulb and end up with extra parts, okay?

So it was with a healthy degree of confidence that I approached this project. I first removed the cumbersome over-toilet cabinet the previous residents had installed and then removed the cover on the reservoir.

There lay the culprit. A flapper that looked as if it had spent a lifetime soaking in brine was at the bottom of the tank, covering the drain like a disheveled stripper's bra. What's more, an enormous float sat atop the water, making access to the flapper difficult.

With the kind of incisive realization that typifies my work, I decided to upgrade the toilet with a new fill valve and eliminate the cumbersome bladder altogether.

I happily made the trip to a local hardware store and purchased a combination flapper and fill valve kit, blissfully unaware of the agony that lay ahead.

On returning home I promptly shut-off the water and drained the toilet. I fearlessly removed the briny flapper, the bladder and the water line. Then I turned my attention to the hexagonal nut that connected the water line and the fill valve to the water tank.

Like so many of the nuts life has asked me to remove, it was in a highly inconvenient place. Located on the underside of the tank near a wall and made still more-difficult by the bottom half of the cabinet which straddled the toilet like an irksome giraffe.

Snaking my arms around its legs while kneeling on the floor and attempting to grip the nut with the pliers in one hand while my remaining hand attempted to hold the fill valve still and provide resistance was, to put it mildly, awkward.

You see, the nuts on the previous fill valves hadn't fused to the threaded stem like Donald Trump and his tax returns, and henceforth were fairly easy to remove. But none of that mattered now.

3-in-1 oil, Liquid Wrench, warm water and grip cloths all failed. The plastic nut would not be moved. I searched in vain for a PVC saw. I consulted my homeowner's policy to see if it allowed for the use of a military-grade flame thrower and was likewise disappointed.

My irritation had risen to the point where listening to a panel of Ted Cruz, Josh Hawley and Jim Jordan speculate on governance would have been preferable. I was pissed. Sore. And out of patience. 

I recalled Naval experiments that utilized a sonar blaster capable of emitting soundwaves of 200 decibels and wondered whether those could shake the assembly sufficiently for the nut to be removed, but it was Saturday night and the Navy was closed.

Sigh.

Given my musical bent, perhaps it wasn't so surprising that I seized upon percussive maintenance. Yes. That would do it. When all else fails, the time-tested solution to just about every repair gone awry is to beat the shit out of it with a hammer.

Yes. That is what I would do.

While bereft of a PVC saw, a hammer I possessed. I eyed its gleaming stainless steel head and menacing claw. I held it at eye level. “Prepare to die!” I hissed.

I passed the bathroom mirror and was a bit shaken to realize I now resembled James Brolin near the end of The Amityville Horror, where he's finished sharpening his ax and turns to wreak domestic horror inside the piece of real estate alluded to in the title.

“A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do” I snarled to no one in particular.

Standing over the suddenly-diminshed toilet, I steeled myself. “Here's Johnny!” I said and I swung. Tiny slivers of plastic ricocheted around the tank. I swung again. More slivers. More ricochets. This was fun.

I swung again and the top of the fill valve snapped off. I felt omnipotent. Were there more balky fill valves I was unaware of?

Any baseball player can tell you it doesn't get much better than going three-for-three. And that to expect more is unrealistic. So it is unfortunate that there were no baseball players in my home that evening.

Swing number-four was slightly off the mark and the hammer connected with the left-hand wall of the ceramic reservoir.

Even when awoken from a sound slumber steel will smash ceramic materials. Even while inebriated. Or under the weather. Or a touch rusty. It doesn't matter.

Steel > ceramic.

Suffused with something darker and more malevolent than sweetness and light, I growled and grabbed the valve and bent it towards the bottom of the tank.

SNAP!

Even with a fresh wound to my palm, I was made glad that the offending valve had finally been vanquished.

Blame it on COVID. Blame it on the extended isolation of sheltering in place. Blame it on the anxiety of watching America unravel. But I had freaked. Lost it. Gone postal. Over a two-cent plastic hexagonal nut, no doubt manufactured in China.

The good news is that surgeons will be able to re-attach my nose with no visible scarring. And the new toilet arrives Tuesday.