Tales of a Manhole Inspector: Chapter 1
The odd things that happen to utility inspectors
Prologue
Working in wastewater is well described by the Futurama adage, “When you do things right, people won’t be sure you’ve done anything at all.” You’ve used toilets your entire life. How often have you thought of the men at the treatment plant who, after every single flush, become responsible for whatever you’ve just introduced to the municipal water system?
The answer is likely seldom, and the reason for that is built right into the question. Why would you want to think about it? We feel enough bathroom shame in our own company, so why compound that shame by ruminating on the medium-sized team of government employees who are now charged with the task of extricating your bodily filth from what was once perfectly clean water? You wouldn’t, and you shouldn’t.
The only downside is that you never get to learn about one of the strangest, most interesting projects of applied biology. It’s a project that is happening beneath you right now. It’s also a project you place your trust in every time you turn on your sink. That’s because sewage isn’t sitting in barrels under some mountain like nuclear waste. It gets cleaned, dumped into the river, and picked right back up by the wastewater treatment plant’s good buddy; the water treatment plant. There, it becomes potable (drinkable) and is pumped back to your faucet.
The system is massive, intricate, and precise in design. My job was to inspect it. Since sewers cover entire municipalities, I regularly found myself developing bizarre intimacies with towns—the folk, the local government, and even the foliage. In this series, “Tales of a Manhole Inspector,” I will share stories of my most notable encounters, while also peppering in a few of the more interesting “behind-the-scenes” details of wastewater treatment.
Chapter 1
My coworker and I made our way down a residential street in an isolated rural town, popping manhole covers as we went. One house had a new Mercedes parked in the driveway. This caught our attention, as the town was otherwise unanimously committed to cars and trucks manufactured in decades past. Looking closer, we saw the Mercedes had Arizona plates. As if on cue, the owner came out of the house. She wore an outfit composed entirely of white linen; not quite in line with the local fashion standard of work boots, blue jeans, and T-shirts that frequently bore the logo of a local landscaping or gravel company on the back.
She called out to us: “Hey! Are you the ones to talk to about fixing the street signs?”
She explained that she was in town visiting her sister as she did every few years. We explained that we had nothing to do with street signs. Undeterred, she launched into an unabridged history of the street sign on that block, including that it should read “Williams St.”, and not “William St.” as it did currently. Her frustration was palpable.
Wanting to be good public service workers, we pointed her to town hall, which was some 1000 feet away from where we stood. Surely they could resolve the matter.
“Oh I’m not talking to those assholes, do you have any idea how corrupt they are?” She didn’t wait for an answer. The still-opened manhole became our campfire, around which this woman regaled us of the travesties committed by the local government:
2 other street signs contained spelling errors similar to that of the “Williams/William” debacle
The sidewalks were yet to have curb cuts installed, making it tricky to navigate the small agricultural town in heels
A pothole plagued a nearby street, and had for over 2 years (the street she named was a dirt road)
We smiled and nodded our way through several more of these until her list of grievances arrived at its logical destination: Racism.
“You see that BP over there?” she gestured to the nearby BP gas station. “Some Middle-Eastern guy bought it six years ago, and the town didn’t even check to see if any of the money came from terrorism!”
I was consumed with questions. Why did she know who owned the gas station in a town she didn’t live in? What kind of terrorist plot involves purchasing a BP in a secluded Michigan farm-town and running it dutifully for six years? Where the hell was the sister she claimed to be visiting, and why wasn’t she bothering her with this instead of us?
We hadn’t said anything yet, but she sensed our doubts.
“I know there’s something up with him, there are barely any cars at the station most the time! He can’t possibly be making enough money to keep that place open. He must be getting more from somewhere...”
She was proud of herself for having such a compelling piece of evidence towards her terrorist-funded-rural-gas-station theory. What she didn’t count on was that my coworker Vance was only doing the manhole gig part-time. His main job was engineering for none other than, you guessed it, British Petroleum.
Vance outlined the business model of a BP station, including his assessment that even in a small town, the station would be profitable. In fact, since the BP was the only gas station in the town, and since most residents owned old gas-guzzling pickup trucks, Mr. “Middle-Eastern Guy” was almost certainly rolling in dough.
She was taken aback, but ultimately unconvinced. She stammered non-statements until Vance changed the subject. He asked what she did for work. She lit up.
“I work for Boeing! I sell Apaches to foreign militaries.”
She then told us the story of when she was leaving a foreign city, only to have to pull over to the side of the road to let U.S. ground troops pass, as the Army was staging an occupation of the city to which she had just sold an attack helicopter.
“You know what, I think we should get back to work.” Vance responded dryly. The woman bid us farewell.
We walked down the street until we had left earshot and began laughing in disbelief of the conversation. A woman who once armed an enemy of the state minutes before combat had just questioned the patriotism of a man crucial to the infrastructure of an American agricultural center. She had done so without catching a whiff of irony. Further, her chosen audience for this was two guys who happened to be inspecting a manhole outside of her sister’s house, across the country from her own.
Also, recall that she had described the town’s government as “corrupt assholes.” To some degree, she was probably correct. I can’t say for certain that the town council was entirely above board on all matters, but the name-call was a bit rich coming from someone who minutes later identified herself as a key player in the shadier side of the Military-Industrial Complex.
Vance summarized the event, “I hate to use this phrase, but that lady is what’s wrong with this country.”
Off to the next manholes we went.