HAVE SOME TEA, THE WATER’S FINE!

By

Jimmy Joe Meeker

 

Originally Published in The Wilson County Advocate, Vol. 2, No. 35, ©September 1, 1992 Donald W. Gillette

 

            I suppose you could wake up in the morning and drink the grease left in a frying pan after you cooked a couple of burgers the night before, but who the hell wants to?

            And in years gone by they used to mix rendered fat with potash and make soap for washing clothes and skin, but just because our ancestors did this, it doesn’t mean that a box of Tide is nothing more than pulverized meat grease and fireplace ashes.

            Wilson County residents who get their water from the Gladeville Utility District claim they’re getting a real taste of grease lately.  They’re also infuriated with getting a taste of how much the bureaucracy cares about them.

            According to Jim Roberts, president of Concerned Citizens For A Better Government, there’s grease in their water.  But, he claims, the State of Tennessee also says it won’t hurt them.

            So they can drink up.  Then, by the time their arteries are as clogged with gunk as a congressman’s soul, they wont’ be able to complain anymore.  Hell, they’ll be lucky if they’re still able to hobble across the floor and dial 911 for an ambulance.

            I remember, a couple of years ago, reading about a neighborhood in upstate New York where a government agency said the residents were safe.  The neighborhood was called Love Canal.  Those residents there were in no danger, either.  Until they started having kids with six eyes.

            Roberts said that customers of the Gladeville Utility District have been complaining about their water for months now.  A lot of them have developed kidney stones and infections and there have been more than a few cases of the Green Apple Quick Step reported.  Roberts also says the state doesn’t know where the grease is coming from.  But I suspect he has a pretty good idea.

            On the other hand, some guy named Mike Hale, an environmentalist with the Tennessee Department of Environment, says that Roberts’ information is untrue.  Now, I’m not one to put words in anyone’s mouth, but that sounds an awful lot like someone calling someone else a liar.

            So I decided to try to get to the bottom of the story.

            I called the Tennessee Department of Environment and spoke with a series of brain dead dweebs until they finally transferred me to some nameless, half-bright slug who might have been an ex-U.T. Vol linebacker but sounded like a stone sissy.

            “What’s the story on the water is Gladeville?” I asked.

            “Sir?” he answered.

            Good God, I thought, these evil toads are toying with me!  They put a deaf faggot on the phone!

            “Listen,” I responded, “I want to know about the grease in the water at the Gladeville Utility District.”

            “May I ask your name, sir?”
            This is the kind of crap you have to go through every time you make a call to a government agency; city, county, state, or federal.  They immediately want to know your name so they can put it on their Enemies List.

            “What the hell difference does that make?” I asked.

            “It’s for our records, sir.”

            See what I mean?

            “My name is Meeker,” I said.  “James J. Meeker.”

            “Hold please…”

            I knew it.  First they ask your name, then when you give it to them they put you on hold and spend five minutes screaming to their coworkers, “Anybody know anything about a guy named Meeker?”

            I tried to tell this villainous swine that if he put me on hold I would personally reach down his throat and yank his spleen out through his mouth, but I was too late.  I heard the familiar click and found myself on hold, that horrible limbo between life and death.

            I held the phone out and looked at it for a second.  “You rotten bastard,” I whispered.

            When he finally came back on the line, I was ready for him.

            “Sir?” he said, but it sounded more like, “Thir?”

            “Yeth?” I answered.

            “Could you give me some specifics on the matter?”

            “Look,” I said, “there’ve been reports lately about grease in the water that comes from Gladeville Utility District.  People are getting sick, their water looks like weak coffee, it turns everybody’s clothes yellow, and there’s a guy up here who says you people said there was grease in it.  There’s a grease dump close to the community.  What I want to know is, is there grease in the water or not?”

            The geek hesitated a minute.  “Are you with the media, sir?” he finally asked.

            “Could you hold for just a second?” I said.

            “Of course.”

            I threw the receiver against the wall with all my strength, walked out of my office and into the other room, fixed myself a beaker of Wild Turkey and Coke, came back, and scooped the phone off the floor.  “Thank you,” I said, “I had another call.  Now, where were we?”

            “Yes, sir,” the geek answered.  “I was just asking if you were with the media.”

            Once these guys get on a track, you couldn’t derail them with a Patriot missile.

            “Yes,” I said, “I am with the media.”

            “I see, sir, and what is your affiliation?”

            “I’m a Shiite Muslim,” I said, “now will you please answer my question?”

            “There’s no need for that, sir,” the geek said.  “I just need your credentials.”

            I killed the drink.  “Listen,” I said, “I write a column for a weekly newspaper called The Wilson County Advocate.  I’ve got a valid press pass from the Department of Safety.  I’m also a doctor.  But none of that should matter.  I’m asking you a question about health and the environment.  This is the Tennessee Department of Environment, right?”

            “Yes, sir, it is.”

            “Well, I’ll tell you what,” I said, “you either tell me what I want to know or I’ll write an article and say whatever I damn well please because that’s usually what I do anyway.  I just thought it’d be a novel approach to give you nasty bastards the opportunity to respond to these allegations.”

            And he hung up on me.  I suspect he didn’t really, truly believe.

            No big deal, though.  I expected as much.  Professional journalism is a vicious game.  You pull no punches and you take no prisoners.  And I am, after all, a professional.

            But I shrugged my shoulders, put the phone back in its cradle, and went to the bar for another drink.  I’m no closer to an answer on the Gladeville Grease Gambit now than I was a week ago but I managed to have some fun at the expense of a self-important state employee who thought he could intimidate me with government gibberish and questions about my motive.

            I could get even, however, by mentioning the Love Canal, thalidomide, saccharin, radon gas, asbestos, and lead paint—all of which were hailed as safe at one time or another by one government agency or another…  But, of course, that would be beneath me.  Or would it?

            No one here gets out alive.

XXX