The Shitmen have Cometh … paying homage to the kumitori men

A summer scene in a country household:

"They’re here. Close the windows upstairs. Quick!"
"You do the windows in the tatami room, hurry!"
"Close the back door. And kids, don’t forget to close the vents at the top of the windows, too."

The family busied themselves shutting out the outside world. It was a hot, humid summer day, but it was paramount to stop the air from coming in for the next ten minutes. The boy came crashing downstairs with a grin on his face.

"Just in time."

The family converged on the kitchen. They heard the crunch of the boots on the gravel path outside. They heard the hose being dragged across the ground, banging against the flimsy metal gate. They heard the man remove the manhole cover and lean it against the air-conditioning unit. They heard his chirpy call.

"Ready."

He had already inserted the nozzle of the ribbed, thick hose into the pit. The mechanism on the lorry roared into life and then settled into a gentle chugging sound. Outside the kitchen door, the family could hear the activity. They tried to block out visions of the process. All except the boy that is. He looked at the rest of the family. They were all so squeamish.

"Sounds just like he's slurping up the last bits of a McDonald’s shake with a straw."

The smell hit them. Pungent and putrid. Noses were pinched. Eyes watered. Oh, boy, the shitmen have cometh.

The shitmen (kumitori men) are just about the most courteous people I have ever met. They take customer service to new levels. Whether on the phone, or in your backyard pumping out your fetid cesspit, they are politeness personified. They appear oblivious to the smell, a smell so extraordinarily tangible that you could cut it with a knife. Their insouciance is no mean feat. They seem like a real genuine bunch of guys, too, not in the least awkward about the nature of their job. I’m not sure I could be so well-mannered if I was the one pumping other people's shit.

Outside the noises abated. The kumitori men had finished. A knock on the door. A cheerful young face. It was the young father of a boy in my daughter’s class. He was a cool-looking guy with a goatee and a gentle smile. Not quite what you'd expect for someone who, well, kind of "shovels" shit for a living.

"Six thousand four hundred yen, please," he said pleasantly.