It’s always something.
I reached into the shower to start the hot water, as I do every morning, and I was immediately drenched by a biblical deluge of water. I was startled, and alarmed, to see that the water was spraying not from the shower head, but from behind the spigot. This was not a good sign.
Muttering, I reached over to turn the water off and I turned the handle and turned it and turned it some more– and nothing happened. This was an even worse sign and cursing softly, I dried off, pulled on a pair of sweat pains and I went outside to shut off the water main into the house.
Next I had to call the plumber; this part, at least, was easy: we have enough plumbing issues with our old house that Rebecca, the woman who answers the phone at our plumber’s office, knows my name, my address and my cell number. I dialed the number from memory.
“Please hold,” said a voice who was not Rebecca, right before she disconnected me.
I called back. “Please hold,” said the same voice, and she disconnected me again.
I called back. “Can you hold?” asked the voice.
“No, “ I began, “I really can’t.” But by then I was disconnected.
I counted to 100, thinking that it was not in my best interests to piss off the plumber by saying what I was inclined to say and then I called back.
“Triple A-I Plumbing,” said the voice perkily. “May I help you?”
Relieved¸ I asked if Rebecca was available and I was told she was out sick. “She should be back tomorrow,” said the voice, “if you want to call back.” And then she hung up.
This time I counted to 200. While I was counting my partner walked into the room. “Do we have water yet?” he asked before he saw my face, made a U-turn and walked right out.
I called the plumber back and this time a surly male voice answered. “What?” he said.
I thought I had misdialed, so I checked my phone. I had not. “Hello,” I said, “Is this the plumber?”
“Who wants to know?” he said.
“I was just talking to a young lady,” I said carefully, “and I got disconnected.”
“How’d you get this number?” he demanded, and now I was annoyed.
“It’s Guy Andrews,” I said shortly. “I’ve been your customer for almost 20 years.”
“Well, I’m the owner,” said the owner, “and I don’t recognize your name.” He paused as though he had made a compelling point.
I decided to be reasonable; this was a mistake because you can’t reason with an idiot. “Why don’t you look me up in your computer?” I said. “You’ll see that I’m your customer.”
“I don’t know about that computer stuff,” he said, and hung up.
I was counting backwards from 500 — by sevens — when my partner walked by; he had decided to shower at the gym.
“Just call another plumber,” he said, after I told him my story.
“I guess I’ll have to,” I conceded. “It’s just that these guys know us and know all the quirks with the house.”
“And how’s that working out for you?” he asked, and walked out before I could respond.
In the end I called my sister and got the number for her plumber. “They speak no English,” she cautioned. “They’re expensive and they are really sloppy but eventually they show up and they do an ok job.” And based on that rousing recommendation I called: her plumber eventually showed up and kind of corrected the problem; it was hard trying to figure out what the problem was because he spoke no English. He left behind a huge mess. He was insanely expensive.
The next morning as I was getting ready for work my phone rang. It was Rebecca.
“The boss told me you called,” she said. “Is everything ok?”