The Rising Tide Will Float All Boats

The day's almost done. The pipes are back together. Water runs steadily from Point A to Point B as Bud and I carry our tools towards our trucks. We are the sole reasons for its availability of use at each fixture in the building. Faucets, toilets, and drinking fountains have been given life again due to our careful craftsmanship. Don't be fooled by the assumptions of a lesser caste status; plumbers have a power perceptible in absence. One may not feel their omnipotence until gravity and physics don't suffice to tame the flow. It's a perk they don't teach in apprenticeship school. It's a reason to solder with pride. The middle-aged man to my left's been directing fluids for a living for thirty years and has another twenty left in him. I'll be lucky to learn half as much as he's forgotten.

"Get all the grease off your hands," Bud tells me as he wheels the tool cart towards our men's room pit stop. Its left rear wheel pleads for oil with a steady squeak. "I've got something to show you."

My curiousity is piqued. I ask him to tell me what it is as we rinse the day's grime from the webs of our fingers, saving the scrubbing of nails for our designated shower toothbrushes at our respective homes. He smiles at me in the mirror and stirs the mysterious pot. "It's nothing new to you, though you haven't seen it in its current state."

We dry our hands with the brown, industrial strength paper towels stripped from the roll that sits on a shelf in the men's room. The dispensers are empty. Housekeeping is lax. It's hard to find good help these days.

The sun beams down on the asphalt with promise of a few more hours 'til dark. Bud lowers the tailgate of his truck and returns his tools to their buckets, cases, and bags. I follow suit, then return to my friend's vehicle to see what familiar item he's brought for Show and Tell this week. He opens the driver's side door, plops down on his beaded seat, and looks me in the eyes.

"The gun you sold me's even better now that I've installed a laser sight," he says, conjuring the firearm from thin air before making sure it's unloaded and passing it my way.

I grip the familiar hunk of steel and activate the laser by depressing a button built into the grip. The eighth-inch red dot illuminates a safe portion of the ground in front of my non-steel-toed boots. In actuality I'm glad to be rid of the thing. It never felt right in my hands for some reason though others swore by the brand. It cycled properly and put tight-clustered groups on paper targets, but left me wanting more. There was something I sought instead of that gun. It behooved me to pass it along, and the one that came to replace it is now the pride of my safe. It's an older piece that has to be manually cocked with the thumb before each shot, but I've got time and patience. I've got loads of both. My mother used to tell me to become a teacher because of my abundance of the latter. I have, in a way, though the student's still the same and more stubborn than ever.

Out of respect I entertain his ego. "Care to sell it back?" I jest, regardless of the fact that I'm thankful for my decision.

"Not for what I paid for it," Bud says as he reaches out his hand to make his hardware disappear again. I pass it back, relieved to be rid of it again.

It's someone else's headache now. She's better off in his hands; I'm better off with mine. I know what I have and I want it. What else is there to happiness, aside from trusty plumbing?