Early this morning, the wife turned to my in bed and said, “Do you hear that?”
I listened closely. It was rushing water. As if the sprinklers were on. For a few seconds, I remained in bed. Hoping, somehow, the sound would evaporate with time. It didn’t. Ultimately, I followed the noise. Through the dining room. Through the kitchen. Down the steps. Into the wash room. Into the garage.
Lots and lots and lots and lots of water—dripping through cracks in the ceiling. Wait, not merely dripping. Oozing rapidly. I called the wife down. Our reaction was pretty much one and the same: Fuck. A pipe had cracked.
Our house is old. It was built in 1929, with the frayed wood and chipped bricks to match. People always say old houses are better than new houses, and maybe that’s true. But in our nearly 11 years here, something always goes wrong.
And I am always inept when it comes to handling it.
This frustrates the hell out of me. Water leaking? Call the plumber. Lights flickering? Call the electrician. Wood rotting? Call the contractor. We have 1,001 numbers, and I have, oh, four handy-related skills. They are:
1. I can change a tire.
2. I can unclog most toilets.
3. Um … hmmm … em … I’m, well, tall. Yeah, tall. And that’s important because, eh, hmmm … sigh.
I’m not handy. Not even remotely handy. Were I able to go back in time, I’d spend much of my youth becoming the handiest dude in the world. Remember back in high school, when certain kids took auto shop and wood working while we felt all high and mighty in AP history? Well, guess who got the last laugh? Right now, I hear—from the garage—the sounds of banging. Soon, I’ll be making a similarly loud noise—groaning as I write a $1,000 (or so) check.