Scotty Drops His Wrench

In one of my father's episodes of syncopation (irregular movement from bar to bar), he met the big Scotsman with whom he shared an adventure when they both wore a younger man's clothes. Although they never crossed paths at the time, they were both soldiers in the army of the United States fighting the Moros in the Philippine Insurrection of 1902.  That formed a bond between the two old vets so when it turned out we needed some plumbing work done, the man my father called was his old comrade in arms, Scotty the plumber.

The plumbing issue was under the floor of the house that required going into the crawl space, which had only about two feet of clearance.  Scotty said that was no problem and he crawled in on his back dragging an extension cord with a light fixture and his pipe wrench.  My father and I were crouched down outside the access hole, ready to give any assistance that might be needed.

Scotty had just started work when he suddenly started screaming and shrieking extreme curse words as he began a violent back-crawling to the exit hole.  When finally making it out he leapt to his feet, clutching his crotch with his right hand.

A rat had crawled up his pants leg and when the plumber felt the rodent moving he started screaming (wouldn't you?) and clutched the invader just as it reached the jewel box. One thing Scotty would not do is release his hold on the rat. But one thing he would do is get the hell out of there using his left arm and both legs and his butt-lifts to make that happen. All the while screaming and cursing and banging his head.

Once out of the hole Scotty yelled at my father to unhook his overalls and pull them down while he still clutched the rodent. But the rat was done for, sent to its after-life reward by the pressure of Scotty's grip.  The plumber told my father that was it for the day so they talked me into retrieving  Scotty's wrench that was still under the house.

He should have worn his kilt.

The King and I

My son, who lives in Thailand emailed me a clip from an international news source about that country's 67-year-old King checking in to a luxury hotel in Germany with 20 attractive young lady companions. He noted the story would not run in any  newspaper in Thailand. The clip triggered a memory of an event long ago where I was involved with the current King's father (who did not keep companions), a man revered by the Thai citizens.

In the early 1960s the University of Oregon and Chulalongkorn University in Siam (now Thailand) formed a sister university program for an exchange of students and faculty. This was a big deal that brought about the visit of the King of Siam to the University of Oregon to celebrate the arrangement with the Oregon University president. And this brought in the US State Department to direct the protocol for dealing with a foreign head of state.  In the master plan I, as assistant director of the Student Union where the banquet would be held in the second floor ballroom, had a key assignment: I would operate the elevator that would lift the King and his entourage from the lobby to the ballroom.  Kings don't do stairs.  Also, Kings are last to enter the elevator so they are first out and look at nobody's back.

At my post in the elevator I see the King's entourage approaching and spot an immediate problem: way too many people for this small car.  But nobody volunteers to take the stairs so we cram everybody into the elevator with the King now center front in a badly overloaded lift.  The doors slowly close with the King's nose barely escaping a severe pinching. It's a jerky start but the brave little Otis digs deep and moves upward and then it doesn't.

Arrggghh! I neglected to lock off the mezzanine and as the doors slowly open we see the King of Siam standing nose to nose with our custodian in his soiled uniform and his large wheel-container of garbage.  The King is cool.  He stares straight ahead, tuning out the custodian and his vile load.
I'm frantically pounding the 2 button while the President of the University of Oregon is giving me the stink-eye.  Dead silence in the car as the doors slowly close in front of the King of Siam and our custodian who never moved in his determination to get his crap container to the loading dock.

Hey, it wasn't as bad as Bush throwing up on the Emperor of Japan.