One of the great things about living in Westerville, which is one of the affluent neighborhoods of Central Ohio, is that just about everyone has an outhouse. Yep. And as a result, the Community Cesspool isn’t quite as important today as it was, say, 10 years ago. That’s not to say, however, that progress isn’t a mixed blessing. All those outhouses represent both good and bad news.
The good news is that once everyone gets an outhouse, the Cesspool and Westerville’s Department of Sanitation can be closed down. That means lower taxes. The bad news is that I’m going to lose a client and Cletus Barnwell is going to have to either retire or find another job. Cletus Barnwell is our Department of Sanitation, and has been since 1967, when Cletus’ brother-in-law, Mayor Rufus ‘Bird Dog’ Sewell decided he wanted to see his sister with a properly employed husband. So he put up a Quonset hut in front of the Cesspool, poured a 4 by 4 concrete pad in front of the Quonset hut, put Cletus in a rocking chair on the pad, and told him to make sure nobody fell in and drowned.
That’s what Cletus has been doing these past 38 years; making sure neither the kids nor the livestock in the neighborhood ended up in the Cesspool. And to give him his due, Cletus has done a pretty good job. We’ve only lost 3 cows, a half dozen pigs and 1 kid. Actually, we didn’t really lose the kid...Jethro Martindale’s son, Junior...but he was under long enough that after they pulled him out he never was quite right again. He ended up heading out West. Rumor has it he’s teaching Ethnic Studies at some college, but nobody ever mentions him anymore, for fear of setting off one of Jethro's seizures. So Junior is kind of lost to us, in a sense. Every town has its own little tragedies. Junior Martindale was one of ours.
Anyway, I had to head out to see Cletus yesterday to conduct the annual audit of the Community Cesspool’s books, and when I arrived I could tell Cletus was a troubled man. As Cletus is both intensely private and unpleasantly aromatic, I decided to pass on asking him what was on his mind. I went into the hut and went about my business of auditing the books. The fact that Cletus didn’t stop in 24 times an hour to check up on my progress confirmed that there was a problem and that it was serious. The man was distracted. Big time.
When I finished up my work, I packed up my briefcase and walked out onto the pad. Cletus was still sitting there with that perplexed look and furrowed brow he had when I had arrived 3 hours earlier. Despite the fact that Cletus looked the same as always, it was plain that whatever was worrying him was still at it. I had to ask...it was my Christian duty to try to help a fellow human being in distress.
“Cletus.” I said, “What’s eating at you?”
He just sat there for a minute without moving a muscle. Then, slowly, he turned to me and said, quietly, “Gay marriage and Social Security.”
“What?”
Cletus held up his copy of the latest issue of American Spectator.
“Look at that picture,” he said.
“I don’t understand, “I said.
Cletus narrowed his eyes.
“Exactly. What the goldurn does gay marriage have to do with Social Security?”
I told Cletus I didn’t know.
“I’ll tell you what, them Next USA folks musta fell in their own cesspool a couple a days ago, because that just doesn’t make a durn bit of sense. And Charles Dobson, that boy done spent more time at the bottom than Junior Martindale. That’s for sure.”
“Cletus,” I said, “Why are you so upset about this? I thought you voted against Issue 1 last November. You’re against gay marriage.”
“Dennis, you don’t understand nothing,” Cletus said. “I voted against Issue 1 ‘cause I didn’t want to spend the next 5 years going to weddings every weekend. I hate weddings. I got nothin’ against gays, it’s them damn weddings I can’t stand.”
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t realize that was the case.”
Cletus sat up straight in the rocking chair.
“And it ain’t like this Charles Dobson character hasn’t caused enough trouble as it is. The wife heard he’d said SpongeBob was gay and she made me turn off Nickelodeon for close to a week. I ended up have to play 'Chutes and Ladders' with little Elmo 3 hours a night to keep him from setting the house on fire. Every night,” he growled. “You ever played 'Chutes and Ladders' for 3 hours at a time?” he asked.
"No. I'm a Republican," I said, shaking my head.
“Well, after 2 or 3 nights of that, a little unpaid overtime here at the ‘Pool starts looking pretty darn good, let me tell you,” Cletus said, and then slumped back into the chair. “But that’s not what’s really bothering me”
“Then what is?”
“It means we’re gonna get even more of that bald-headed gay guy on TV. I don’t think I can take that.”
Now it was my turn to be confused.
“I thought you liked Christopher Lowell,” I said.
“I do...me and Myrtle redid the living room in mauve. You should see it...” Cletus caught himself and refocused. “I wasn’t talking about Christopher Lowell. I’m talking about the other guy. The one with the mood swings.”
“Tom Friedman?”
“I said gay.”
“Oh!” I cried. “You mean Andrew Sullivan!”
Cletus leapt out of the rolling chair.
“That’s the son of a bitch!” he cried.
“What did he do?” I asked.
“Well, the last time that boy got his knickers in a knot I was watchin’ him on MSNBC on the TV I have in the hen house,” Cletus said angrily. “They finished up their panel discussion on whatever and that durn Sullivan fool stood up and did a buttclentch right there on cable TV!”
“A what?”
“A buttclentch. Stood straight up and grabbed both cheeks of his butt. One in each hand. Right on TV!”
“So?” I said.
“The sight of that panicked the chickens!” Cletus shuddered and then said, “You ever been the only thing between 6,000 chickens and a door?”
“Oh,” I said. “That’s not good.”
“I was pulling chicken feathers outa every body cavity I had, I’ll tell you.”
“Please don’t,” I replied.
“Yeah, you’re right. But anyway, the deal here is that we don’t need Andrew Sullivan running around on the TV set having another one of his hysterical attacks ‘bout how the president is going to throw him and his pals in a concentration camp in Des Moines.”
“Well, you have a point,” I said. “But I’m not so sure I’d worry about it as much as you are.”
“Dennis?” Cletus said. “What about all them boogers you’re always going on about?”
“You mean bloggers?”
“Yep,” Cletus shook his head. “Bloggers. What about them?”
“When did you start reading bloggers, Cletus?”
“There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Dennis,” Cletus paused for a second. “The inner machinations of my mind are an enigma.”
“OK,” I said. “I’m sure some of them, like KOS and Kevin Drum and Josh Marshall are going to get all worked up about this, but I don’t see the point...”
“They’ll keep Sullivan excited,” Cletus interrupted. “That’s the point. And the longer he’s excited, the greater chance we’re gonna end up with a buttclentch on the TV set and another stampede. Those guys aren’t being responsible.”
“Well, Cletus, “ I said. “I guess the only thing you can do is look at the bright side.”
“What’s that?” He said.
“At least they’ve all stopped passing around nude pictures of Jeff Gannon.”
Cletus stood up and waved a hand in the direction of the Community Cesspool.
“You know,” he said. “One day we’re gonna have to bring them boys out here to see how decent folk live. All of ‘em. Dobson, Sullivan, the boogers...”
"Bloggers," I said.
"Bloggers..."
Cletus’ voice trailed off to almost nothing.
"To see how decent folk live."
I looked across the Cesspool and noticed a small razorback perilously close to the edge.
“Amen, Brother,” I murmured. “Amen.”
Comments