RIGMAROLE

When you really start to think about it, home ownership is basically a series of very short relaxing periods of comfort and security wedged between a constant stream of stressfully fixing busted stuff.  Previously, my favorite thing about vacations was spending time someplace different, nowadays it feels like the best part of being away is that I’m forcibly unable to deal with the ever-growing mountain of pressing responsibilities back at the house.

It’s not that the headaches disappear when I’m far from home. I still constantly worry about returning to something like a busted refrigerator filled with week-old rotting food or my cats swimming laps to the litterbox after my laundry room becomes a wading pool from a spewing malfunctioning water-heater. But at least when I am away, the house is not constantly taunting me and making me feel lazy for not spending every awake non-working moment addressing one of its many needed repairs. 

When you are a dopey carefree unappreciative kid, desperate to quickly grow up, no one tells you that the anticipated joys of adulthood are completely overwhelmed by the avalanche of responsibilities that constantly crash onto your good times. Okay, maybe they do try to tell you, but what kid listens to that? That’s the point of being a dopey carefree unappreciative kid.  But my point is, even if you are not the type to spend all of your time fixing things yourself, you still have to work like a slave to afford to pay for the army of repairman, mechanics, handydudes, and technicians that are needed to handle a house’s general upkeep and maintenance.

When I was one of those dopey unappreciative carefree kids, I thought my dad was amazing at fixing things. And since he did it so much, I assumed he enjoyed it. Broken appliances, plumbing, electrical, remodeling… he did it all. I never recall an outsider ever being paid to do work in the house.

It was not till years later that I realized it was one of those “necessity is mother of all invention” deals.  No wonder dad was always grumpy when he was fixing stuff, of course he would have much rather been spending his nights and weekends camped in his boxers unwinding from a hard week’s work lounging in his faux leather recliner studying his beloved aviation magazines. It just wasn’t an option.

The other thing it took me way too long to realize was that dad was not so much an expert fixer-er, as he was an absolute genius of the makeshift jerry-rig. Sort of a Dr. Frankenmechanic, bringing things back to life using various pieces and parts he dug up around the house.

I am neither an amazing mechanical-minded repairman nor a rig-master general. What I will pat myself on the back for is that I can recognize and admit when something is beyond my meager capabilities. Which is exactly why I called a plumber the other morning. Of course, at $150 just to walk in the front door, that is no easy decision. Unfortunately, I could not find any of the usual poorly-shot Youtube videos of personality-less home repair dorks addressing my exact kitchen sink problem.

But besides the money and typical male ‘I coulda’ done that myself’ ego issues, I have another reason why I do not like calling in an expert to fix something.  I’ve always felt like a little kid when a repair person comes to the house; even if they are half my age and look like they just got through puberty a week ago. When I stand around uselessly watching them poke around my broken stuff, I immediately flashback to when mom would send me to help dad fix things.

Lil’ Dan might not have been able to discern the difference between the ‘want to’ and ‘need to’ aspect of dad always fixing stuff himself, but I sure knew he really, really did not like being interrupted by a hovering bratty kid offering unwanted assistance. But I think mom felt guilty that he had to tend to all those things himself, and her way of dealing with that was to send one of us kids to help. And with five kids in the house, there was no shortage of victims to annoy him with. Since mom usually sent whoever was nearby, the trick was to stay out of sight whenever dad was knee-deep in a project. Being the youngest, I did not catch on to that for a while. And by the time I did, most of my older siblings had moved out, so I frequently was the unfortunate ‘chosen one’ sent to assist.

I’d quietly creep towards dad and whatever busted thing he was carefully giving the stink-eye to. My father’s repair technique included a lot of standing around analyzing, grunting, muttering, cursing, and talking to himself as he slowly sized up what to remove or shove in, to make it function somewhat properly again. I’d stand several feet away and try to gauge the least annoying time to disturb him. Although there usually was never one. To avoid dad’s quick temper wrath for interrupting him at a critical point with my lame offer to help, I always prefaced things with “mom told me to…” 

Occasionally he tasked me with finding a “whoozimawatz” or “thingamagig”, but mostly I just stood there quietly bored out of my mind until he requested a refill of iced tea. Luckily, that was a task I was good at. I could drag-out getting that refill for 20 minutes or more and no one really noticed.

I was always surprised dad never tried to lessen his workload by teaching us kids how to repair things. But I guess there are no easily teachable steps to rigging something. It’s more of a zen-like meditation, intuition, state of mind, and make it up as you go, kind of thing.  It would have been like trying teach theoretical philosophy with a step-by-step formula from a scientific trigonometry calculator. 

So besides the PTSD type flashbacks to my childhood with dad sprawled on the kitchen floor head inside the dishwasher, out in the garage bent over the engine of our Buick station wagon, or spread out on his long freakishly organized and labeled basement workbench, the worst part for me about having someone in my house to fix something is that I know I am at their complete and total mercy. I try to be overly nice in the hopes that if they think I am a good guy they won’t fleece me with too many excessive hours of unnecessary work. I figure that is my only weapon against being completely ripped off, because I certainly can’t pull-off pretending that I can accurately diagnose and fix crap myself. If I could, why would I have called them?

Sure, if they say something astoundingly ridiculous or seem grotesquely incompetent (even I know I don’t need an electronic left-handed smoke shifter attached to my cooktop vent), I can toss even more money and time at the problem by getting a second or third opinion. But most of these guys are smart enough to know folks don’t want to wait another week and toss another exorbitant house-call fee at a problem. The good ones know just how far to push up a bill to the edge of the precipice before breaking the bank. It’s like a car repair shop, no matter what the original problem was, they will find enough other crap wrong to make sure the bill is never less than $500, but not so high that you refuse the work.

It’s not common, but every once in a while, something works out to my advantage. When my AC conked out a few years ago on the first hot day of the summer. An amazing repair guy came. He got here in hours not days, worked super quick, showed me how I could do the fix myself in the future, and only charged a few bucks over the minimum house visit fee.  Unfortunately, a year later when the fix he showed me did not work, I called him again. But the company told me he had moved to Louisiana. I kept imaging he got kicked out of some local repairman’s club for being too honest.

The new guy they sent was far less competent and trustworthy. My first red flag was that he spent an awful lot of time repeatedly telling me what an expert he was, yet it took him hours to figure out the problem was a damaged wire running from the inside unit to the outside fan. Then he had to drive to the nearby Home Depot three different times to get the correct replacement wire and tools. After all that, he still improperly installed it in a short-cut spot through an attic vent versus in the insulated predrilled location where the original wire was threaded through. It reminded me of one of my dad’s shortcut rigs. It worked, but it was not the correct way to do it.

The repairman was unsure if his fix would work and said he would come back later in the week to check on it and give me the final bill. Two weeks later I called the company saying I had not seen or heard from him again. I also told them how he had not finished putting the outer cover on the unit and that he left a couple of tools and meters behind. Plus, because mom instilled a huge level of guilt into my brain and I have an irrational belief in karma, I reminded them I had not paid for his work yet. They told me he was no longer with them, but they would send someone else if my AC was still not functioning. I said his work was sloppy and slow, and that I put the cover plate back on myself. But the unit was working great. They never mentioned anything else about him or the bill. Neither did I.  

Since we moved into our current ‘older’ house a few years ago, we have had multiple problems with the 50-year-old plumbing connected to the kitchen sink. That is why I quickly defaulted to a professional when things went awry last weekend.  Previously we had new drainpipes from the sink installed underground… twice. Obviously once correctly and the first time… not so much. 

Even after all that, the sink still clogs every few months (usually just before company arrives) but I have gotten very good at taking the under-sink pipes and disposal apart to clear everything. Unfortunately, this new issue was something different involving the incoming water to the sink and dishwasher that I feared might need some welding, digging, or disconnecting the dishwasher to properly repair. I called a plumbing company we had previously had good luck with, but they would not be able to come for three days. Fearing the unknown of a new plumber, I agreed.  I guess even though it feels creepy, there really is nothing wrong with cleaning dishes in a scrubbed bathtub.

When the plumber finally showed up, it was not one of the repairman that had previously been here. This dude looked, smelled, and sounded like the guy you step over passed-out in the gutter in front of the closest dive bar to the local trailer park.  His hazy eyes were sunken deep into their sockets and his long stringy thinning hair was dirty, yellowed, and matted. Had he not come in the fancy logo’ed truck, I would have thought he was a homeless guy. The type you’d expect to see on a busy intersection median on a hot mid-summer day begging for nickels with a torn cardboard handwritten sign reading “HUNGERRE PLEEZ HELP!!!! ”.

But I’ve read a lot of amazing books that had really crappy covers, so I was all over giving him a fair shake. Lots of geniuses look a bit wonky. Maybe he normally is  all spit-shined and spiffy, but his last stop involved an exploding septic tank with noxious fumes that made him loopy.  Though I did start to worry when he barely spoke two sentences to me as he limped his way towards the sink. It quickly became obvious that he had leg and back issues, because he loudly moaned each time he had to climb under the sink.

After briefly assessing things, in the same quiet meditative way my dad used to before performing one of his master rigs, the man slowly plodded back out to his truck. Eventually he came back in carrying a single wrench, then struggled back down to the floor and under the sink again. After I gave him the pail and rag he requested, he poked around a few minutes tightening and loosening various pipes and handles. Then he carefully worked his way back up to standing and again slowly made his way back outside to the truck.  Just like the first time, he came back in with only a single additional tool before painfully folding himself back under the sink again.  I counted eight times that he pokily went back outside to the truck and then came back in with a single item to continue his work, contorted on my kitchen floor. The sad thing is, even if he was not paid by the hour, I don’t think he would/could have moved any faster.

It took a couple of hours, but Slowpoke McScungy successfully got everything working again without any major work. He said he could not find any problem with the intake to the dishwasher, and after he simply replaced the faucet valve (one of the YouTube easy solutions I discounted because of the dishwasher issue) and flushed the pipes, it magically started working again.

The bill was less than I feared it would be, but more than it seemed it should have been for the actual work done. But because of the potential risk of me completely screwing things up trying to do it myself, my wife was glad we spent the money on a professional. But after he left, I had a mixed bag of emotions. I felt bad for my assumptions of his incompetence based solely on his scary appearance but happy I was wrong and that it was fixed. Yet I could not avoid feeling a little ripped off when I realized I could have done it all myself. I know my dad would never have given up before he started, like I did.

But I guess these are the headtrips that stay with you throughout life.  I did not learn how to repair things by watching my dad, but I certainly learned how to feel bad about myself for not trying to fix something on my own. But I guess that’s better than having to do the dishes in the bathtub. I don’t know… I think the one thing I know for sure is that I need another vacation away from the house.

DORK NOT HELPING DAD, BY HIS BASEMENT WORKBENCH

THE MANY WALKS TO THE TRUCK