To Pee or Not To Pee - That is the Question

The following is a short story from my book, PALS: Part Two Copyright by Cowboy Poet Press 2013www.davidnelsonauthor.com
“The Pissing Neptune”byDavid Nelson Nelson
I have no ability to use tools of any sort. When my wife sees me with a hammer or screwdriver, she tackles me to prevent damage somewhere around the house. I have patience with people, but not with mechanical objects. At my first house, I had a swimming pool built. I created a three-layered garden with railroad ties across one side of the fence. My goal was to have something different in bloom at all times. At the end of another side and in the corner I left a space to accommodate a metal storage shed for storing pool toys and pool supplies. In another corner I left an open spot inside the concrete deck where I could plant flowers.
The nine A.M. sun was already hot when I pulled my car into the plant nursery. I heard him as soon as I got out of my car. It was Neptune, the god of the sea! He stood with great pride while water came from his penis and moistened the grapes in the bowl beneath. I had to own this. I just had to.
I pictured just how perfect he would be guarding my pool while holding an urn covered with grapes. I envisioned numerous plants in full color surrounding the pedestal that held him high for all to see. I made the purchase and ignored the salesman’s recommendation of finding some help to move the heavy three-piece object. The thirty-inch high pedestal held the four-inch thick cement bowl that had a diameter of some forty-five inches. Each was an individual piece. Lastly, there was Neptune holding the huge urn. Being a ‘Know-It –All’, I just knew I would be able to carry each item to the pool area without assistance. After all, it was pretty light loading the first part into my trunk with help from the salesman.
I tied the trunk lid with some twine and thanked the fella for helping me load it. I promised to return shortly for the other two pieces. I zigzagged backwards into my driveway because my vision was limited due to the open trunk lid. After several attempts, I was close enough to carry the cement structure the fifteen feet to its location. Or at least that is what I thought. A chunk broke off when I lost my grip and it fell to the driveway. I knew people would not notice a small imperfection. I was able to lift the 200-pound object and carry it about two-feet and had to rest. I could feel my pulse in the sides of my head seeming to wiggle my ball cap in and out. The sweat covered my lenses and gave me a vision of 3-D. I was sucking in air like a horse that just finished the Kentucky Derby. My blood pressure was increased and my biceps were in spasm. I had just completed one third of the required distance. One third! Two thirds to go.
I decided to shimmy the darn thing left and right to its terminal resting position in the small garden. The chips of concrete that rubbed off the bottom were of no concern to me. I knew people wouldn’t notice the imperfection. I was soaked with sweat and finally caught my wind when I sat in my car ready for trip number two.
“How did it go?” The salesman asked.
“Oh, it was alright. It wasn’t as heavy as I thought,” I lied.
About twenty minutes later I was parked at the unloading spot in my driveway. It sure was easier loading with two of us at the nursery. I was determined. The round water bowl was lighter than the base by some fifty pounds. I was able to wiggle it out of the trunk and get a grasp across the forty-five inch diameter. My palms dug into grapes that circled the monster. I walked like the guy from the movie, “The Mummy”. My legs were locked, my arms rigid, my back arched, and I carried that darn thing over to the pedestal. With great effort I hoisted it up and managed to chip off three clusters of grapes as it hit the edge of the pedestal. I knew people would not notice the imperfection.
I gulped three glasses of iced tea and soaked a hand towel with my sweat as I tried to recover. My back was a bit sore, my left knee had a twinge in it, and I removed my glasses to clean them with the dirty towel. I drove about fifteen miles an hour to the nursery trying to recuperate. Only one more piece, I thought, as I leaned forward into the air conditioning vents in my car, blowing full force.
“How did that one go? You didn’t drop it, did you?” The fella said laughing a bit.
“No, it’s all going fine,” I responded with a forced smile.
To protect the most important piece, I brought a blanket to wrap around Neptune. With the salesman’s assistance, we slowly lowered it into the trunk. While I tied the lid for the final time, the salesman gathered the pump and tubing to create the water flow with the garden art. He returned and gave me a ten-second education about proper length of the tubing to make the penis squirt water correctly. I did not listen as I was trying not to pass out from fatigue and humidity.
It was about thirty minutes later when I set Neptune atop the bowl and filled it with water. Neptune was also a struggle, but not like the other two chunks of concrete. With a beer in one hand and my garden hose in the other, I watched the bowl fill with water. Just the sight of this small success got me excited. Did he say a shorter tube was better or a longer one? I thought.
How hard could this be, I wondered as I balanced Neptune against my right shoulder. I slid the clear plastic tube into the connector at its bottom of the statue. I set it back in place, and stopped for a minute. I needed a rest. I returned to the same position with it balanced against my shoulder. My back pain increased as I bent further forward to connect the other end of the tubing to the pump. Once again, I slid the statue in place and was excited to see if I’d connected it properly and if he would pee correctly. I connected the electrical plug from the pump into an extension cord and Neptune did his thing. Neptune shot water across the deck and hit the diving board and splashed into the pool. It must be shorter is better, I thought. Well, now that’s ironic.
It took me six attempts to get that piece of crap to pee correctly. I balanced, I lifted, and I cut tubing with scissors, and managed to break off more concrete while fine-tuning the pump action. I cut the final piece of tubing too short. Neptune looked like a guy with kidney stones. He barely peed at all. I had to go the hardware store to buy another piece of plastic tubing and start over. It was the wrong dimension and I had to go back to the store again. I was cussing, I was soaked with sweat, I couldn’t remember where I put my “3-D” glasses, and I was ticked. Not to mention determined.
Another bottle of Red Stripe beer seemed to settle me down. I felt a sense of pleasure as I walked around my masterpiece. The chips on Neptune’s bottom were small in comparison to the others, but I didn’t care. People would never notice. I had one final puzzle piece to complete the project. I had to cut the end of the pump’s cord, re-wire it into a longer cord and then the pump would operate without the extension cord. To do so, required digging under the fence and under the concrete to reach the pump. I’d never done anything like this before. Again I thought, how hard could that be. As the sun dropped in the western sky, I sat at the table thinking of the best way to complete the electrical project the next day.
I wanted to be finished long before the sun and humidity became unbearable. I started just before sunrise. I dug a hole under the fence and had a mere four feet to reach my goal of digging under the sidewalk. I used every tool I owned to dig the tunnel. Nothing was working! The Alabama red clay was more stubborn than a mule when you are trying to lead it across a swinging bridge. As my trowel bounced off the clay, I felt like the prisoners in Alcatraz in June, 1962, who dug their way to freedom. They tunneled out of their cells with spoons. I only had a couple feet or so. Surely I could complete my mission, surely.
“Hey, Mister David, can we swim? Huh, can we? Pretty please.” I heard from above, as I tried to un-wedge my head from under the fence.
I rolled over in the dirt pile and asked the four little girls standing over me what time it was. They didn’t know, but from the sun’s position, it must have been late morning. There they were, in swimming suits and holding their towels. What was I to do? I gave approval after hearing they had permission from their mothers. I walked to the back door and peeked inside at the clock. It was 11:45.
Holy Crap! I thought. I had been digging for almost five hours and had only gone a grand total of two feet. It was time for the big gun. I left dirt tracks on the carpet as I went to the laundry room and grabbed my deer antler-handled hunting knife. The virgin blade still glistened like the day I bought it. It had never been used, but today, I was going to break it in.
I returned to the small pile of dirt, and with all my pressure against the handle I began chipping clay. I felt little pieces crumble into the hole. I felt assured that the job would be completed soon. That blade was like a crushing machine deep underground in a Kentucky coal mine. I chipped out rocks, cut through roots, and crumbled dirt by the teaspoon full. At last I was making progress. The constant screams of little girls yelling, “Marco Polo” were irritating but didn’t dampen my spirit of success.
Pulling open the gate to the inside of the pool area, I was reminded of my futile attempt to hang that darn gate. It seemed to me at the time, I must have purchased a wrong threaded cement bit for my drill. I attempted to drill holes into the brick side of my house in order to insert mollies that would give me anchors for the screws holding my hinges. No matter how hard I pushed on my drill, the bit refused to dig a hole. I nearly fell from my perch on the ladder a couple times. I was frustrated, hot and soaked from the Alabama heat. I called Dwayne who came over and slapped me on the side of my head after looking at the drill. He said, “You idiot. You have the drill on reverse.”
“Oh, so that explains it,” I responded.
I managed to complete that project without any further difficulty. Isn’t it amazing how tools work when you know how to operate them correctly?
Now, back to my digging. There I was on the opposite side of the fence in the pool area. My goal was to dig another tunnel to eventually connect to the other side. I would then feed my cable through the hole, splice my electrical cords and be finished. I dug as far as I could with the shovel under the concrete. I could have gone further, but kept bumping into the damn statue. I lay down on my side and used the dull knife’s tip to dig in the opposite direction. I could see the stick I propped up at the other side. That was my mark and I felt success was at hand. For some reason, the dirt on this side of the sidewalk was softer and easier to chip away.
I was on my left side reaching under the cement as far as I could go. My face was pressed firm against the walkway. Little chips of concrete stuck into my face. I must have looked like my brother, Richard when he rose up from the floor mats after sleeping in the car on vacations. The concrete chips were left from the statue parts that I broke the day before. Those girls began to irritate me with their high-pitched shrills and constant yelling of Marco Polo. If I heard it once, I heard it a thousand times, “Hey, Mr. David, watch this.”
Finally I could take it no further. I told them they had to leave. I was firm but not mean. They disappeared in nothing flat and the silence was deafening. I sat at the patio table trying to see where I went wrong. Despite my attempts, the two tunnels did not meet in the center. Why had I not connected to the other end? I was defeated. I was broken. I was really pissed-off.
The following Thursday the electrician smiled and said, “Well ya missed your mark by at least six inches. There is no way those two tunnels were ever going to meet. Just thank yourself that you aren’t in Alcatraz, cause you would never dig your way out.”
That was the best money I spent for an hour’s time. The electrician connected the cords, dug under the sidewalk and the pissing Neptune emptied his bladder just like at the plant nursery. Finally, success!
Two days later I had a pool party with many neighbors attending. Dan was blowing smoke from his cigar when I approached him and other fellas admiring my Neptune. I poked out my chest and with pride walked up to hear Dan say, “Hey, David what’s with all the chips on your fountain here? I hope you didn’t pay full price for obvious defects with this thing.”
I was crushed and quickly exhaled. I had to think fast. “Oh heck no. I told the guy I wanted it for 10% off because of those defects,” I said with pride.

He looked amused. “Huh, I would have asked for 30% off ‘cause I could see the defects all the way across the pool.”

Clarence Anglin, John Anglin, and Frank Morris attempted the June 1962 Alcatraz escape. They burrowed out of their cells, climbed a ventilation shaft onto the roof, and then climbed down. They left the island on a makeshift raft and were never heard from again.
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