Moonlighting Sonata

I got the call about his leaking tub around three in the afternoon. Typical friend-of-a-plumber scenario. "Just figured I'd give you a call before I hired someone else." Translation: "Just thought I'd save a buck by having you fix this for me." I always fall for it, the plumber with a heart o' gold-- at least when it comes to not ripping off laymen. "Sure, I'll come by in an hour or two." Besides, it was just the excuse I needed to talk myself out of going to the union hall for class like I was supposed to. Eight hours of welding on my knees was all the instruction I needed for the day, the lesson being the same as the one I'm always learning: I should've stayed in school.

The house was on one of the oldest streets in the city, right down the road from the bar that the usual suspects and myself succumb to patronizing from time to time. My friend's car was not outside and the lights did not appear to be on in the house. I began to wonder if I should've gone to plumbing class instead like a good little apprentice. Two knocks on the Munster-esque front door produced a muffled response in the form of a woman's voice: "Who is it?" I paused to think. "Mike, your son's friend." She unlocked and opened the door without the response I was dreading: "Oh, the plumber." It was a small personal victory and I cherished it.

"The bathroom's at the top of the stairs."
"Alright. Let me take a look."

She followed me up. I wished that she hadn't. The only thing worse than working in someone else's home is having to do it while the home-owner looks over your shoulder. The house was built in the 1800s. I didn't know what obstacles to expect, and I sure didn't want anyone witnessing my head-scratching routine as I tried to put my brain away and figure out what one of my coworkers would do. Having to switch mental gears and think like a construction worker is a difficult task for me. I'm a clumsy bookworm with too much time on his hands who happens to put pipes together for a living. Trouble-shooting a plumbing problem doesn't always come as naturally to me as discussing an author's strengths and weaknesses. That's an affliciton I'm proud to have. "You're an intelligent person," my esteemed colleagues always tell me when I ask questions about moonlighting debacles. "You'll figure it out." Please. I still haven't figured myself out and I've had almost twenty-five years to work at it.

"The handyman cut a hole in the wall to take a look at the pipes. He couldn't find the leak, though."
"How do you know it's even leaking?"
"There's a dark spot on the ceiling below it."
"It's leaking."
Good. That sounded professional.

I got down on my aching knees in the hallway and removed the three pieces of drywall that he screwed to the wall to keep the cats from getting lost forever. The floorboards creaked as I rolled over onto my back and got in position to have a look-see at the culprit. My flashlight didn't work so well upside down because the battery connection was compromised in that position. I rattled it around and mumbled "Figures" to myself. She heard me and laughed. A sense of humor is a good thing for a customer to have, especially when the bill is presented.

"Can you turn the shower on for me?"
"Sure."
"I don't see any water dripping down any of the pipes."
"It only happens when the water hits the wall."
"Can you make the water hit the wall?"
Sometimes people make me ask stupid questions.

As soon as she turned the showerhead I was splashed in the face. Never had I been so thankful for that; it meant I might be leaving soon.

"I found your problem."
"Excellent!"
"Yeah."
Why couldn't I manage to pinpoint my own?

I rose to my feet and walked into the bathroom to unscrew the faucet handle on the cold side and showed her the dilemma. Whoever had cut the vinyl wall to install the shower valve had done a typical scab chop-job. The hole was about twice the size needed for the copper to poke through, and that's why the water was leaking into the wall.

"It's not a plumbing problem."
"Good! Then we can fix it ourselves with some caulk!"
Ah, the happy home-owner response. Just as expected. Another dud. I knew her next question before she asked it. At least she was sticking to the script.
"How much do I owe you?"
"Nothing."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Tell your 'handyman' to use a flashlight next time, though."

She didn't argue with either statement. Getting a quick ribshot mildly alleviated the pain of having wasted my time. It felt good to help a friend, but was he really? Seeing a kid I went to high school with at a bar once every six months barely qualifies as friendship, but I couldn't bring myself to charge something just for making a pitstop on my way home from work. And at least I didn't have to do any actual plumbing work.

He came home as I was gathering the few tools I'd strewn on the floor in a vain attempt to appear to know what I was doing had I encountered an actual problem. I told him it was an easy fix and his mother told him to go get the caulking gun from the basement. He offered me a beer in lieu of the payment I'd declined, but I wanted to get home to rid myself of the sweet stench of failure for the day and lay in bed to finish Artaud and maybe Miller. Then he showed me his switchblade, told me he only used to open letters. People don't change much after high school. I said I had to go and he walked me back down the stairs.

"You can go out the door right in front of you, no need to go through the living room again."
"Man, you're trying to get me out of your house as quickly as possible."
"No, but I figured it'd be easier since you're parked right there..."
People don't sense sarcasm after you've done them a favor. Call it guilt.
"What are you doing Wednesday night?"
"I'm not sure yet," I lied. "Why?"
"It's my girlfriend's birthday, we're going to the bar," meaning the one down the street where I ran into him every six months. "You should come."
"Yeah, maybe I will," I lied again. Would he have invited me out of the blue if I hadn't seen him on such terms? Only a spineless coward with no self-respect would accept that offer. I'm only a spineless coward.
"Take it easy, man."
"Thanks, Mike."
"No problem."
"Thanks Mike!" his mom screamed from the top of the stairs in nosy mother eavesdrop fashion.
I shook his hand and walked to my truck.

"How'd' you make out?" my coworker asked when he called as I rode home.
"It was just a hole in the wall. I told them to patch it."
"Did you charge them the hundred bucks like I told you?"
"No."
"Then what'd you make?"
"Nothing."
"But you drove there. Your time is worth money, kid."
"I didn't fix anything."
"They didn't need to know that."
"Are all plumbers so dishonest?"
"Only the ones who want to make a living out of it."
"I'd rather sleep at night."
"Then you'll never be one of us, Shakespeare."

Someone in my trade, someone I see at my awful job and work next to, someone who could be subpoenaed to testify regarding my profession had told me that I was not and never would be a plumber. My identity was intact. It was that same small victory all over again.

You can keep your hundred bucks and your bottle of beer. I'm going to go shower and finish those two books now.