I show Keith the Plumber my dripping shower faucet, gesturing elegantly with my left hand. I feel like a Price Is Right girl. Keith, this job could be yours, IF THE PRICE IS RIGHT.
Keith touches the water. “It’s hot,” he says. “That’s not good.”
“Of course it’s not good,” I say, cheerily. “I would think there was something wrong with you if you told me it was good! We’re on the same page! Isn’t December excellent?”
“I can’t work on that kind of faucet,” says Keith.
“Sure you can!” I say.
Keith gives me a peculiar look. “Nope, that fixture is about forty years old. I’m not insured to work on that. It’s not scald-proof.”
I mull this over. “I’m almost forty. I’m not scald-proof either. But my doctor works on me! Ha! Ha ha!”
If I am officially a loon, I’m really going for it.
Keith smiles weakly. I deflate slightly.
“It’s bad, right?” I say.
Keith nods.
“How bad?”
He takes a step back. “I’d have to install a new scald-proof fixture.”
“How bad?”
“Six.”
“Hundred? Thousand?”
“Hundred.”
“Oh,” says I. “Six hundred. That’s funny! That’s very, very funny! Why don’t you go look at the downstairs leak, and I’ll think about this.”
Keith goes downstairs with my friend, who knows where the leak is in the basement. I have not been introduced to the basement leak, as people in my life have been kind and have not wanted to create any more havoc in my overtaxed brain.
I hear all sorts of discussion through the floorboards when I head downstairs, doing my I’m massively medicated and someone just asked for $600 because I’m forty, no, because my faucet is forty! hip wiggle.
Keith and my somber-looking friend come upstairs. “Oh ho!” I say. “It’s bad, right? Also bad?”
Keith makes his official estimate on the scary pink plumber paper. Much addition and no subtraction. He hands me the yellow copy of the scary pink plumber paper.
$1258.
One thousand two hundred and fifty-eight dollars.
Ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho! Merry Christmas! I think we will bathe in the sewer and simply wrap scarves around the pipes downstairs! And buckets! Isn’t this what buckets are for? For putting under leaky things?
*****
That was my thought process.
We sent Keith a-packing—pleasantly, of course, as I have a habit of being pleasant in the most unpleasant situations, such as childbirth, funerals and plumbing estimates. I am delightful under duress, charming in crisis. Until people leave. Then I freak and muffle my head under pillows.
I figured I had some time to think it over.
HO HO HO HO HO!
The shower faucet is raining water and will not stop. It’s gotten so bad during the past few days, I have to close the bathroom door to sleep, because the sound makes me nuts. A stream of hot-water dollars going down the drain. EX-CELL-ENT!
Gets better!
This morning, I put my hand on hot water knob in the shower AND IT WAS HOT. The tiled wall around the faucet? Also hot.
I called the plumbing folks again.
“It’s a great day here at Plumbing Paradise! How can we help you?” said a woman.
This sort of caught me off-guard.
“Is it really a great day there?” I asked.
Her voice changed completely. “I have no idea,” she said grimly.
“Well, this should cheer you up. I need Keith to come,” I said. “My faucet is HOT TO THE TOUCH. The wall is HOT TO THE TOUCH. Water is POURING OUT and I can’t stop it.”
“Hm. Tuesday the 23rd? Can’t do sooner. We’ve had some emergencies.”
“Um, I’m a little worried I’m having an emergency. Can you ask Keith? It seems VERY WRONG that things are getting hot.”
“I’ll tell Keith.”
“I just want to be sure the WALL DOESN’T EXPLODE AND RAIN SCALDING WATER AND BROKEN TILE ALL OVER MY BABIES.”
“I’ll tell him. The 23rd?”
“Christmas Eve-Eve. Unless Keith thinks this is an emergency. Which, you know. It could be. Did I mention I have babies? And dogs? And there’s me? And we brush our teeth in the bathroom? Ho ho ho?”
“Got it.”
*****
In the Berkshires, it’s ridiculous trying to get a contractor of any type to come quickly. Christmas Eve-Eve is not bad, IF WE DON’T ALL DIE BEFORE THEN. Check back, dearies.
Keith, the job is yours, EVEN THOUGH THE PRICE IS WRONG, AND IS SURELY GOING TO GET WORSE.
Merry plumbin’ Christmas. May all your faucets be merry and scald-proof, and younger than forty. And we thought forty was just a tough age for women. Ho ho ho ho!
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