Category: Humor

Plumber: “That’s Not Dirt!”

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“In my professional opinion,” my plumber said. “I think we’re stuck.” The plumber said after assuring me that the “power auger” on his truck would make “easy work” of clearing the lengthy sewer line from my home to the street. “My baby hasn’t failed me yet,” he said of his power auger. “Check that, once,” he added. “I couldn’t snake through once, but that plumbing line was just a mess. You should’ve seen it. It was a disaster.” After I informed him that he was the third plumber I’ve called in the space of about two years, he added, “You give us [he and his auger] fifteen minutes, and we’ll fix you.”
Prior to this call, I tried to stay away from the big guys. I much preferred the mom-and-pop operations that are filled with hungry, skilled workers who aren’t required to upsell me on the products I don’t really need. My frustrations with the little guys led me to call a Big Guy who had a never-fails power auger attached to his machine, a well-known reputation, and all the Big guarantees that Big Guys offer. I was so frustrated and desperate, and this Big Guy told me everything I wanted to hear. He assured me that “We will fix your mess for good.”   Most plumbers, big and small, do their job as if it’s a job. They often go from A to Z without changing expressions, and they don’t offer customers like me any of their personalties. This guy, a young twenty something, wasn’t burned out yet. He was not only a confident man, he appeared to really enjoy doing what he did.  I was also impressed when this employee of a big national chain informed me that his power auger could make a quick process of it, for that went against everything I heard. Everyone from the tree experts I talked to, to the plumbers who attempted to snake this drain before told me that the silver maple leaf trees were the worst possible tree a homeowner could have when it comes to plumbing. Our silver maple leaf was about sixty-feet tall, and the previous plumber informed me that that means it probably goes just as far, if not further, down, “And as I’m sure you can guess, a sixty-foot tree does not go straight down. It builds itself a foundation by spreading outwards infiltrating everything in its way.” I told this Big Guy what all the little guys told me, but he insisted that his truck’s power auger would make easy work of this task. “Just watch,” he said with his finger on the switch that powered the power auger connected, via cable, to a motor on his truck. “Just watch!” he shouted as it powered to life. And I was finally happy, relieved, and even a little excited with the surprising progress the Big Guy initially made. After about forty minutes, he and I shared a smile amidst the evidence of that auger’s progress lining my basement in the form of piles of debris on newspapers scattered throughout. The debris consisted of numerous examples of the silver maple leaf’s roots, twigs, and massive amounts of dirt that I assumed followed the twigs in the drain. “Well,” I said, looking down at these piles. “It should be easier to work through now that all of this dirt is wet?” “You’re kidding, right?” he said looking down at the mound of debris. “There is some dirt in there, no doubt, but most of that is not dirt.” I looked at him in confusion for about half a beat, until it dawned on me what he was saying. I, initially, considered that apt description quite embarrassing, and the plumber saw that embarrassment and smiled. After bathing in that embarrassment for about two seconds, I said, “Wait a second, isn’t that what we’re supposed to have in there?” “Sure,” he conceded, “but it’s not all dirt.” The plumber’s confidence turned out to be false bravado, as evidenced by the fact that the effort he and his power auger put into clearing the line failed to clear 100% of my drain. He and his power auger cleared 95% of it, but there was an annoying clump that he couldn’t clear.  After repeated efforts to assist the power auger, he flipped the switch off and attempted to physically free the one final chunk of filth over the lip of the drain cleanout inside our home. He didn’t say a word regarding his power auger’s failure, and how this might be only the second time he and the auger failed. He simply went manual, and he said he was “So close. Look at it,” he added the latter pulling the filth to the fore. We agreed that it almost looked like a rodent, teasing us, popping its head in and out of a hole. He couldn’t manage to get it over the lip though. He put forth a valiant effort, but that eventually, physically drained him. His hopelessness led him to call the home office. When they said they didn’t have anyone available to assist him, he put out personal calls to his professional colleagues. After they didn’t answer numerous calls, he called the home office back for advice. “I hate to ask you this,” he said, turning to me in a peak of frustration. “And I’ve never done this before, and I’m sure my colleagues would frown at this, but … would you mind helping me here?” After I agreed to do just that, he added, “I think the two of us should be able do this together, don’t you?” He put me on the lead, and he said he would be pulling the auger from behind. He said something about the art of tug-of-war, and how the guy at the end usually does most of the work. I agreed with that analogy, and I was already to start when he stopped me. “Before we begin, let me say two things. I want you to pull as hard as you can, but when I say stop. Stop!” He asked me to look at him when he said this, and he repeated that line to assure him that I understood the importance of stopping, and then he asked me to repeat to him what he said. I repeated his instructions dutifully. As I began to pull, however, I began to make significant progress. It became pretty obvious to both of us that I, an ordinary citizen with no professional training, was making more progress than a certified plumber from a Big Guy corporation. I was proud. I was even more proud when he stopped pulling from behind, as I considered that a compliment to not only the progress I made but my surprising strength. That was my ego talking, of course, but when he said, “I think you’re getting it,” that fueled me to put every ounce of strength I had into it. I don’t know about anyone else, but when another fella tells me that I’m displaying feats of strength beyond his own, it invigorates me. When I’m outdoing a professional at his own profession, I try to live up to that compliment and expound upon it. As I sought to expound upon it, the primary source of our concern appeared in the sewer cleanout fitting built into the wall of our basement. I was excited, I thought I was accomplishing something huge, but the plumber informed me that working it through the fitting was often the hardest part. I had this in mind, coupled with the progress I made, and I decided to show him how strong I was. My first couple pulls were somewhat cautious, as I awaited the instruction to stop, and the glop continued to pop up to the lip and drop to continue our “rodent popping out of a hole to torment its predator” analogy.   After those first couple of tantalizing pulls failed, I let the snake go slack and regrouped for one final pull. I inhaled and grabbed ahold of snake line, with the no-slip grip gloves he provided, and I put everything I had into that one final pull.
“Stop!” the plumber shouted, too late. The mass, that was not dirt, intertwined with silver maple leaf twigs, finally made it through the closeout fitting. Its release, combined with the force of my pull, caused me to fall backward until I was flat on my back. The result of that flat fall not only prevented the mass that was not dirt from hitting me, but it put me in a perfect position to watch the mass fly up over my toes, my body, and my head. I remember this occurring in slow motion, but as anyone with a fundamental understanding of physics knows, this did not happen in slow motion, and what goes up must come down. Yet, the glop did not go up by a significant measure, and it did not come down. It shot almost flat across the room, so fast, that I didn’t see the glop hit the plumber in the face. I didn’t expect it to hit the plumber in the face, of course, as I didn’t know its trajectory in reference to the plumber, so I didn’t wonder if  the plumber failed to duck, or if it happened so fast that he didn’t have time to, but we have to assume the latter. Regardless what his reaction was, most of the glop that was not dirt landed square on his face, dirtying his nose and eyeglasses. I heard a disgusted “Uh!” before I turned to see what caused it. When I turned to see the mess on his face, it took him about as long as it did me to completely digest what just happened. Once he did, the “Uh!” turned into a series of expletives. One of those expletives could adequately describe some of material that was not dirt, now on his face. He blamed me for not stopping when he told me to, he blamed himself for not waiting for a professional colleague to assist him, and he displayed some anger at the world, in general, for a moment. Throughout this understandable tirade, the plumber did not wipe the glop from his face. He just stared at me, and with me, in mutual disgust for what just happened. “This is, by far, the most disgusting thing that’s ever happened to me,” he said after he cooled down a little, “and I’m sure you can guess that as a member of my profession that’s a bold statement, as I’ve compiled a lengthy list in the last six years!” I considered that a great line, enhanced by the visual that he permitted me to enjoy. As a writer, I figure I probably appreciate great lines more than most, but everyone understands how visuals enhance even the best of lines. I wasn’t sure if he valued great, comedic lines as much as I did, but I wondered if he allowed this glop to remain on his face for a full five seconds, because he thought it might enhance the comedic value of that line.   I don’t know what he was thinking, or if I was assigning my values to his reaction, but my guess is his six years spent as a plumber raised his tolerance level for what others consider unspeakably disgusting. I decided that had to be the case, because I have to guess that some infinitesimal nugget below 100% of the non-plumber population wouldn’t allow the glop, that was not dirt, to remain on their face for a full five seconds, even for laughter. We can all agree that five seconds is a relatively short amount of time, relative to normal situations, but count out five seconds real quick, right here, and imagine leaving a glop, that was not dirt, on your face for that long. I still can’t understand why wiping this glop off his face wasn’t such an instinctual response that he’d have most of it off within two seconds of furious wiping. I now wonder if some part of him thought he was paying homage to the great comedians who proceeded him by physically agreeing to the principle that some of the times we have to suffer for our art. Whatever his reasoning, he delivered one final classic while wiping it all off his face and glasses, “All I can say, and I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad that I need to wear glasses.” 

The Master Reset on Washing Machines

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Our washing machine stopped spinning. It would reach the spin cycle and just stop, until the spin cycle ended. I went to the phone for answers. I thought the YouTube videos on the subject would instruct me on the “simple task” of tearing the machine down to the bolts and building it back up again. I also thought they might instruct me to “simply” remove a belt that is almost impossible for someone like me to remove. I pictured an afternoon of frustration and feelings of uselessness, as I attempted to fix something way above my pay grade.
The first internet page I pulled up instructed me to perform what they called a Master Reset as the first step. A master reset? 
It sounded complicated. I read the instructions of the Master Reset: “To perform a Master Reset, carefully unplug the washing machine from the power outlet and leave it unplugged for one minute. After one minute is up, plug the washer cord back into the wall. Next, open and close the door of the washing machine 6 times within 12 seconds to send a “reset” signal to all the components.” I read through the steps a couple of times. It seemed too simple, and I knew that a remedy this simple would not work for someone like me. My cynicism led me to believe that corporations build machines like these to keep people like me from fixing them, and to keep the whole industry that surrounds washing machines, and repairmen afloat. I also thought this sounded like one of those “home remedies” that people spread via word of mouth, but no one uses, because they don’t work for “me”, and such solutions only leave those of us who are not able to fix anything with this inept feeling of being one of the few for whom miracle cures never work.
In my mind, I was already at the furniture store writing the check for a new washing machine, but I considered the idea of trying the step-by-step process of the master reset on a ‘what the heck’ basis. I thought this option might have a better chance of working than stabbing myself in the eye, so I tried it, and it … it worked. It worked so well that we did it twice just to convince ourselves that it actually worked.
I went back to the website that said, “This is a common fix that many appliance repair mechanics use – it works on about 50% of all washing machines.” The question I now have is how many times has an appliance repairman removed the back panel on our washing machine to perform what they call “a diagnostic check” on our machine while we are in the room? How many of them fiddled with the particulars of that machine, until we left that room? How many of them then executed the steps of this master reset and called us back into the room to show us their mastery, and a bill of $130 for parts and labor?

“You just needed a new flux capacitor, and well, I happened to have one on me,” they say to our amazement.

How many of us were so relieved that our old washing machine now works, and that we do not have to pay $300 for a new one, that we never questioned it? Who cares how they fixed it, as long as it works now. How many hundreds of thousands of dollars have passed from desperate customers to appliance repair mechanics over the years and decades in which this master reset option has been available to all? How many new washing machines have desperate customers purchased to replace a washing machine that most people, salesmen or not, will tell you are cheaper to replace than fix? How many of those same washing machines just used the master reset? This led me to two conclusions, I could either become an appliance repairman that specializes in fixing washing machines, and fix 50% of them, or I could spread the word and hopefully prevent others from being duped by repairmen and salespeople who tell their customers it is in their best interests, over the long haul, to just buy a new one.

[Update: Needless to say, our washing machine was on its last legs. The method described above did not fix this washing machine, or save it long-term, but it did extend the life of the machine by about a year and a half-to-two years. So, read this article for what it is and nothing more.] 

NEXT UP: How to change your Garbage Disposal, DIY-style. 

Platypus People

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“Did you know that your friend’s dad is an infidel?” my friend’s mom whisper-shouted at me when she opened the door. She had her angry face on. Mrs. Finnegan was not quite right in her normal state, but when I saw that look on her face, I knew something was brewing in the Finnegan household. I could’ve just walked away, I see that now, but I was a good kid. When you’re a good kid, a vital definition of your being comes from other kid’s parents. I was so far down this road that the thought of walking away didn’t even cross my mind. I just considered it my lot in life to endure whatever was going on beyond that door. Even though her angry expression put me on edge, I was accustomed to the greeting. Mrs. Finnegan greeted me this way whenever she had a topic that we needed to discuss before she would permit me to hang out with her son. I called it her headline hello.  

“Hey, it’s mister cigarette smoker!” she said to introduce me to the Finnegan family discussion of another day, one that involved regarding my smoking habits. “It’s the heavy metal dude!” she said to introduce me to another discussion we were going to have about my decision to wear a denim jacket, a t-shirt of whatever band I was listening to at the time, and jeans. She called my ensemble ‘the heavy metal dude gear’ in that discussion. I was fair game for these family discussions, Mrs. Finnegan said, because I had such a huge influence on her beloved son, and the state of my home required that I receive further guidance. 

The “Your friend’s dad is an infidel” greeting informed me that the Finnegan family discussion of the day would involve her husband’s recent business trip to Las Vegas in which “he happened to get himself some [girl]”. I substitute the word ‘girl’ here for your reading pleasure, in place of the more provocative word that Mrs. Finnegan used to describe the other party in Greg Finnegan’s act of infidelity. 

Mrs. Finnegan was a religious woman who rarely ever used profanity or vulgarity. She reserved those words for moments when she needed to severely wound the subject of her scorn, with a ‘Look what you’ve made me do,’ plea in her voice to further subject the subject of her scorn to greater shame, ‘I’m using profanity now.’

I would hear Francis Finnegan use vulgar words on this afternoon, but it wasn’t as shocking to me as hearing that initial misuse of the word infidel. As a self-described word nerd, Mrs. Finnegan prided herself on proper word usage, in even the most casual conversations. I was into it too. I was so into using proper words that she informed me on another occasion, half-joking, that I was her apprentice. She enjoyed teaching me, and I was her eager student. In the beginning, I viewed her assessment of our roles in that light. As the years went by, however, I began to believe she said that to relieve whatever guilt she may have felt for correcting every other word that came out of my mouth. It could prove exhausting at times. There were times when I was almost afraid to open my mouth around her, lest she correct me, but I did enjoy our respective roles in this relationship. 

I figured that the emotional turmoil of this moment might have caused the faux pas, but her diction was so proper and refined that I didn’t consider her capable of such a slip. Even during the most tumultuous Finnegan family discussions, the woman managed to mind her rules of usage well. Thus, when she made the error of attributing the word infidel to her husband’s act of infidelity, I assumed she intended to pique the interest of the listener in the manner her sparse use of profanity and vulgarity could. Either that or she was providing herself a respite from the rules to creatively conflate the incorrect use of the word, and the correct one, with an implicit suggestion that not only had her husband violated his vows to her, but his vows to God.   

My friend James was seated on the couch, next to his father, when I entered the Finnegan home. The two of them were a portrait of shame. They sat in the manner a Beagle sits in the corner of the room after making a mess on the carpet. 

James mouthed a quick ‘Hi!’ to me, as I walked by him, and he pumped his head up to accentuate that greeting. He then resumed the shamed position of looking down at the carpet. 

“Mr. Finnegan decided to go out to Las Vegas and get him some [girl]!” Mrs. Finnegan said to open the proceedings when I entered the living room. I did not have enough time to sit when she said that. When I did, I sat as slow as the tension in the room allowed. “Tell him Greg,” she added. 

“France, I don’t think we should be airing our dirty laundry in front of outsiders,” Mr. Finnegan complained. The idea that he had been crying was obvious. His eyes were rimmed red and moist. He did not look up at Francis, or me, with his complaint. He, like James, remained fixated on the carpet. 

France was the name Mrs. Finnegan grew up with, and she hated it. Only her immediate family members addressed her with such familiarity. She had very few adult friends, but to those people she was Frances. To everyone else, she was Mrs. Finnegan. She may have permitted others to call her less formal names, but I never heard it. Mrs. Finnegan was not one to permit informalities. 

“NO!” Mrs. Finnegan yelled at her husband. That yell was so forceful that had the room contained an actual Beagle, it would have scampered from it, regardless if it were the subject of her scorn. “No, he has to learn,” she said pointing at me, while looking at her husband. “Just like your son needs to learn, just like every man needs to learn the evil of their ways.” 

A visual display followed that verbal one. It was carried into the living room by the Finnegan’s dutiful daughter. The daughter appeared as removed from this family discussion as she had the prior ones. She was more of an observer of the goings on in the Finnegan home than a participant, in my brief experiences with Finnegan family discussions. She rarely offered an opinion, unless it backed up her mother’s assessments and characterizations, and she was never the subject of her mother’s scorn. She was the dutiful daughter, and she walked into the room, carrying the display, in that vein. She carefully positioned it on the living room table and pulled out its legs, so it could stand. She then lit all of the candles in the display and sat next to her mother when it was complete. 

Mrs. Finnegan allowed the display of Greg Finnegan’s shame to rest on the living room table for a moment without comment. The display was a multi-tiered, wood framed, structure with open compartments that allowed for wallet-sized photos. The structure of the frame was a triangle, but anyone who looked around the Finnegan family home could see evidence of Mrs. Finnegan’s fondness for pyramids. Greg Finnegan purchased the triangle to feed into her obsession, but it did not have the full dimensions of a pyramid. When the daughter pulled its legs out, however, the frame rested at an angle. At that angle, the frame took on the appearance of one-fourths of a pyramid. 

Before this discussion began, Mrs. Finnegan somehow managed to secure enough photos of the “harlot, slut, home wrecker” to fill each of the open compartments in the pyramid with unique photos of woman. Each photo had a small votive candle before it to give the shrine of Greg Finnegan’s shame an almost holy vibe. 

“It’s the pyramid of shame,” Mrs. Finnegan informed me with a confrontational smile. “It was Greg’s gift to me on my birthday. Isn’t it lovely? I’m thinking of placing it in our bedroom. I’m thinking of placing it in a just such a position that if Greg is ever forced to sex me again-” Except she did not say sex. She uttered the word, the big one, the queen mother of dirty words, the “F-dash-dash-dash” word. “-he can look at those pictures while he’s [sexing] me. Do you think that will help your performance honey?” she asked her husband. 

As we sat through that uncomfortable comment, the question of how far Mrs. Finnegan might go with her characterizations of her husband’s weekend was mercifully interrupted by a knock at the door. For obvious reasons, we did not see an individual approach the door, so the knock startled us. The construction of the Finnegan duplex was such that when the drapes were open the inhabitants could see the knocker if they were facing in that direction, but we were all looking at the carpet before us. The knocker was Andy, the third participant in the adventure James and I planned for the evening. 

“Welcome to the home of Greg Finnegan, adulterer and infidel,” Mrs. Finnegan said after leaping to her feet to beat everyone to the door. No one was racing her to the door. We were scared and shamed into staring at the carpet. “Come on in,” she said stepping back to allow Andy’s entrance. 

Andy turned around, walked back down the steps, got in his car, and drove away. Just like that, Andy escaped what I felt compelled to endure. Andy didn’t respond to Mrs. Finnegan’s greeting in anyway. He didn’t go out of his way to show any signs of respect or disrespect. He just turned and left.

I didn’t know we could do that, I thought. I turned to watch him walk away, and I turned even more to see him step off the Finnegan patio. I realized he was actually leaving, and my mouth fell open. I didn’t know we could do that.

Andy left, because he knew what Mrs. Finnegan’s headline hellos entailed. He knew what he was in for, and I did too. To my mind, his departure was not only inexplicably bold, it was so unprecedented that it set a precedent for me. I didn’t know we could do that. 

“How could you do that?” I asked him later. 

“I didn’t want to go through all that all over again,” he said. 

“Well, of course,” I said. “Who would?” 

Andy further explained his reaction, but the gist of it was that he just didn’t want to have to sit through another Finnegan family discussion. His impulsive reaction was so simple that if he laid it all out before me, I would’ve countered that he never would’ve been able to pull it off. I’m sure he would’ve asked why, and I don’t know what I would’ve said, but it would’ve involved the inherent respect and fear we have of other people’s parents. Andy and I were good kids, and good kids consider it a testament to their character to maintain model status around other people’s parents, so I didn’t think Andy would be able to be so bold. When Andy did it, and Mrs. Finnegan did nothing more than close the door, I realized that I would have to do a much better job of considering my options in life. 

After Andy left and Mrs. Finnegan sat back down, she encouraged Mr. Finnegan to begin the confessional phase of the Finnegan family discussion, a phase that required Mr. Finnegan to provide explicit details of what he did, I wasn’t there to hear it. I was imagining that Andy impulsive reaction to Mrs. Finnegan’s headline hello so emboldened me that I just stood up and followed him to his car. Just like that. Just like he did. I imagined the two of us driving away, laughing at the lunatics we left behind. I imagined calling the Finnegans platypus people at one point in our round of jokes, and how that might end Andy’s laughter, until I said: 

“What is a platypus, but an animal that defies categorization. One study informs the world of science that they should fall into a specific category, until more exploration reveals that the duck-billed mammal does something to contradict all of their previous assessments. Comprehensive study of the animal creates more questions than answers, until even the most seasoned naturalist throws their hands up in the air in futility. “Experts in psychology might think they have a decent hold on human classifications,” I would add,“but imagine what one day in the Finnegan family home could do to them. 

“At its introduction, naturalists considered the platypus another well-played hoax on the naturalist community, I would add. “I say another well-played hoax because it happened. Some enterprising naturalists stitched together body parts of various parts of dead animals to lead the scientific community to believe that the hoaxer discovered an entirely new species. Thus, when someone introduced the platypus, the scientists who received it believed it was but another elaborate hoax of taxidermy. 

“Those who guarded themselves against falling for future hoaxes, even had a tough time believing the platypus was an actual species when they saw one live,” I would add. 

Even after this afternoon concluded, and I had all the sordid details of this Finnegan Family as Platypus People story to tell, I wondered if anyone would believe me. My penchant for stitching facts together with exaggerated details to try to weave them together for an exceptional story might come back to haunt me. They might not even believe the story if Andy stuck around to corroborate the details of it, and they might not even believe it if they saw it live, I realized while Mr. Finnegan continued to offer me explicit details of his weekend. My audience might think they’re the subjects of an elaborate hoax. 

“He already confessed all of this to his children,” Mrs. Finnegan said to interrupt Mr. Finnegan’s confession, “and he will be offering detailed confessions to the mailman, a traveling salesman, and whomever happens to darken our door this evening.”

After Mr. Finnegan’s continued confession failed to meet Mrs. Finnegan’s requirements, she interrupted him again to ask a series of questions that further explored the humiliating details of Mr. Finnegan’s weekend, details he would not reveal without prompting. When that finally concluded, she forced us to acknowledge the primary reason the Finnegans married in the first place. 

“No one would play with Mr. Finnegan’s [reproductive organ],” she said, except she didn’t say reproductive organ. 

“He was lonely,” she said with tones of derision. “Mr. eighty dollars an hour consultant fee, and Mr. professional student with eight degrees would be nothing without me, because he was nothing when he met me. He was a lonely, little man who had nothing to do but play with, except his little computer products, designs, and his little reproductive organ when no one else would.” 

“That’s enough France,” Greg said standing. He stood to bolster his claim that he’d had enough, and that he was prepared to leave, but he couldn’t and Mrs. Finnegan knew that. 

“Do you play with your reproductive organ?” Mrs. Finnegan asked me, undeterred by Greg’s pleas. “Do you masturbate? Because that’s where it all starts. It all starts with young men, and their pornographic material, imagining that someday someone will want to come along and want to play with it.” 

I had no idea how this family discussion would play out, of course, but I could see Mrs. Finnegan’s confrontational demeanor building. She was a confrontational person, and I never saw her attempt to restrain herself, but this display of resentment and hostility was unprecedented for her, as far as I was concerned. She was all but spitting these questions out between bared teeth, and her nostrils flared in a manner of disgust that suggested her hostility was directed at me. 

“You think it’s about love?” she asked me, aghast at a comment I never made. She had a huge smile on her face when she asked that question, and that smile might have been more alarming than the way she asked all those previous embarrassing questions. Seeing that smile surround those angry teeth led me to wonder if she was losing control of her facilities. 

“You think every couple has a story of dating, that hallowed first kiss, and love?” she continued. “Go watch a gawdamned love conquers all movie if you want all that and once it’s over, you come to Mrs. Finnegan with your questions, and I’ll introduce you to some reality. I’ll tell you tales of young men, grown men, who marry because they’re desperate to find someone to play with their reproductive organ. Isn’t that right Mr. Finnegan?” she called after Mr. Finnegan, as he finally mustered up the courage to begin walking away from her. When he wouldn’t answer, or even turn to acknowledge her question, Mrs. Finnegan watched him leave, she looked at me, and then she tore off after him. 

Mrs. Finnegan was a deliberate woman who appeared to consider her motions before moving as carefully as the words she used to express herself, so to see this otherwise sedate woman move so quickly was a little startling, troubling, and in retrospect foreboding. 

Pushing a grown man down a flight of stairs is not the feat of strength that some might consider it. We didn’t see it, but we figured that he must have been off balance when she did it, resulting from his refusal to turn and face her in his path to the basement. She was screaming things at him from behind, and her intensity grew with each scream until we could no longer understand the words coming out of her mouth. Mr. Finnegan continued to refuse to turn around and face her, but he should’ve suspected that his wife’s intensity would lead to a conclusion against which he should guard himself. Thus, when she pushed him, he was in no position to defend himself or lessen the impact of falling down a flight of about twenty steps. 

When we ran to the top of the stairs –after the sounds of him hitting the stairs shook the house in such a manner that all three of us instinctually put a hand on the armrests of the furniture we sat in to brace ourselves– we witnessed her haul her six-foot-five, two-hundred-pound husband upstairs by his hair, one-handed.”

Mrs. Finnegan’s final scream, that which proceeded her pushing her husband down the stairs, led us to believe that whatever frayed vestige of sanity she clung to for much of her life just snapped. I couldn’t understand what Mrs. Finnegan screamed as she pulled him up the stairs by his hair, but I wasn’t sure if that was because the screams of her children, and her husband, drowned out those shrieks. 

“France!” I heard Greg scream in pain. “France, for God’s sakes!” he screamed repeatedly. 

When I saw Mrs. Finnegan’s contorted facial expression, it transfixed me. In their attempts to either help her, or break her hold on Mr. Finnegan’s hair, her children blocked most of my view of her face. I bobbed and weaved to see more. I didn’t know why my need to see her face drove me to such embarrassing lengths, but I all but shouted at those obstructing my view of it to move out of the way. 

I’ve witnessed rage a couple of times, prior to Mrs. Finnegan’s, but I couldn’t remember seeing it so vacant before. This almost unconscious display of rage was one that those who aren’t employed in various levels of civil service might see once in a lifetime.

Her body blocked any view we might have had of Mr. Finnegan, but I assumed that he was back stepping the stairs to relieve some of the pain of having his hair pulled in such a manner. We could also guess he was putting his hand on the handrail in a manner that assisted her in pulling him up. Regardless the details of the moment, it was still an impressive display of strength fueled by a scary visage of rage. 

She was in such a state that when she was finally atop the stairs, standing in the kitchen with her children trying to calm her, she couldn’t form intelligible words. Her lips were moving but no sound was coming out, and when that initial brief spell ended, the self-described word nerd could only manage gibberish, the same gibberish that proceeded her pushing her husband down the stairs, and all moments between. She later suggested that that gibberish resulted from being overcome by spirits. Once she escaped that state, she stated that the gibberish we all heard was her speaking in tongues. She believed that divine intervention prevented her from further harming her husband, in the manner divine intervention once prevented Abraham from harming his son Isaac in the Biblical narrative. I believed it too, in the heat of the moment, but I would later learn that I just witnessed my first psychotic episode. 

I don’t know what happened in the aftermath of this incident, as I never entered their home again. I do know that the Finnegan marriage survived it, and I’m sure that Mrs. Finnegan still believes that divine intervention played a role. I’m also sure that if anyone doubted her assessment, they would be greeted at the door with a “Welcome to the home of the divine intervention!” headline hello to introduce them to that Finnegan family discussion of the day. If those future visitors were to ask me for advice on this matter, I would advise them to consider their options before entering.