the hole of horror

This is my nemesis, my fear, and part of my wrongly-built house.

It is Florida; it is August. It is too hot for mammals outside. It is one hundred and stupid from sunup to midnight. It is the time when we all lie about like roadkill, stripped as near naked as propriety allows, under ceiling fans set to Blender, shoving our pets off us because they are too damned warm.

It is, of course, the time that the AC starts to malfunction. It’s under a heavy load; it has a lot of work to do. We expect much of it, and the poor thing, slaving in the hot dark attic, is bound to fail at some point. What can one machine do against the sun in Florida in August?

Now. My house, as I’ve probably mentioned, was designed by Frank Lloyd Wrong, after an all-night bender, late in his career when he was well into senility. The original water heater was sandwiched between two load-bearing walls. (That caused the poor plumber no end of consternation when the thing went Tragically Wrong a few years ago.)

The problem with my AC is that, while the heat pump is sensibly on a concrete slab outdoors, the air handler is in the attic. The attic is accessible through the image above: a square of plywood covering a hole in the ceiling, about two and a half feet to a side. The attic access point is inside an alcove too small to be called a hallway, which leads from my bedroom to the bathroom, and just for fun the walls drop down another two and a half feet, or so, from the ceiling.

It is dark, it is confined, and there is no rolled-up rope ladder or teleportation device to get you up there. You need a ladder, and a flashlight, and then to move very carefully so you do not bash the hell out of your elbows or drop the plywood on your head. After that, you somehow have to move yourself further up the ladder, while again not knocking into walls with limbs or noggin, until you are in the attic. Once you are in, you still have to stay on the ladder: I strongly doubt the ceiling materials can hold the weight of a full-grown homo sapiens, although logic dictates it would have had to, at some point, to get the handler installed. Unless they hired little people to do it. Which is entirely possible.

I have no idea how they got the damn thing in there in the first place, and much like the parentage of my late beloved Chihuahua-Labrador dog, I am constantly asked: how did that even happen? I don’t know. I honestly don’t. A friend of mine who is handily inclined theorizes that they put the handler in through the attic gable. My theory is that it was handed up the attic access hole in pieces, like building a ship in a bottle.

However it got there – and we may never truly know – its odd location offers some interesting problems. Condensation, mostly, and this is all stuff I’ve only just learned, so I’ll retell it as I learned it, with the Small Words For The Liberal Arts Major version. The handler gets damp on the outside, same as a glass full of ice water does, because this is the Swamp of Humidity and water condenses on everything.

(No, really: it is a common Floridian problem to exit an air-conditioned car and have your glasses fog up.)

This condensed water is caught by a magical apparatus and fed into a series of tubes that are not the internet; they terminate in a PVC pipe outside, running vertically down the exterior wall, and ending with a sort of u-bend trap of another bit of PVC attached to the pipe. When all goes well, this drips all summer. Drip, drip, drip. It has a little puddle under it, and interesting fungus grows in the mud, and my late beloved Chihuahua-Labrador mix was fond of licking from it, because he was convinced it was a Dog Fountain.


The problem is when, due to Florida being Florida and all manner of unholy Lovecraftian flora growing in places it oughtn’t, this vital output pipe gets blocked. There is a catch-pan under the air handler, up in the attic, to catch the extra water. With newer machines, there’s a dead-switch that will shut off the handler before the pan overflows, leading people to panic mightily and call the Sainted AC Repairman, who will demand a mighty tithe before he restores function to the Make It Cold Machine, yea verily, for his is the work that keeps us all functioning and he knows he’s got us by the short ‘n curlies. Eighty bucks just to show up, and in our sweaty panic, we pay it gladly. Death, taxes, AC repair, and tourists from Massachusetts driving forty-five in the left lane: these things are constant.

In old machines, like mine, there is no switch so the pan overflows and leaks everywhere. Since the handler is in the attic, my first sign of trouble is that my walls started to drip.

A short text conversation:

Me: “My walls are dripping.”

My friend: “Should I call a priest?”

Me: “It’s not dripping blood.”

My friend: “Another guy I know has a bug infestation and your walls are crying. It’s the End Times.”

The drips became, not a flood or a deluge, but a drizzle: I had standing water curling my floorboards (this whole damn house is water-damaged, see above re: Faulty Water Heater Between Walls) and creating bizarre fluid-filled pockets between the not-so-drywall and the layers of paint. Many paper towels were deployed. Much profanity was sworn. The injured Beloved Dog, which is another story entirely, was moved, sickbed and all, so that the increasing flood would not affect her.

In my desperation I tried to fix the problem myself, knowing nothing about it. Refer again to the photograph above. I have a ladder, a six-foot aluminum deal which weighs about as much as a good wok and gets the shivers when you think about leaning on it. It’s good for painting walls and hanging photographs. It’s older than I am, by far. It’s all I have.

This, I became convinced, was the perfect setting for a Lifetime Movie about one woman’s sudden affliction with quadriplegia and then, later on, how she tearfully and life-affirmingly found meaning once again. I would be one misstep away from bad daytime television, and possibly a guest appearance with Oprah. None of that was encouraging.

I set the rickety ladder in the puddled alcove, too small to be a hallway, and with trepidation and a flashlight ascended to uncertain shadowy doom. My toes gripped the ends of my flipflops in primate fear.

I don’t know if there is a name for the thing I have about heights. It’s not a fear of heights, exactly, but of edges. If you put me in an airplane or a skyscraper I will be delightedly glued to the window, looking out at everything. I love seeing the world from high places.

I love this. I do this every chance I get.

The problem I have with heights is when they are not safely contained. I dislike edges; I dislike flimsy railings; I have an instinctive fear, beginning at the base of my spine and the most inner parts of my guts, of the gaping void. I suppose that it’s not a fear of heights, but a fear of falling – which makes no sense, but I generally don’t, so that’s all right.

I don’t like dark enclosed spaces much either, though I can handle them much better than a potential fall. Combing the two, though, is a nightmare.

I made it up the ladder, and I pushed away the plyboard. It was heavier than I thought. I scooted another step or two up the ladder, finding myself surrounded by drippy plaster walls, a tiny box atop a rickety perch in the darkness, with the dark unknown space of the attic opening above me. I climbed another step, which got my eyes at a level with the ‘floor’ side of the ceiling in the attic, took the flashlight, and at last set eyes on the air handler.

I don’t honestly know how far it was from the access hole. All I can tell you was that, with the certainty that comes from pure monkey-brain fear, I could not get to it. I could not go further up that ladder, into the tiny square of walls, through the hole, and into an attic which probably would crumble under my elbows. I couldn’t get to the machine.

Then I realized I didn’t know how to get down either, and that’s when the fear truly took hold. I’m not sure how I did it, just that I did: gripping for dear life with my toes curled over the edges of my flipflops and digging into the ridged aluminum ladder steps. I made it down somehow, and laid myself down, and had very serious thoughts about going outside and digging a hole to lie in, to reaffirm my connection with the ground.

Somewhere during all of this I realized it had become a full-blown panic attack, which was unexpected because usually I get them as a side-effect of anxiety overload, not from external stimuli. Emotionally I was calm, detached. Instinctively I wanted to get back into my cave and have Zogg the hunter stand at the exit with his club and a couple of our tame wolves. It was an interesting experience.

When the terror had passed, I conceded defeat, squished through the puddle to collect the ladder and put it away, and then knocked the plyboard back into place with the business end of a mop, because fuck going up the ladder into the Dark High Hole again.

It was then that the Most Handy and Capable Friend said to me: girl, all you need is a shopvac. She explained to me the lore of the Condensate Pipe, its workings and needs, and arranged for me to collect a small shopvac from a hardware store, because a waterlogged house and potentially broken AC handler is no laughing matter.

Except: there was a hurricane: Isaac. Its track was far enough away from us that there was more standing water on my bedroom floor than in the street, but there still was a hurricane, and one does not operate electrical appliances outdoors in the rain. Still, the pipe needed to be vacuumed out.

So I waited for the rain bands to pass (as they do, on the fringes of a storm: rain, then shine, then rain, then shine), and I passed the electrical cord through the kitchen window – first prying the screen loose on one side – and standing there in my polka-dotted rain boots and a pirate skull bandana, I flipped the switch that started the shopvac.


The vacuum tube shimmied with the weight of whatever Ungodly Gack was being slurped through it. The vacuum itself made all kinds of noises. The condensate pipe responded in kind with moans and gurgles of its own. And then it was done, or so it seemed: the tube stopped shaking, the wet noises ceased.

I disconnected the tube from the pipe, then opened it up to see what was inside. I don’t know what I was expecting: something that looked like organic vomit, perhaps. What I found was red tide, or something like to it – a runny, watery, rust-red cousin to the slime that builds up on the beach during a particularly virulent fish kill.


I emptied the vacuum out on a patch of dirt where I am sure nothing will ever grow again. I brought it inside and put it away. I mopped up my floor and waited: it would take a few days, probably, for all the extra water to clear up and evaporate, though I was assured it would do so on its own.

It has, mostly. There aren’t puddles on the floor, though my poor floorboards are a tad ripply from the water and my bedroom door sticks in its frame. There is one spot, one damned Lady Macbeth spot, up on the ceiling: another odd little pocket of latex paint, filled with water, that seemingly only drips when I pass under it. It’ll dry out eventually, I’m sure.

A few days later I helped my Awesome Neighbor suction out his condensate pipe: he was having the same problem. His handler was in the roof, too. Neither of us could figure out what the architects around here had been high on, or for that matter how the confounded things got up there in the first place.

I have been up the ladder; I have faced the unknown voids both above and below, in the Alcove and the Attic. It was House of Leaves fear, on a smaller scale, and I tell you one thing: I am never going up there again.


the stowaway

Yesterday I had to go perform the Running of the Errands. This happens frequently, modern city life being what it is, and most of the time it’s nothing particularly special or important. I don’t bother to write about those parts.

The rest of the time, though…. That’s when I find myself sitting in the car staring at a scuffling paper bag thinking, “this will be a good blog post.”

Yesterday I had two objectives: collect a rather large shipment of drugs from the pharmacy, and then collect a slightly smaller shipment of comestibles from the grocery store.The downside was that I decided to do this during rush hour, which in this part of town generally means gridlock and Mad Max driving and people being jackasses.

Hint: if your vehicle’s aggressively-styled chrome bumper is at a level with my skull, I strongly dislike you.

Back in my early days of having completely mentally gone ’round the twist, driving was very hard. Impossible. I think for about a year I couldn’t do it, which is ridiculous and tragic, because it used to be my escape. When I was in high school, I’d gotten the fast-track voucher for a license from having taken a driver’s ed course, so I went about things backwards: I got that and then perfected my skills. Late at night, usually, when the roads were empty, feeding my budding insomnia, when my mother was either asleep or didn’t give a damn. I’d load the dog in the car, set the radio to one of about six classic rock stations we had at the time, and devour asphalt at a buck-ten a gallon until calm had been achieved. I miss that.

Driving isn’t a scary torture anymore, it’s just another damn thing I wish I didn’t have to do (and why does this city not have any damn decent public transportation) which probably means only that I am getting older and more cantankerous. Though, if we did magically sprout subways in the limestone aquifer — aside from them being underwater, which might pose a problem — I’d have to deal with Other People. Which is also not appealing, especially when one has to tote a ton of groceries home.

Thus: off in the car I went, with Gogol Bordello loaded up on Игорь (Igor, my ipod) and not all that terribly far to go, but with about a thousand cars between me and everywhere I needed to be. It is, I have decided, perfectly acceptable, when driving still gives you a case of “ehhh I don’t wanna,” to plan your route so that it is entirely right turns, especially when it’s parking-lot rush hour in south Tampa.

First I went to the pharmacy, and I got a ridiculous quantity of drugs — legally! — and I opened the trunk and stowed them in there. I didn’t see anything then.

Then I took the long way around, and – what kind of soldier wears BDUs (not the dark green jungley type, but I don’t think the desert ones, something in between) and what appeared to be a black wool beret? Because without even thinking about what I was doing, I gave him the “STAY” gesture that I give the dog, out the window of the car, to prevent him from left-turning his SUV with bumpers as high as my skull into my path so I wouldn’t go smashing into him. He stayed, I went, and all was well.

After taking the long way around, and probably aggravating the fuck out of everybody behind me for allowing an old man in a motorized wheelchair to cross the street before I made a turn, I arrived at the store. I got the groceries, which is usually uneventful, except for the part where I had a list and a sonic screwdriver pen to mark off the list (it was that or a pen a friend sent that says: SPRINGFIELD SEXUAL ADDICTION CENTER / From PERV to PERFECT in as little as 10 days! -you see how I can never be taken seriously, ever) and I successfully stifled the urge to make my sonic ballpoint pen light up and make noise whenever people went by.

One girl, five years old or so, completely melted down in front of all the butter. Her mother looked agitated, her little brother looked like he did not give a damn, and one of the guys working at the shop had stepped in to try to calm her down — but being that he was the approximate size and shape of Enkidu it didn’t really work. I did not sonic the kid, either, though I was sorely tempted to either do that or shush her like Eleven does and see if that worked. It works on the dog. And on my mum. Not for long, though.

So – food being gotten, and paid for, and bagged up, I rolled the cart (with three wheels that want to go shopping and one wheel that wants me to go fuck myself, so at least my arms got some work in the process) out to the car. I opened up the trunk, started to put the bags in, and then, finally, I saw it.

the stowaway

See him? That’s a full-grown male anolis sagrei, looking somewhat worse for wear, being stuck in the weatherstripping of my car for Squamata knows how long, rumbling along with the stop and go and petroleum stink of rush-hour traffic.

There was only one thing to do. I carefully put the groceries in the trunk, watching the lizard: he didn’t move. Not a good sign. He was alive, but sluggish, shocky perhaps. I carefully extricated a big brown paper bag from the trunk – I always have a few in there, they’re very useful – and rolled the cart out of the way.

I tried to coax the lizard into the bag but he wouldn’t go, so I caught him by the slightly-less-dignified method of trapping him under a hand and sliding the other underneath, then dropping him into the bag. He scuttled around in there, but couldn’t get out – he was lethargic and confused, and the sides were smooth. I folded the top of the bag over, set it atop the closed trunk, rolled the cart away, then picked it up and brought it into the car.

in the bag

I did all of this because when I find a lizard clinging desperately to a crevice in my car, of course what I am going to do is capture it and bring it safely home to be set free in my back yard. What else could I do?

I opened the bag once I had loaded it and myself into the car and got the AC going: male, full-grown with a nice spinal ridge, rapidly panicking by the dark shades his skin was turning, and a survivor of a tail drop at some distant point: the new tail had nearly grown in, but not quite, and while the end of it seemed clipped off bluntly the rest was slightly smaller, as though it didn’t fit, which happens when they drop tails.

I folded the bag shut, stowed it carefully – taking a moment to listen to the scuttle of tiny reptile claws and limbs against brown paper – and then headed off. Back into traffic, with a consignment of controlled – but prescribed – substances in the trunk, and a load of groceries in there too, and Gogol Bordello on my ipod which is named in Cyrillic, and a sonic screwdriver pen in my purse, and a honking big anole in a brown paper bag on the passenger side.

Which is completely normal, if you’re me.

lizard transportI took him home and went inside, with purse and waterbottle (seen above) and lizard-in-a-bag, setting all three down and warning my mother to leave the bag alone.

“Why? What’s in there?”

“A lizard. Found it in the car.”

She did not so much as blink at that. She raised me; she knows how I am about these things.

I hauled all the groceries in, put them away, grabbed Vera II (the camera, yes, everything I own has a name) and the bag and the dog, then headed out to the back yard. I opened the bag carefully and tried to catch the lizard in my hand, thinking perhaps that I could hypnotize and calm it like the magnificent specimen in my header pics. This particular anole would not be having with that: he’d spent the day wedged into an uncomfortable spot in a car trunk, then had been caught and rudely dumped in a bag, then had to listen to the Trans-Continental Hustle all the way home, then was deposited — still in the bag — in a house smelling strongly of dog and cat, and now that he could see sky again that same interfering hominid was trying to catch him? Hell no.

“Look, I thought I was supposed to be getting a change of scenery. But so far, I’ve been in a train and a room, and a car and a room, and a room and a room. Well, maybe that’s all right for a bunch of powdered gee-gahs like yourselves, but I’m feeling decidedly strait-jacketed.”

He easily scaled the side of the bag, bounced across my lap, landed on the deck — I held out a hand to tell Dog “Back!” and she did — then lit off as quick as lightning to the relatively safe space under the deck. Not quite what I had in mind, but wild animals get to make their own decisions about these things.

I hadn’t gotten my post-rescue photo, so there was only one thing to do: carefully settle myself on my belly in the sun-warmed grass, fire up the camera, point it into the dark space under the deck, and get a shot of the stowaway back in the wild.

stowaway, released

I think he’ll be all right. He’s strong and large, clearly a survivor. Stay free, anole. Stay free.