Traffic

As a landlord, I can completely appreciate the availability of my tenants to give access to such people like electricians, handymen, plumbers, and the like to solve whatever problem may be occurring at said residence. As a tenant, I get the inconvenience just to get things fixed. "Could you be home between the hours of 8-4? We'll fit you in." Gee, let me just take a day of paid time off to do this, no problem. Knock on wood, my house has been in great shape with really responsible tenants whom I wish would live there forever and ever and ever until I want to come back. However, I digress. I just had to get that little magical thinking/superstition thing out of the way.

I believe my landlord is quite grateful I've been laid up. I can give 24/7 access to the house and it is not a true inconvenience for me whatsoever...I mean not in the traditional sense. This week has been a zoo.

First, we had the oil dudes show up. Now, I had never in my entire life heard of actual oil STILL being used to heat houses until I moved here. It was like someone telling me that they use the back fat of a pig or whale to heat the house. I suppose I thought that the method went extinct somewhere when the EPA was created. Not so much. Just move to the East where all things historical reign. I could almost charge admission to families visiting the area and show them the large oil tank in my basement and the 5x6 bright red oil shut off valve in my kitchen. They could make the stop after visiting Paul Revere's house. The problem with my money making scheme, its not so novel around these parts. Just about every house in the neighborhood has oil tanks and there is free enterprise among oil providing companies in the area. Its not like the electric company where you only have one choice. Good hell.

So, the oil dudes show up. They are trying to figure out the leak in our bathroom radiator. I, myself, would have called a plumber to do this, but my landlord assured me these were the right guys to call. At 5:00 on Wednesday some burly dude with a handlebar mustache and a wrench large enough to clobber Col. Mustard in the library, rings my doorbell. There were no introductions made or identification shown. Just a: "I'm here about a problem." For all I know he was the singing barbershop quartet hit man, but I let him into my house like a stupid trusting soul and showed him to my bathroom. It took maybe 5 minutes for him to work his magic and he was out the door. Edgar didn't even get a chance to smell the dude. He did let me know there was a small flood in the basement, to which I said I would let my landlord know.

I don't do stairs well these days, but I decided that I should venture down the rickety timbers to check it out. And, well, since I was going down there I may as well throw a load of laundry in at the same time. Down I go to find that yes, there were some small standing puddles of water and damp concrete, but it didn't stop me from throwing my load of towels into the washer. I did curse my overestimation of my abilities as I hobbled back up the stairs one at a time.

Later that night I let my landlord know who looked discouraged and exhausted from a long days work. It seems a lot longer now because of daylight savings and it gets dark at 4:00. What the hell? I have reached the conclusion that just about everyone in New England must have Seasonal Affective Disorder. How could you not thinking that you are a slave to your company working until dark every night not seeing the light of day? To add to my vision I like to think that the cafeteria at work only serves gruel. She also mentioned the fire marshal is going to stop by as well on Friday.

Sure enough bright and early two very good looking gentlemen in tight tee shirts with "Watertown Fire" embroidered across their chests ring my doorbell Friday morning. Edgar is going nuts and I'm regretting my post-wake up wardrobe selection of a Rush Pike '94 tee shirt, flannel pj bottoms, and hospital socks.

"Oh hey, lil doggie. Weez here about checkin tha fuhrnace fourh fiah code." The first guy said in perfect South Boston drawl.

"Ok, sure, come on in." Once again letting strangers into the house. Edgar is rooing and standing firmly behind me like a fierce protector. "Don't mind him. He's all talk."

The two guys follow me into my very messy house to the basement door. Again, 5 minutes later they emerge to have Edgar still grumbling and pacing.

"Hey, remembah tha one cohl abou' tha' dawhg?" The first guy says to the other and they both start to laugh. "Yeah, it waz so funny. Ourh captain reached dohwn to pet it and it bit him in tha crawtch."

Both are wiping their eyes with laughter in the middle of my kitchen that looks like a tornado hit it.

"Yeah, he had ta goh get a tentus shaut an' everythingh."

"Hey, yous not from ahround hereh, are ya?" The second guy says after regaining his composure. I wasn't aware we were having a chit chat visit and began to wonder if there were kittens in trees these guys had to go rescue or something.

"No, I'm originally from the West. We just moved here a couple of months ago."

"Whll, hey! Welcome to tha neighbahood. Its really nice hereh. Its just yous an' yah huzband?" He looked at my left hand. Well, that was a good sign I thought. Maybe he was checking me out, all bed-head, morning breath, and all. (At least this is what I'm telling myself to boost my ego.)

"Yup, and Edgar." I gesture to my black mop of a dog who is still protesting these strange men in his house.

"Ehdgah. What a ghreat name. Like tha poet? I'z read a lot a him in college. Mahjohd in English lit." Oh good God, the fireman is a scholar. I was expecting him to launch into "The Raven," at any minute.

"No, no, he just looked like an Edgar."

"Hey, youh gettin caught up on tha Sopranos?" Motioning to the tv, paused on Uncle Junior's face.

"Yeah, yeah, I should be studying." It was only at this moment did I notice the bright red huge firetruck parked outside my house. How I missed this earlier I'll never know.

"Noh kiddin? What cha studyin'?" The guy picked up one of my text books.

"Getting my masters in organizational development and psychology."

"Wow. Good luck tuh yah then." He puts it back down on the table. I'm beginning to wonder how busy this department really is as they took the one fire truck from the station leaving the rest of the crew just to go check a furnace and if perhaps I should offer them tea for our visit since it doesn't seem to end.

"Wells, it waz a pleasure." The poet fire dude hands me some signed document indicating everything is up to snuff. I almost expected them to imitate the SNL skit of Mark Wahlberg and say, "Say hi tuh yah mutha fohr me." But instead I got a handshake.