We had a pipe break in our building that happened to pass through my bathroom. Four men have been here for three days replacing it.
I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone and any minute Rod Serling will come in and say, “CUT…PRINT.”
If only, because then it would be over and props would clean up.
I wonder if the library noticed just how many times I dashed in and out to pee.
I can’t bring myself to say to these hulking work men with names like Misha and Ronaldus, I need to use the bathroom that now looks like Pompeii, just with less charm.
Every once in a while Misha, the spokesman of the group, comes out to tell me everything is going well, as if they’re delivering a baby. “You can see it soon,” he said, meaning the sheetrock over the new pipe that frankly, with the exception of FINALLY being installed, did nothing for me.
I just want them to finish it up then leave…fat chance, since they are now building a wall.
What, the Berlin Wall? Why is it taking so long?
Another concern was while repairing one thing they’ll fuck up something else. An old building (mine built 1899) is like your grandmother…sometimes at her age it’s best to just leave things alone like my former landlady did. She was into patching…it was cheaper, and safer as far as I was concerned. Of course every six months the pipe would leak again and this time it was on someone’s head in the restaurant below me. That’s when the new owner got serious. No patch patch for him.
He brought in the big guns, from Jersey and why they’re always late.
“We get stuck on GW Bridge.”
My entire bathroom is in my bedroom. I told my friend Amy who’s been holding my hand through this, it looks like a youth hostel with towels on the bookcase and shampoo in my shoes. You must understand how much I loathe disorder…it makes me crazy.
Order is the only thing about life I can control…that the bathmat is draped along the tub evenly and my robe is behind the door waiting to warm me.
It was the one thing I forgot to remove, so at one point a huge man with big biceps I’ll call Tool, came out to give it to me now beige instead of navy. Plaster dust…it could take away your gray.
“Voddy ny-sss,” he said, holding it gingerly with dirty fingernails.
I try to think of the good…it will never leak again…this will be a one time deal…you’ll live…without lungs or a nose…but hey.
None of this blarney makes one shred of difference.
Misha just came out for his hourly update, and apparently, they are three quarters done and maybe I should go see a movie.
Maybe I should pay them to leave…I mean what’s a quarter left anyway?
A panel? What am I saying…THEY NEED TO FINISH SO I CAN PEE, SHOWER AND GO THE FUCK TO BED…in my lifetime.
They’ve done everything but paint. The dust was three deep before hiring someone to come clean. They are kindly deducting her fee from my rent. With the exception of coughing and sneezing, all is back to normal.
New York living…bet this doesn’t happen in Iowa.