Glimpse
The Plumbers Coalition
Moderator: The circumstances of life are such (particularly as one ages) that an
increasing percentage of a man’s life is spent occupied with the expulsion of gas – the
immutable laws of etiquette, fragile and well-defined, restrict the options made available to
men of responsibility with established positions in the fabric of society. Such men must
constantly anticipate the arrival of and then deal quickly with the expansive (not to
mention offensive) consequences of that generally invisible, occasionally inaudible, but
seldom inconspicuous effluent known as farts, the under-wind or couch-dragons. The
reason that I bring this natural fact to your attention is that it is my singular distinction
(with one possible exception) to belong to a fraternity of men who are held in the highest
esteem among the halls of wisdom yet are exempted from society’s embargo on the topic
of the natural gas – or rather I should say, the circumstances of my trade allows for more
than a passing interest in gas and the passing of it. I am a plumber.
A plumber is a member of a somber order of public servants, dead useful in almost any
household emergency. Plumbers are an unobtrusive lot, but in the quiet obscurity of the
Victorian basement there may be no class of men better equipped to deal with the
dragons unleashed when a century of water pressure begins to seek its natural course.
Imagine the frantic oratory of attorneys, bankers or any other of the legions of ‘modern
professionals’ in the face of an ancient and ulcerated drain pipe. I count myself fortunate
to swell the local plumber ranks and with perhaps one exception it is my profession which
defines me. The exception - well that relates to the other union which counts me among
its numbers, the brotherhood of thieves.
Walton Connecticut has always been a quiet bedroom community for affluent Boston
commuters, at least since the Indians were dragged off to points west and a few muddy
streets were hewn from the forest. Really not much has changed in the intervening
couple hundred years. Those whom the town desires it makes room for, clearing muddy
new streets and lanes to accommodate elaborate homes for affluent seekers of pastoral
countryside (which was recently plentiful in and around Walton) and that small-town jes
ne se pas (which Walton still possesses in quantities no suburb can quite match).
Meanwhile, those that the town doesn’t want are dragged off – more or less.
The history of Walton is distinguished, perhaps indistinguished is more accurate, by a
fairly solid record for non-adventure. No one ever got famous in Walton, and no one ever
got very rich either (they tended to arrive that way ready-made or not make it at all).
Families tended to stick around and put down roots, deep roots. My own family (the
majority of which still live within an hours drive) includes a couple of great-uncles who I am
confident never left the county. People tend to know their neighbors and likely have
some shirt-tail relatives in common with most of them. The informal telegraph of relatives
and busybody neighbors creates a great disincentive for the adventurous or disruptive
elements of the spirit. People tend to behave as if they are going to read about
everything they do in tomorrow’s Walton Gazeteer (as they likely would, should it create
sufficient interest that anyone at all were to take note – reporter or not). Of course all this
started to change when the highways went in (thanks Dwight).
A new class of citizenry was launched onto the Walton scene with the commencement of
convenient transport to the localities of major economic engines (towns better known but
lesser thought of). Local businesses perked up with the fresh injection of outside funding
(previous to my twentieth year it was something of a rarity to possess cash that had never
before seen the inside of your wallet). During this time of renewal and upheaval,
eventually we come around to Walton being subjected to something of a larcenous
holiday.
The history of the conspiracy is such: originally the plumbers of Walton Connecticut
honored the long-established practice of industry which is to say we would meet discreetly
in during idle times in small groups to discuss the business – which would usually turn to
particular jobs and eventually the rate at which they were billed (each man given to a
certain amount of inflation in his own rates and therefore relative position within the
union). The natural effect of this sort of bluster was to create the impression, in the
minds of the journeyman that he was undercharging, thus creating an overall upward
pressure on rates. As I and several of the others noticed the effect and debated the
extent to which we could push the concept a sort of cabal developed – the mission of
which was to drive towards larger and greater conceptions of worth in the general
populous thus increasing the inflationary effect. This was wildly successful and we found
that total control over the local market prices was not much beyond our grasp. After
several rounds of valuing and de-valuing the local plumbing installation and repair market
to drive out competition. A couple of us (three to be precise) were celebrating our own
cleverness in a local pub when one of the fellows struck an odd remark. As if seeking to
increase his status within the society he commented “I have keys to half of the homes in
Walton”. To which I responded that I had the other half. In that moment an idea was born.
Eventually it was deemed necessary to include two others into the conspiracy lest a
pattern be detected in our rotation by the local constable. The plan was simple enough
really; first – always arrange the timing of the break-in so that the man who’s key was
used has a solid alibi (out-of town if possible). Second – never take anything that would
be noticed immediately. Walton is a small town and if the robbery were discovered
immediately there would be little difficulty guessing of our involvement. Third – never hit
the locals. In a town like Walton there is a subtle caste system whereby those who serve
the town (and likely have long family histories in the area) tend to stick together as a
means of protection from the affluent commuters who gobble up all the best properties
and who’s children fill up the first string and cheerleading squads. To rob a member of
the local caste would amount to a crime against not just the book of law but the moral
code implied by small town neighborliness.
To Be Continued…
Moderator: The circumstances of life are such (particularly as one ages) that an
increasing percentage of a man’s life is spent occupied with the expulsion of gas – the
immutable laws of etiquette, fragile and well-defined, restrict the options made available to
men of responsibility with established positions in the fabric of society. Such men must
constantly anticipate the arrival of and then deal quickly with the expansive (not to
mention offensive) consequences of that generally invisible, occasionally inaudible, but
seldom inconspicuous effluent known as farts, the under-wind or couch-dragons. The
reason that I bring this natural fact to your attention is that it is my singular distinction
(with one possible exception) to belong to a fraternity of men who are held in the highest
esteem among the halls of wisdom yet are exempted from society’s embargo on the topic
of the natural gas – or rather I should say, the circumstances of my trade allows for more
than a passing interest in gas and the passing of it. I am a plumber.
A plumber is a member of a somber order of public servants, dead useful in almost any
household emergency. Plumbers are an unobtrusive lot, but in the quiet obscurity of the
Victorian basement there may be no class of men better equipped to deal with the
dragons unleashed when a century of water pressure begins to seek its natural course.
Imagine the frantic oratory of attorneys, bankers or any other of the legions of ‘modern
professionals’ in the face of an ancient and ulcerated drain pipe. I count myself fortunate
to swell the local plumber ranks and with perhaps one exception it is my profession which
defines me. The exception - well that relates to the other union which counts me among
its numbers, the brotherhood of thieves.
Walton Connecticut has always been a quiet bedroom community for affluent Boston
commuters, at least since the Indians were dragged off to points west and a few muddy
streets were hewn from the forest. Really not much has changed in the intervening
couple hundred years. Those whom the town desires it makes room for, clearing muddy
new streets and lanes to accommodate elaborate homes for affluent seekers of pastoral
countryside (which was recently plentiful in and around Walton) and that small-town jes
ne se pas (which Walton still possesses in quantities no suburb can quite match).
Meanwhile, those that the town doesn’t want are dragged off – more or less.
The history of Walton is distinguished, perhaps indistinguished is more accurate, by a
fairly solid record for non-adventure. No one ever got famous in Walton, and no one ever
got very rich either (they tended to arrive that way ready-made or not make it at all).
Families tended to stick around and put down roots, deep roots. My own family (the
majority of which still live within an hours drive) includes a couple of great-uncles who I am
confident never left the county. People tend to know their neighbors and likely have
some shirt-tail relatives in common with most of them. The informal telegraph of relatives
and busybody neighbors creates a great disincentive for the adventurous or disruptive
elements of the spirit. People tend to behave as if they are going to read about
everything they do in tomorrow’s Walton Gazeteer (as they likely would, should it create
sufficient interest that anyone at all were to take note – reporter or not). Of course all this
started to change when the highways went in (thanks Dwight).
A new class of citizenry was launched onto the Walton scene with the commencement of
convenient transport to the localities of major economic engines (towns better known but
lesser thought of). Local businesses perked up with the fresh injection of outside funding
(previous to my twentieth year it was something of a rarity to possess cash that had never
before seen the inside of your wallet). During this time of renewal and upheaval,
eventually we come around to Walton being subjected to something of a larcenous
holiday.
The history of the conspiracy is such: originally the plumbers of Walton Connecticut
honored the long-established practice of industry which is to say we would meet discreetly
in during idle times in small groups to discuss the business – which would usually turn to
particular jobs and eventually the rate at which they were billed (each man given to a
certain amount of inflation in his own rates and therefore relative position within the
union). The natural effect of this sort of bluster was to create the impression, in the
minds of the journeyman that he was undercharging, thus creating an overall upward
pressure on rates. As I and several of the others noticed the effect and debated the
extent to which we could push the concept a sort of cabal developed – the mission of
which was to drive towards larger and greater conceptions of worth in the general
populous thus increasing the inflationary effect. This was wildly successful and we found
that total control over the local market prices was not much beyond our grasp. After
several rounds of valuing and de-valuing the local plumbing installation and repair market
to drive out competition. A couple of us (three to be precise) were celebrating our own
cleverness in a local pub when one of the fellows struck an odd remark. As if seeking to
increase his status within the society he commented “I have keys to half of the homes in
Walton”. To which I responded that I had the other half. In that moment an idea was born.
Eventually it was deemed necessary to include two others into the conspiracy lest a
pattern be detected in our rotation by the local constable. The plan was simple enough
really; first – always arrange the timing of the break-in so that the man who’s key was
used has a solid alibi (out-of town if possible). Second – never take anything that would
be noticed immediately. Walton is a small town and if the robbery were discovered
immediately there would be little difficulty guessing of our involvement. Third – never hit
the locals. In a town like Walton there is a subtle caste system whereby those who serve
the town (and likely have long family histories in the area) tend to stick together as a
means of protection from the affluent commuters who gobble up all the best properties
and who’s children fill up the first string and cheerleading squads. To rob a member of
the local caste would amount to a crime against not just the book of law but the moral
code implied by small town neighborliness.
To Be Continued…
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