Vomiting sink!

So, my sink threw up. No, seriously. That's why the last post was something of a blow off, because it happened while I was writing, and so it distracted me. I think that the vomiting sink deserves its own post, don't you? So, here it is.

Okay, all the rooms in Rice Hall, my little dormitory, have a sink in them. Just a regular, run of the mill bathroom-type sink. You can go to your bathroom to get a reference sink, assuming you have a regular, run of the mill bathroom-type bathroom. It's a standard white porcelain affair, with the little ovoid hole on the back wall which prevents the water from coming up too high. Please, picture this sink, as best you can. It's served you well, it's a hard worker, and it's never given you any trouble. If it were a woman, you'd marry it, if you were a turn-of-the-century Russian soldier. That's the kind of sink you need to be picturing right now.

Now, imagine your surprise, when suddenly, apropos of nothing, not even a rumbling sound, the little ovoid hole starts SPRAYING WATER! Like someone hooked a hose to it! Water is filling the basin, splashing over the edges, and for the next agonizing ten seconds you think you've somehow ended up in the lair of an evil genius whose mad plot for your destruction was basically stolen from an episode of 'Get Smart' I saw once. Only, you, know, less hilarity, more 'what the hell?'ity. Descriptions really don't do it justice, but suffice to say, rent 'The Shining'. When those elevator doors open, try to imagine the blood as being a lot more foamy and white, and you'll have the gist of it. Oh, and brown sediment. No, I don't know what it is, and yes, I gave it a careful sniff, so it's not the brown sediment I'd least like to have in my sink, but that don't mean I'm going to spread it on a cracker at any point in my lifetime.

When the torrent stopped, there was water on my floor, spreading out all over, and a closet full of towels on my left, so I did the obvious thing: I ran right over to Jose's room and told him to get up and see this. The first thing you need is a witness! Then, and only then, can you get to cleaning up the mess. Oh, and while I was picking out my least favorite towel, he was kind enough to inform my RA, which is why a friendly plumber is in my room right now.

That's right, as we speak, a nice man is underneath my sink, making it all better. He just showed up a minute ago, and now I'm giving you the play-by-play, because I'm sure you'd want to know. He's wrenching the bendy pipe part, trying to, I guess, shut off the water, or something. I don't know. I don't ask questions to the guy who might be able to let me live a normal life again; I just sit here and let him work. He's a plumber man, I'm sure he doesn't want to put up with my incessant questions either. A stocky, mustachioed fellow... no, not 'fellow'. He's a stocky, mustachioed guy, who greeted me not with a friendly 'how do you do?' but with a demand for a trash can, which Jose was kind enough to provide, assumedly out of pure carnal fear. Oh, and he's dressed all in black, which basically means he might also be a ninja, so pure carnal fear is not an unwise emotion choice. Also frightening: he brought along a big, scary wrench and a bottle of... um... brown, unidentifiable material.

Oh, man! He just undid something under the sink, and now the water is positively pouring into the trash can he set up underneath it! It's not a tiny can, and it's a good two-thirds full right now, after a matter of seconds. I'm assuming there's a clog or something, that caused the incident, but my plumber friend ain't talking, except for the occasional whispered profanity.

Now he's removed something, wiped around a bit, and he appears to be restoring things to the way they were, except for the basin full of standing water he's opted to leave in the ersatz bucket. He's yet to pull out the bottle of brown, so I'm waiting for that. He appears to have no idea what the brown sludge is either, but he ain't touching it with his fingers, that much is for sure. Oh wait! The bottle! It's being poured! In my heart, I know it's no more than the cheapest of all commercially available clog-removers, but in my mind it is so much more. It's a mystery, and a secret to him and him alone, that he mixes once every full moon, imbuing with both scientific principles and a little bit of magic. Because let's face it, my sink needs a little bit of magic. Hell, it needs a full exorcism. Oh, hey, Catholic school, I could make that work!

Brown mystery aside, the plumber is messing with the taps now, scrutinizing the water as it runs. I stand beside him, no idea what to look for, looking all the same, because let's face it, there are some instincts that can't be excised from the Y-chromosome. Take the most flaming homosexual you can imagine, stick him in a dress, and he'll still stand right next to any given mechanic, feigning some sort of mechanical competence. Such is the way of men. He knows I know nothing, I know he knows (I have bright pink toenails for goodness sakes), but I ain't turning away but to look at the computer screen. And boy, has he used up that stuff! Now he's fetched a mop! That's kind of him, I guess, tending to what the towels couldn't. I think his work here is almost done. Or is it? He asked me the time (12:50), mutters something under his breath that includes the words "fifty-five" and now hangs about, staring at the sink, not like its enemy on the field of battle, but rather with a mild air of flummoxedness. I want to know what's going on, but really, I'm only a pawn here in the plumbing game, so I'm never going to find out. I'm just going to sit here, helping him watch the tap run, and wondering when will be the next time my sink spews upon me.

And now he leaves, as mysteriously as he arrived, with but a brief admonition not to use it for a little while. And he's gone, and I sit alone in my room with this sink of madness a yard away. What happens now? As much as I trust the strange man and his strange ways, I distrust the sink a whole lot more. This is why I have placed several towels under the sink. And moved everything valuable far away. And I'll be sleeping in the fetal position. And not in my room, I'm-a go shack up with the first lady I find who’s still awake at one AM. Sorry Nicole, but I'm only doing it because I want to live.

Seriously, if I sleep here I might drown. No, no, I must trust the plumber, and his magic brown stuff, for verily, it's the only way I may ever sleep again in any domicile with plumbing more advanced than no plumbing. If there were any incident capable of turning me into a woodland hermit with a log cabin and a manifesto, this is it. Freakin' sinks, man, I didn't even know they could do that, but there you go. Once again, conclusive proof that existence is weird, and life would be all-around simpler if there weren't any of it. Okay, it's late, and I still have to find a random lady to sleep with. Goodnight, everyone.