by Brad

April 11, 2007

I'M NOT KEEN ON TUNNELING INTO SOMEONE'S SEPTIC TANK

What goes on in Detox Mansion
Outside the rubber room
We get therapy and lectures
We play golf in the afternoon

Not everything about this house that we call home is perfect and there are a couple things about it I loathe. The cellar, for example. It is my least favorite feature and it actually gives me the creeps. It's
nothing more than a glorified crawl space with a pit dug out to qualify as a cellar. The cellar is barren, save for the water heater and the furnace and the only time I venture down there is when one of them decides it's lonely for attention.

I also had to scale the dirt wall when we first moved in and wiggle into the crawl space to free up the cable. It had been ensnared onto something and we couldn't get enough slack to hook it up to our TV. So I had to grab a flashlight, slither on my belly and head into the
darkness that was the crawl space. For some reason, I had a Vietnam
flashback and I was rooting through a tunnel, chasing out Charlie. True I was around 12 or 13 when Saigon fell and began its transformation into Ho Chi Minh City, but the flashback came nonetheless. I also managed to unsnarl the cable without encountering any spiders, rodents or any NVA regulars.

Why the cellar creeps me out is a mystery. I mean, my grandparents (mother's side) had a dirt cellar, but I have no recollection of ever descending into it. It's possible I did go into it once and the experience was so traumatic I suppressed it and now that trauma is trying to break the surface. However, I have my doubts. There was a partially completed cellar at my grandfather's (father's side) house--the majority of it looked like a typical suburban basement--paneled walls, cement floor and toys and games. However, in the corner was a door that led to the unfinished side. Open it and it was like you stepped into the lost world. The floor became a dark, sand-like dirt. I'm guessing the walls were the same, except less sandy, but they were covered with some type of vine that seemed to thrive in the dark. I didn't venture to this side of the cellar often, and when I did, I was more fascinated than frightened.

Another possibility as to why the cellar might creep me out could be
tied to an episode from the fifth--and final--season of Angel. The episode is called Underneath and there is a suburban cellar involved and some huge-ass guy who rips out someone's heart in a never-ending loop. However, I doubt that has anything to do with this because I just thought of this episode and I didn't feel any kind of breakthrough.

Digressions aside, my contact with the cellar is minimal, but far from
enjoyable. Usually I only have to be down there to change the furnace filters and that's the end of it. Still, a five-minute visit to the
cellar is five minutes too long.

What bugs me is the creepiness is non-specific. I don't believe in
ghosts, monsters, vampires and zombies, so I'm not expecting to be
done in by the bogyman (or bogeyman, if that's more applicable to your region). Chances are, I will hit the powerball numbers before a serial killer or an axe murderer takes refuge in my cellar. We fear the unknown, but even the unknown takes on some kind of form in our minds. Maybe when I get a better image of whatever it is about the cellar that creeps me out, I will be able to conquer my creeped-out feeling of the place. Naturally, I don't expect Lifetime to come calling with a movie offer (Don't Go Down There: One Man's Fear of the
Cellar--next on Lifetime).

Before I move on, I should mention that I do enjoy The Butthole
Surfers' Creep In The Cellar, so it's not like I come unglued
at the mere mention of the word cellar.

The runner-up to least favorite part of the house that we call home is
the downstairs bathroom. As I mentioned last week, the downstairs
bathroom still has a strong odor of cigarette smoke and I suspect the
house's previous owner, Mrs. Crockett, somehow spirits herself into
the downstairs bathroom to power-smoke a couple Newports before
wisping away into thin air. What also makes this room my second
least-favorite part of the house that we call home is the fact that I
can't completely use the room for all it's worth. The bathroom is
cramped with a large, old-fashioned tub, a sink and the ever-popular
toilet. I'm 6-foot-2, and if I were a super model, I could be described as "leggy." There is about six inches of room between the toilet and the large, old-fashioned tub. Not to be too graphic, but if I wanted to sit on this toilet, I would have to drape my legs into the tub. Oh sure, if I stood on my feet all day, soaking them in the tub while I did my bidness would be ideal. But I don't stand on my feet all day and I don't fancy the idea of soaking my feet while doing my bidness.

And on that less-than-stellar note, I will draw this thing to a close.
Thanks for stick it out with me. I will try to do better next time.

Write Brad at exit149@gmail.com

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