The Dispose-All

Elizabeth Ardbredth stood impatiently at the kitchen sink, jabbing at the switch to turn on the garbage disposal. Just back from an evening meeting of the Christian Lady’s Admirable Works Society, she finished washing the dishes left in the sink by her husband, Buzzell. Buzzell was intently reading the paper, as usual, so Elizabeth had to take care of everything herself. And now the disposal was jammed again.

Elizabeth sighed and reached one yellow-gloved hand down the drain. Much to her surprise, as she poked around the blades and knobs of the machinery, something poked back. As she tried to quickly pull her hand out, it pulled her hand back in. Elizabeth screamed.

Buzzell came trooping into the kitchen, newspaper still grasped in one hand. “Whoa, Elizabeth, what’s all the noise about?” he asked.

Elizabeth was deathly white. “Something,” she said in a frantic whisper, “has gotten hold of my hand.”

Buzzell looked at her left hand, dripping and hung loose by her side. “I don’t see anything. Where’s the cat?”

“My right hand, Buzzell,” she hissed. “My right hand. In the sink.”

Buzzell edged closer. “Down in there? You’re stuck?”

“Not stuck, Buzzell. Grabbed. Something grabbed my hand in the sink. Do something. Do something now.”

Buzzell blinked vacantly, then lumbered over to the drawer next to the refrigerator. He began shuffling through the drawer with his right hand, still clinging to the newspaper in his left.

“Buzzell,” Elizabeth barked, “what are you looking for?”

“The manual, Elizabeth. For the garbage disposal.”

“Buzzell,” she spit out. “The disposal is not broken. It’s inhabited. Something is in here. It is holding my hand. Do something.” The last two words were shrieked.

“Well can’t you pull your hand away? Just pull it away, Elizabeth,” Buzzell muttered back.

“Buzzell, you fool. Don’t you think I’ve been trying? This…this…whatever is trying to pull me in. It will not let go. Now get over here and help me.” Elizabeth’s face flushed with the effort to get loose.

Buzzell dropped the newspaper, grabbed her left hand and gave a sharp tug. Shocked, Elizabeth turned her head towards Buzzell in time to see him go flying backwards out of the kitchen, her rubber glove clutched between his hands.

“You idiot!” Elizabeth screamed. “Get up off that floor and get this thing off of me.”

Buzzell struggled to his feet and clumped down the basement stairs. Elizabeth was putting up a mighty battle, trying to work the glove loose and pull herself free. “Buzzell,” she bellowed in the direction of the stairs. “Come back.”

Buzzell reappeared with an axe in one hand and a gleam in his eye. “You wouldn’t,” Elizabeth gasped.

Buzzell crouched down next to his wife and said, “Step aside, Elizabeth, Let me see what’s going on here.”

Elizabeth stepped to one side to allow Buzzell to get into the cabinet beneath the sink. “Hurry,” she howled.

Buzzell peered into the opening, then got up and placed the axe on the kitchen counter. “What,” Elizabeth choked out, “are you doing now?”

Buzzell headed back towards the basement. “The flashlight,” he called out behind him, “I’ve got to have the flashlight.”

It occurred to Buzzell as he headed back down the stairs that they should have called the police, or fire department, or someone. But it just didn’t fit into all of the emergencies he’d imagined needing to call for. No heart attack, at least not yet. No drowning or car accident or accidental electrocution. Just a steely haired old woman with one plump hand jammed down the garbage disposal, held there by some creature or force unknown to him. What would he say? Buzzell found the flashlight and flicked it on, standing for one moment in the darkened basement, the flashlight under his chin casting an eerie glow onto his face, just like he’d done as a boy, to scare his mother.

Buzzell could hear Elizabeth still screeching from the kitchen. He heard “idiot” and “fool” and “right now,” the words cascading down the stairs in an ugly rush. He sighed and stumbled back up into the yellow light of the kitchen. He knelt down beside her once again, ignoring the torrent of words as she babbled and yelped above him. He looked up once before opening the cabinet and saw white foam and spittle around her mouth. He flashed the light into the black void beneath the sink.

Sponges, dishwasher detergent, extra gloves, onions, D-Con and idle mouse traps all revealed themselves in the glare of Buzzell’s flashlight. Elizabeth kicked him and again begged him to hurry, only her voice now had a strangled quality, as if the thing had her by the throat. As he moved the light up towards the body of the disposal, he saw nothing amiss. There was no telltale slime, no untoward growth, no indication of any malevolence on the part of his GE model 265E “Dispose-All.” He reached up and felt around on the counter above him for the axe. He banged tentatively on the machine with the head of the axe. Nothing. He put his hand against the main canister to try and feel if there was movement. There was none.

“Elizabeth,” he called up to her, “reach over with your other hand and turn the water on. Let’s see what that does.” No intelligible reply. “Elizabeth,” he called again. “Calm down and do as I say. Turn the water on.” He heard the tap jerked on and the flow of the water into the sink. Still nothing. He continued his inspection, tapping, touching and exploring the space beneath the sink with his flashlight and axe. Suddenly the tone and pace of Elizabeth’s sputtering changed and he leaned his head out of the cabinet.

“I’m going to drown, you idiot. Do something for God’s sake,” followed by a long, ungodly squeal.

Buzzell started to bang at the disposal with some force, hoping to dislodge it and release Elizabeth. It was quite a solidly built piece of machinery. He realized that the axe handle was too long and unwieldy to get a good bash in that small space. Buzzell hauled himself up to once more head into the basement.

“Hammer,” he called back to Elizabeth, not waiting for her to ask. He could hear her splashing around up there as the water overflowed onto the kitchen floor. Darn, he thought, there goes the linoleum. He found the heavy-duty hammer at the bottom of his dusty toolbox and headed back upstairs.

Halfway up, Buzzell slowed to a trot, then stopped two stairs from the top. Although he could hear splashing, Elizabeth’s voice had stopped. There was no screaming from the kitchen. Buzzell determined that he was going to call 911 and get someone over here no matter what. He forced himself to climb the last two stairs and turn in the direction of the sink.

Slowly, with mounting dread, he lifted his eyes towards the part of the kitchen where Elizabeth should be standing, feet wedged against the baseboard, one hand pushing against the edge of the sink, trying to pull the other one free. He felt no heat of the struggle. He heard no shouting or bellowed commands.

There was an odd stillness in the kitchen. The tap still ran but the water flowed peacefully over the side, unimpeded. As he took in the whole scene, he thought he caught a glimpse of something just above the sink. Flicking off a tiny spray of water, a tail, wiry, green, and covered in scales, slithered down into the sink, making a final “plink” as it disappeared beneath the surface.

Buzzell stood watching the water fall from the sink, unable to move. After several moments, he sloshed over to the sink and reached over to turn off the tap. He heard the water draining from the sink and stared numbly as it swirled calmly down the drain. Sitting at the bottom of the sink, palm turned upward in a pleading gesture, was one yellow rubber glove.

Shakily, Buzzell headed over to the phone and carefully dialed. “911,” said a sprightly, professional voice, “what is the nature of your emergency?” Buzzell could not for the world think of a thing to say. The voice in the receiver chirped encouragingly, soothingly, urging him to speak clearly into the phone and describe his emergency.

He glanced at the glove in the bottom of the sink. “Nothing,” he finally croaked into the receiver. “Nothing at all. Sorry to bother.”

Buzzell walked out of the kitchen, leaving a dirty wet trail behind him. He retrieved the newspaper that he had dropped during all the commotion. He picked up his bifocals from where he had flung them when Elizabeth first called out. He continued reading the paper.