Day 1: Power and a Toilet that Flushes (Part Three)

The only thing I really know about plumbing is that it's a lot more complicated than it looks.

There are a whole bunch of different materials you can use. There's cast-iron and ABS (the black plastic stuff) for drain lines. For intakes, there's PVC (cold only - very cheap and very easy to work with), CPVC (cold and hot - just a little more expensive than PVC), Pex (more expensive than plastic, more flexible than anything else, requires special tools, the push/click joints don't always seal well, and it apparently attracts rodents who chew through the tubing to get to the water so isn't recommended for use where there's any possibility of that happening) and, last but certainly not least, copper (the most expensive of all, requires the use of an open flame, and is subject to developing pinhole leaks if your pH is off).

I also know it comes in a whole bunch of different sizes, and that there are about a billion different little parts you can use to connect your pipes together to get what you want/need out of your system. This does not include the hundred or so special parts you need to connect your sink, shower, toilet, tub, and hot water to that system - drains as well as fixtures.

I also know that every plumbing job usually involves at least three different trips to the store to get the part you actually need instead of the one you thought you needed, or the one you didn't know you were going to need at all until it became obvious you did. I know making do is rarely an option. I know that no amount of teflon tape, caulk, or silicone will keep water from eventually finding its way out of a poorly-sealed or ill-fitting joint.

Finally, I know that getting your system to work involves accommodating various laws of physics that involve both gravity and pressure.

See, way more complicated than it looks.

There's something about it, in fact, that's always reminded me of some kind of game where you have all these things that need water, or need to get rid of water, and your job is to make that happen using as few pieces as possible.

For the first time in my life, I head under my trailer to play that game myself.

My immediate, and only goal is to connect the toilet to the septic line so I can get it installed and available to use even if I have to fill the tank with a bucket until I get a chance to put the intake system together.

It doesn't look like it's going to be particularly hard. There's already a network of pipes under the trailer to drain - not just the toilet - but the bathroom sink, shower, and kitchen sink as well. It looks like all I really have to do is cap everything but the toilet, reassemble that section of line, and reconnect it to big pipe that goes to the septic tank.

The first thing I figure out is that most of the pipes haven't actually been glued together yet. They've just been cut to fit, assembled, and hung in place. Put any pressure of any kind on any of them, and they fall apart. First thing to go, for me, is the shower drain. I bumped it with my knee getting under the trailer, and down it came.

"That's okay," I say, groping for it with my fingers and tossing it to one side, "I'll just cap that line where it joins the main, which will be probably be easier than trying to do it at the other end anyway."

I am laying on my back, under the trailer, on a plastic tarp that barely covers the area in which I have to actually work. I have enough headroom, between the cross-braces of the frame, to get myself into a hunched over sitting position. But once there, those same cross-braces make it really difficult to see anything except what's actually in that space, and, for now, I need a view of the whole system so I can get my bearings and figure out how to proceed.

I give the line going to the bathroom sink a little tug and twist to see if it's been glued. It has, but is connected to the main by a rubber boot. I undo the circular clamps holding the boot to the line, and it comes away in one piece. I set that aside and move on to see if the kitchen sink will be that easy. I can't find where it enters the system.

I get out, go into the kitchen, and move all my boxes out of the way so I can find it to see where it goes. It doesn't go into the floor like I'd expected. Instead, it turns and runs down the outside of my kitchen wall which I apparently hadn't noticed before.

I move more boxes. It goes all the way down my wall to the end, then makes a ninety degree turn, and goes through that wall into the little space where the water heater is.

The water heater. If you look hard, you can just see it, peeking its ugly little head over the top of the sheetrock in the lower left hand corner of the photo above.

Installing the water heater, I believe, is one of the things the previous owner was in the middle of doing when he abandoned the place, and it's one of the only things I wish he hadn't ever started doing in the first place. It's nothing but trouble as far as I'm concerned. There's the big hole he cut in the side of the trailer to get it in that I'm going to have to frame, then figure out how to finish so it matches the rest of the siding. There's the wire sticking out the wall that, presumably, is carrying the full 240 volts needed to run the thing that I have absolutely no idea how he managed to get out of the electrical system so it absolutely scares the crap out of me. There's the drywall he didn't install so he could access the space to wire and plumb it that I'm going to have to put up myself. There's the floorspace it occupies that I would desperately love to reclaim so I could put my sink next to the toilet where it belongs and make my tiny bathroom tinier but infinitely more inviting which is even more work for me to do.

And then there's the water heater itself. It's brand spanking new, it's electric, and it's designed to keep 40 gallons of water as hot as you want it 24/7/365 whether you use it or not. There is just me. I do not have a washing machine. I do not have a dishwasher. I do not even have a bath tub. I do not use that much hot water. I do not need that much water kept hot all the time, nor can I really afford to keep that much water hot all the time either. What I really want is a propane-fired, on demand unit that mounts to the outside of my trailer. I do not want to make do with the one I have. I want to get rid of it. There's just no way I can lift it to get it out of the space it's currently occupying, and it's not a particularly high priority for me to get it out of there even if I could. So, there it sits, taunting me in all its brand new, 40 gallon, 240 volt uselessness.

I get up on some boxes and peer through the missing drywall to see where my kitchen drain goes once it enters this little space. This little space is apparently where the trailer's original vent stack was located. It's been connected to my kitchen drain by a tee to rise, through the roof, and out. My kitchen drain line itself exits the trailer through yet another hole in the siding.

I go back outside, find it, and figure out where it connected to main septic line. It's a completely separate, very obvious, and very poorly constructed addition to the original system. There is a long section of pipe that's missing altogether which is why I couldn't find it in the first place. I rig a makeshift cap to cover the hole where it joins the rest of the system, and move on to getting the toilet line glued together, assembled, and firmly secured to both the main septic line and the cast-iron flange screwed into the floor upon which the toilet will ultimately be mounted.

This, I discover, is easier said than done. I have no idea at which end I'm supposed to start. I decide it probably doesn't matter. At some point, I'm going to get to the last joint where you really just have to hope you've glued all the other ones at just enough of the right angle so you can wiggle, jiggle, tease, coax, and wrangle one end into the other - without, of course, breaking the seals on any of the other joints you've already primed and glued.

I end up working from both ends simultaneously, leaving my last joint to go right in the middle where I have the most room to actually work. They do meet, but just barely, and with barely enough room to make the join.

As far as the plumbing game goes, this is the big boss level. It's me - my wits, my cunning, my dexterity, and my strength - against two lengths of ABS sanitary pipe and the elbow joint that will connect them.

Normally, this wouldn't be a problem. You just prime and glue both ends simultaneously so you have a little bit of time to twist them together before the glue sets.

I do not have that luxury. It's so hot the primer is drying before I can get the glue on. The glue is drying in clumps, sticking to itself, as I wipe, first the outside of the pipe then the inside of the joint. I slide one onto the other knowing full well I'll be lucky if the glue doesn't set before I get the joint seated. I get lucky. It does seat, but just barely.

I do a quick double check to make sure the other end of the elbow will still meet the last remaining piece of pipe. It does. I redo the primer. I redo the glue. I bring the pieces together as quickly as I can, twisting them as much as I can, while pushing them into one another as hard as I can and using all my strength to hold them in that position. I very slowly count to thirty. I can feel them resisting, trying to push away from each other. I can feel them melting, giving up, giving in, yielding to, and becoming part of one another. I let go, and they hold.

I sit there, watching them, waiting to see if they're really down for the count. They don't move. I touch them. They seem pretty solid. I give them a little yank. They're going nowhere.

I lay down on my tarp. I look at the whole system, double checking to make sure I haven't forgotten anything. I haven't.

I roll myself out, get the hose, screw on the spray attachment, turn on the water, drag it into the trailer, into my tiny bathroom, insert the nozzle into the flange, and let 'er rip for a good minute or two. I run back outside and look under the trailer. No drips. No leaks.

I have beaten the boss. The next level - my cold water intake system - is already beckoning. I am tempted, but decide to stick with my plan, and play the relatively easy and very familiar familiar side game of mounting the toilet instead.

It takes less than an hour. I stick the hose in the bowl and let it gurgle, happily and contentedly away, for the entire five minutes it takes to get the whole thing clean again.

I go back outside to look under the trailer. Still no water.

Night is starting to fall. The clouds to the west are a brilliant pink. Those to the east are shrouded in violet dusk. The moon sits, waxing, over my head to the south. The wind has died down to a soft breeze. Somewhere someone has lit a barbecue. It is still hot. I am still hot, still sweaty, still dirty, and still amazed I didn't kill myself today.

I have power. I have a toilet that flushes. There is a big pitcher of iced coffee sitting in my little refrigerator, along with a quart of half and half and a brand new bag of ice. There is a fan to sit in front of while I drink it. There is light to stream, for the first time in over a year, through windows that still need glass. There is life inside, and the two things most critical to being able to live it.

I do not think I could have asked for better day to inaugurate that life, or, for that matter, a better way to end it either.

It is, I tell myself as I step inside to pour myself that iced coffee, a most auspicious beginning.