Repairing the Faith
I thought today would be the day: at 5:00 p.m. on a gray and misty Thursday, I would finally experience it. I would let go of the stereotype I'd held for far too long and become, once again, an open-minded, trusting human being.
Today was the day I would regain my faith in repairmen.
Oh, you naive soul. Did you really think that a lagging economy and a pleasant sounding receptionist meant that this time would be different? That this time, the repairman would be waiting for you (after all, you took off work early to get home on time so he wouldn't have to wait long)? That he would, at the very least, be on time? Or maybe just five minutes late? Or fifteen because of traffic? Or twenty-five because the last customer's dog peed on him?
And did you truly believe that calling the plumber's emergency number would actually lead to anything?
"I'm sorry, but the main office is closed, and I can't get in touch with the plumber," a woman who sounds like my grandmother says at 5:30. "But he calls in every - uh, he calls in once in a while, and I can give him your number so that you can find out if he's still coming."
"But you don't understand," I say to no one, for I can't yell at my grandmother. "My shower has a hole in it," I want to scream, "and we have to turn the main water on and off each time we want to use the bathroom, and the main water valve is starting to leak all over our basement floor, and I'm pretty sure that's not right, and everything is supposed to be perfect because I'm a princess!!!!!!" (Actually, I might be a princess ... or, if not a princess, nobility, for I'm the great-granddaughter of a storied duchess. My grandmother, my very olive-skinned, mole-speckled, dark-haired Italian grandmother, often claimed that her mother was the daughter of a fair-skinned, fair-haired, blue-eyed Swedish duke. This is the same grandmother who claimed, until the day she died, that she was born in 1923; on the day she died, her death certificate claimed she had been born in 1919.)
Holy shit. I'm not lying (even though I come from a long line of liars). The plumber just called. It's as if he heard me typing. "I will repair her faith!" he thought. And he did. Unfortunately, he did not repair my shower.
Today was the day I would regain my faith in repairmen.
Oh, you naive soul. Did you really think that a lagging economy and a pleasant sounding receptionist meant that this time would be different? That this time, the repairman would be waiting for you (after all, you took off work early to get home on time so he wouldn't have to wait long)? That he would, at the very least, be on time? Or maybe just five minutes late? Or fifteen because of traffic? Or twenty-five because the last customer's dog peed on him?
And did you truly believe that calling the plumber's emergency number would actually lead to anything?
"I'm sorry, but the main office is closed, and I can't get in touch with the plumber," a woman who sounds like my grandmother says at 5:30. "But he calls in every - uh, he calls in once in a while, and I can give him your number so that you can find out if he's still coming."
"But you don't understand," I say to no one, for I can't yell at my grandmother. "My shower has a hole in it," I want to scream, "and we have to turn the main water on and off each time we want to use the bathroom, and the main water valve is starting to leak all over our basement floor, and I'm pretty sure that's not right, and everything is supposed to be perfect because I'm a princess!!!!!!" (Actually, I might be a princess ... or, if not a princess, nobility, for I'm the great-granddaughter of a storied duchess. My grandmother, my very olive-skinned, mole-speckled, dark-haired Italian grandmother, often claimed that her mother was the daughter of a fair-skinned, fair-haired, blue-eyed Swedish duke. This is the same grandmother who claimed, until the day she died, that she was born in 1923; on the day she died, her death certificate claimed she had been born in 1919.)
Holy shit. I'm not lying (even though I come from a long line of liars). The plumber just called. It's as if he heard me typing. "I will repair her faith!" he thought. And he did. Unfortunately, he did not repair my shower.