Garden Hose Part 2
Thank God for my husband. The Eagle Scout. Most modern city men don’t know the difference between a hot water heater and a clothes dryer. But my husband can shut down a valve, close a spigot, play the piano, turn off the pilot light, then go off and rewire a lamp. He could probably even start a camp fire on the polar ice cap. He also knows how to park. I don’t. I can drive but I can’t park. Which means the only vehicle I can drive in New York is an ambulance. Because they don’t seem to park like other people. They just sort of pull up. Anyway, he’s keeping me sane.
The good news is the hot water heater is under warranty. The bad news is the hot water heater is under warranty. After two days shuttling back and forth between hellish hold music and dumb, unhelpful humans at GE (the maker of the heater) and Home Depot (where we bought the heater), my husband, finally, gets through to a plumber at the Depot.
His name is Muhommod. I know it’s Muhommod because my husband keeps repeating his name, like God in vain, hoping it will create some kind of bond. It isn’t working.
“Sir,” says Muhommod. “I think you must come to the store.”
“Why should I come to the store, Muhommod? You have all the information right there on your terminal. “
“Sir, please come to the store.”
My husband begins to fidget.”Listen,” he says, patiently. “I am not driving out to Brooklyn so you can tell me the same thing there you’re telling me here.”
Mohommod chuckles.”Brooklyn? We are not in Brooklyn, sir.”
“Well, where the hell are you,” asks my husband, doodling, more like digging huge holes, in his legal pad with the tip of a black pen.
“We are in Washington, DC., sir. Home of Obama.”
“WHAT??” The pen flies across the room.
I am now hopping around like someone with St. Vitus Dance, muttering obscenities. My husband shoos me away, mouthing the words “Shut Up.”
“Hello, hello, sir. Are you there?”
“I’ve been here for two days, Mohommod. Yes, I am STILL FUCKING here.”
“Just one moment. I will get an estimate for installation, OK.”
More hellish hold music.
“OK, I am back, sir. It will cost $800.00″
My husband’s face flushes with rage.
“ARE YOU INSANE?
“No sir. This is special job. It is on the second floor.”
“But there’s an elevator. You just push the button.”
Mohommod is really having a good time now. He chuckles again. “Well, that is very good news, sir. Imagine the cost with no elevator.”
My husband hangs up.
I would guess that some variation of this same murderously frustrating situation happens hundreds of thousands of times a day across America. Just negotiating one’s way through a “help” menu can lead to heavy substance abuse. So why are we surprised at stories about Road Rage and Air Rage and Postal Rage. I remember a story last summer about Vet rage. Some poor guy in California punched a Chihuahua in the face three times with his fist. The dog went into a coma.
‘The dog tried to bite me,” the vet said when cops showed up to arrest him. I figured the guy would get the death penalty. (if California had the death penalty.)
But who knows? Maybe the vet was trying to replace his water heater? Or get his cable fixed. Maybe he was stranded on a runway for five hours with nothing but peanuts and potato chips to eat and then got bumped or dumped in the Hudson. Maybe it was his wife’s birthday. And they’d had a fight when he got home. Then maybe the freeway was backed up and he was late for work. When the dog sank his teeth into him, he just lost it.
The bottom line is, we are all at the mercy of other people who have no mercy; who’ve also had a bad day or a fight with their wives, or who simply revel in the power of saying “No.” Who knows? All I know is I’m dirty and cold and I want a god damn bath. But hey! Maybe Obama will fix it.
