Blocked

Contents: British English spelling and grammar.

Description of house is one I actually lived in.

***

Blocked

Una broke away from her dance partner and rejoined me.

"Having fun?" I asked, passing her a red wine.

"Not really. This is more business than pleasure."

"What, dancing with a group of handsome men? Nice work if you can get it. This older chap in the grey suit will want to feel your arse soon." I nodded to a man nearby. "He's been ogling you for twenty minutes."

"Come over to this corner for a moment, miseryguts. And for Christ's sake smile. You're embarrassing me!"

"I'm embarrassing you? That's rich!"

We stood at one end of the bar where it was quiet. She smiled at me. People might be watching so I played the game and smiled back.

"Listen carefully Peter. I work in sales. My basic salary is good but my commissions are better. I'm good at my job and have nailed three of the company's seven biggest deals this year. This party is to celebrate my latest success. Fifty percent of my commission goes into the bank at the end of this month. The rest goes towards my Christmas bonus."

"I know all that."

"And here's something else you know. That bonus I get will pay for your dream holiday next year. The Pacific coast highway? Big Sur? Monterey? Whale watching? I've even made enough to hire a convertible Mustang for three weeks."

"I know that too. That's my reward for being dragged along to this boring bash. For having to watch my girlfriend flirt with a group of guys, while some old perv undresses you with his eyes. It's annoying."

"Well here's something you obviously do not know. The managers who signed the contract this week -- two, not a group of them - have each had just two dances with me. It is expected. They have not groped, touched me inappropriately, or even danced cheek to cheek."

"OK. Sorry." I said.

"And the older chap watching, is the company CEO, he insists we call him Gavin. Yes, he is most certainly watching me. He's a stickler for the firm's morality clauses. A hand on my bottom for longer than a second, and I'll be hauled into his office on Monday, and shown a yellow card. Christ, he even checks the times on our lunch expenses. And we are never allowed to go to a hotel for a business lunch; just in case we're tempted. So lighten up will you?"

"Fair enough, I will. But you realise that doesn't stop him fancying you."

If I'd wanted to get the last word in, I failed.

"Yes it does. He's gay!"

We rejoined the throng. I don't like parties much, but made up for my faux pas by dancing with Una and chatting to the managers and Gavin. And smiling a lot. I probably ate and drank rather too much too, but she seemed to be appeased. The sex, when we got home, was great. I don't know if she was horny because she'd put me in my place, or because of the big contract. Neither did I care.

Our sex life is pretty wild anyway; we've both been married before. My ex and I had two children and then she persuaded me to have a vasectomy. A year later, she asked for a no fault divorce. Thanks! She immediately hooked up with an American and took off to San Diego with my sons. There was nothing I could do about it, but at least there was no maintenance to pay; Chuck is rich. It has probably influenced my interest in the west coast of the USA; I've only managed to see my boys once in the last two years.

Una had previously been married to a guy who was insanely jealous, and virtually kept her under lock and key. Then, on a health check-up, she was diagnosed with an STI. Her husband was informed, and admitted he'd been having an affair. He in turn told the woman he was involved with, and her husband promptly beat up Una's ex. She filed for divorce on the grounds of his adultery, but he dropped dead before it could be processed. It was rumoured that the beating was a contributary factor to the stroke, but nothing could be proved. There was no life assurance, only debts. And the whole business made her sensitive to jealousy. Which is how I'd pissed her off at the party.

So, after getting married, we took on our little rented place. The plan was to recover financially and get married when we could afford to buy. Luckily Una has no interest in having children. Her bonus and sales performance entitle her to an extra week's holiday next summer, when business is slack. She's more than happy to have my kids join us on our PCH road trip. My ex has also agreed.

The following day, Saturday, Una told me more tales of her boss. He lives unobtrusively with a male partner. They are not married, and never show any affection in public. He often sends clerks out to restaurants to check who the sales reps are buying dinner for. And when they have to travel away on business, it's thought he pays various hotel staff to keep an eye on who is in which room, whether they have any visitors, and so on.

It wasn't till the Sunday morning that I realised I hadn't had a dump the day before. I'm usually pretty regular and suspected it might have been something I'd eaten at the party that had upset my natural rhythms. By Sunday night I had bellyache.

I'd been putting in a lot of late nights at work. There was a serious glitch in the computer system. It had taken me six months to work my way back to the roots of the fault; the original error occurred a year ago, and had escalated like a slow avalanche. I'd been in constant touch with our subsidiary in San Francisco, who operated a parallel system. Hence the increasing fascination with their tales of the Pacific coast highway, which I'd seen in so many movies. They tended to be sarcastic because our 'British system' was frequently crashing, while theirs was error free. But the end of the problem was in sight, so I had no option but to take my bellyache to work on Monday.

Una and I live in an old terraced house. The rent is low and was all we could afford when we first hooked up. There is a tiny hallway, from which you can go straight up the stairs to the two bedrooms, or into the open-plan living room and kitchen. Between them is a small breakfast bar with a huge potted plant on it. We don't entertain much.

The door at the rear of the kitchen leads into a weird lobby. It's about three feet square with a door on all four sides. One leads back into the kitchen of course. The next is a shelved space where the water heater is housed; my mum always called it the airing cupboard. Then the door into the bathroom, built onto the back of the house. Looks like an afterthought, and stems from the days when people washed in the kitchen sink and the toilet was down the end of the garden. There's a small shed out there now, and it still has an old hip bath hanging in it. Finally, on the side of the house, is the 'back' door, facing the wall between us and next door. Out there, to the left you pass our bathroom on your way to the enclosed garden.

I still had bellyache when I got home Monday. But Una did not report anyone else suffering after the party. I'd forsaken lunch and dinner, and finally unloaded that night. Don't you hate those sessions where you just wipe and wipe afterwards? Half a toilet roll later I'd done, and gave it the last flush. Except it wasn't, because it didn't all go. I waited and tried again, but the lavatory filled up alarmingly. I thought it was going to spill its murky contents over the floor. Plunger time.

Like most people I dislike this chore, but I wanted it cleared before Una had to go. Some vigorous action got it to flow again and all was well. There was a shower over the old bath and the head just reached the toilet. A minute of hot water helped me scrub the bowl clean, and rinse the plunger. I washed my hands, and went and made myself a sandwich. I was starving.

Tuesday found my routine back on track. "Shit, shower and shave." as my old granddad used to say. And my workday was a triumph. We tested the system and it was error-free at last. Right across the company's departments, every computer function got slicker and quicker. My boss, Cliff, was delighted, and made vague murmurings about a bonus.

I'd have preferred a promotion of course and, to that end, had trained up an assistant, Eric, during the job. He was now as good as me at fault finding and correcting. Well, almost. I took Una out to dinner that night. But I didn't mention the success at work. I thought it would be better to wait, and see if any extra money was on the horizon.

When we got home, we settled in front of a tv movie.

"Just got time for a quick crap." she said, as the opening credits rolled.

Una is one of those people who likes to announce her bodily functions. 'Gotta pee!' is a fairly standard conversation opener. She returned as the movie started.

"Sorry Pete. The toilet's blocked and you're the plunger man. Be a love and see to it, would you?"

"Sure. I'll go in the first commercial break."

"But I'm not comfortable leaving it like that. Please?"

So I went and did my lavatory duty again. It took several plunges, three flushes and a quick shower spray.

Friday morning it blocked again, so I rang our landlord from work.

"Look Peter, this is covered by your rental agreement but I'm rushed off my feet at present, and can't get round till the end of next week. How do you feel about doing it yourself?"

"I'm not crawling down the sewers, Len."

"You don't have to. I saw what caused this last time it happened. It isn't pleasant, but not at all difficult."

"Go on."

"Outside your back door, there's a square inspection cover. It serves you and next door; theirs runs under the dividing wall. Your toilet flushes into a sewage pipe that runs straight to that access. Under the cover, there's a small concrete shelf at the end of each pipe. That's where the blockage usually gathers. What's surprising is how near the surface it is in those old houses. What you flush away runs just inches under the path."

"OK, I'll have a go."

"Thanks, let me know how you get on. By the way, there's a long metal pole in the airing cupboard, stashed behind your water heater. It lifts the cover and can also scrape out the, er, blockage."

Work project completed, I knocked off early for once, and found the pole. I stood at the back door and the square cover came off easily. It revealed precisely what Len had described. A circular pipe going straight into the sewer depths; set on the left side of the square opening. It created a curved shelf top and left; where my and the next door neighbour's outflow emerged. You always imagine drains and sewers are farther down than this.

The neighbour's side was clear, but mine was blocked. Disgusting as the sight was, I felt obliged to go and get my phone and take a couple of shots for posterity. It only took a few scrapes and the crap released in a rush. In the bathroom I flushed the toilet and went back out to see it running free. Then I filled a bucket with hot water from the shower and added half a bottle of bleach. I cleaned off the pole and wrapped the end in a plastic bag. It could stay outside overnight to dry. The rest of the bucketful was poured straight into the lavatory and washed the last culprits through. I felt quite heroic and had a shower.

We were just finishing dinner that same Friday night, when my mobile went off. Cliff was still at work and panicking. I slapped my last piece of chicken between two slices of bread, thinking this was where the Earl of Sandwich had started. Then kissed Una, and went back in. It was daytime in San Francisco, and their system had gone down big time. Eric, and a couple more lads, were on the phone to America. They were talking them through the procedure, step by step. Cliff ushered me into his office.

"It's exactly the same problem we've just sorted here."

"We?"

"OK Peter; you and Eric sorted it. What are the implications with downtime? How did you solve it here?"

"I ran a parallel system, so I could work on the original while the office carried on. It wasn't ideal because I had to break off from the repair work to sort out the inevitable office glitches. Eight to ten times a day; though that came down to two or three as we were approached the finishing line."

"Can the Americans fix it any quicker? Now we know what caused it?"

"No. I always knew what had caused it. I had to repair it piece by piece, kind of working backwards in date order. It took me six months, and that was working a lot of overtime."

"To the point then, Peter. What is the best way to bring America to the point we've just reached here? And I mean inhouse, no external contractors."

"You'll need a paper and pen."

He got them.

"Promote me to manager, with the appropriate salary increase, plus a reasonable overseas allowance. Send me to San Francisco and I guarantee I'll repeat what I achieved here. But I'm not running myself ragged working all hours again. Tell them I'll help them along day to day, but the full fix will take a year. I can keep them running in the mean time, and sort the glitches as I go. I'll expect to pick and choose my own hours. They can reckon on a few Friday lunchtime finishes, and Monday lunchtime starts. And I still want a full holiday entitlement."

"I thought it might be something like that. What else?"

"I want them to provide me with a car, and a three bed apartment near the workplace. Two competent assistants would bring the project down to nine or ten months."

"I can finance your pay increase and travel arrangements. And I'm sure they'll find two helpers, and lease you a vehicle. But short weeks? And three bedrooms? They're not going to like that."

"You're the boss; you'll have to tell them that's the way it must be. It can be done quicker if they bring in some expert help, but it'll cost them - us - a lot more than my solution. This is not about me swanning up and down the PCH. It's about me spending quality time with my boys. Tell me how things stand on Monday."

I don't think I'd ever been so forceful with Cliff. But I was pretty sure I'd get what I wanted; I was in the driving seat. They could get the job done in two months, if they were willing to throw a lot of money at the problem and suffer at least a week's downtime. But my demands would work out cheaper. If they couldn't accommodate me, maybe I'd leave and take my chances elsewhere. Cliff would know that.

Una was feeling frisky when I got back, but I wasn't in the mood. I was deliberately vague telling her about the problems at work; she had never been interested in tech stuff anyway. I put her off sex over the weekend too, claiming my bellyache had returned.

Monday morning she was looking especially hot.

"You're looking very glamorous. Another party?"

"Hardly. I'm after another sale; two guys coming over from Italy. If I can nail this one, I'll be unbeatable for salesperson of the year. Rob, my closest rival, was supposed to deal with this. But I told the CEO I was unhappy with him getting it, because I have a smattering of Italian. He said he was trying to level the playing field."

"Doesn't sound very business-like. It's not a game."

"That's what I said. Anyway, poor old Rob's sprained his ankle. Gavin called me yesterday and doesn't want these guys getting a pitch from someone in a cast. He's called the Italians and they're expecting his 'top sales lady' to meet them at the airport."

"Good for you. Will they sign today?"

"No. They arrive lunchtime, and I'll bring them in to the office to meet Gavin and have a look at our set up. From there, straight on to dinner at their hotel. Gavin in attendance of course, making sure I don't sneak up to their room! Then they get an early night, and I'll be home before nine."

"Will he have his spies out, making sure you don't go back and visit them?"

"He'll probably have someone at the hotel keeping an eye on them. As for me sneaking back to the hotel, you'll have to make sure I stay in!"

"I can do that."

I hoped this didn't mean she'd be wanting sex. I'd have to make up an excuse.

"My main meeting is at their hotel tomorrow. Not in their room of course; Gavin has booked one of their public conference rooms. I make the pitch on my own, can buy them lunch there, and take as long as I have to. And no doubt some of the staff will be keeping an eye us; popping in with coffee and biscuits every ten minutes. Tomorrow afternoon I'll probably come home early, while the Italians discuss it."

Next day, our American colleagues agreed to everything I wanted; an apartment and car, not a Mustang though, were already organised. Cliff booked me a flight on Wednesday morning. He also agreed to pay for a couple of boxes of my personal effects to be sent out there. A year in California was almost permanent. I hoped it would be.

"Take tomorrow off Peter. Just call in first thing on Wednesday before you go to the airport, to confirm everything is still on track. What does Una have to say about this? I did make it clear you'd have to pay all her expenses."

"She'll stay; she's making too much money to leave yet."

"Well good luck with that."

He stood and we shook hands. I wondered if I'd ever see him again. I'd be spending a year on the edge of Silicon Valley. My skills might be useful there. I had a feeling Cliff suspected something of the sort. The rest of the day was spent clearing my desk and saying my goodbyes.

I got home early again packed all my stuff and got it collected and sent on its way. I wouldn't need a check-in bag on Wednesday. One carry-on would suffice. I called Len, confirmed I'd just paid three months rent, and said that was my notice to leave the house. I wasn't going to miss it. He should liaise directly with Una to arrange his final inspection. Oh, and I'd sorted out the blockage problem.

Una and I have separate wardrobes, so that night she didn't notice I'd cleared all my personal stuff out. I told her I'd been to the doctor that afternoon to check my stomach problem. He'd done some tests and thought I might have an ulcer.

"No sex tonight babe. The medication he's given me makes me feel nauseous."

"If that's an ulcer, it'll be all that overtime you've been putting in. You need to cut back a bit."

"Don't worry. I'll be taking things much easier from now on. 'Kicking back' as our American cousins would put it."

Tuesday morning Una was dolled up again and squirming with excitement. I gave her a big hug.

"You go get' em babe. Dazzle those Italian stallions with your charms!"

"Thanks."

"Well I've got to go in early, so good luck. I'll be home around six and you can tell me how it went."

"I will."

"Be good!"

I drove off, but not to work. I went to Vic's Pre-owned Vehicles. He only gave me a thousand for my car; I should have stuck out for twelve hundred, but couldn't be bothered. A grand would feel better traded for dollars. I knew Una would be with the Italians till at least lunchtime, so looked for a restaurant. No point in going to McDonald's or KFC; America is full of them. I settled for an early lunch at Maggie's All Day Breakfast. Very English.

I got back to the house around noon, shoved my last few things into a small backpack, and stashed it in my empty wardrobe. Our kitchen window looks down the short alleyway to our enclosed garden; I risked opening it a little. We had a large pot plant on the breakfast bar, which I moved to one end, to obscure their view from the living room to the kitchen, where I hoped to hide. I unlocked the back door and set my phone on video. Then returned to the front window to watch.

Una arrived at two thirty. There was a brief flash of black-clad legs as she got out of her car. By the time she'd unlocked, I'd slipped out the back door. I stood on that important metal inspection cover and peeped through the kitchen window. I heard her cross the tiny lobby, just inches away, and go into the bathroom. The toilet flushed and I felt a slight vibration in the cover as the water rushed under my feet. She returned and stood at the front window where I'd just been. I could guess who she was waiting for; she was no longer wearing tights.