[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
I don't have any idea when we might hope to see it. Still, to look on the bright side, if it isn't here in a
little over six decades, it will be somebody else's problem.
LIFE'S TECHNICALITIES
If there is one thing that I trust I have made clear in these pages over the past many months, it is that I
am not very good at technical stuff, even at the most basic level. For instance, I have only just
learned, to my considerable astonishment, that what I had for years called "duck tape" is actually
"duct tape."
In my experience, you either know these things instinctively or you don't. I don't. What's worse is that
repairmen know that you don't know. I can't tell you the number of times I have taken a car to the
shop because of some minor pinging noise in the engine and undergone an interview with a mechanic
that has run something like this:
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
"What sort of revs have you been getting on your piston torsion?"
"I don't know."
114
"Have you experienced any slippage on the disk platter?"
"I don't know."
He nods thoughtfully, taking this in. "And what sort of flexion ratios have you been getting on your
axial carriage?"
"I don't know."
Another long, thoughtful nod. "Well, I can tell you without even looking," he says, "that you've got a
cracked combobula-tor on your manifold and a serious misalignment in your drive train."
"You know that without even looking?"
"No, but I know that you don't know-and boy is it going to cost you!"
Actually, they have never said that, at least not exactly, but you can see that that is what they are
thinking.
So when, the other day, Mrs. Bryson announced to me that the washing machine repairman was due
to call and, moreover, that I would have to deal with it because she was going out, I received the
news with some foreboding.
"Please don't leave it to me," I begged.
"Why not?"
"Because he'll realize in the first five minutes that I'm an idiot and ratchet up his prices accordingly."
"Don't be silly," she said airily, but I knew in my heart that this was going to be one more in a long
line of regrettable repair encounters.
When the repairman arrived, I showed him to the washing machine-I had made a special effort to
find out where we keep it-and then retired to my desk, hoping that by some miracle he would make
some small adjustment that would cost about fifty cents and then quietly let himself out, but secretly I
knew that it wouldn't be as simple as that because it never is.
Sure enough, about thirty minutes after he arrived he came to my study holding something metallic
and oily.
"Well, I found what it is," he said. "You've got a broken fly valve in your transverse adjudicator."
"Ah," I said, nodding gravely, as if that meant something to me.
"And I think you may have some seepage in your distributor sump."
"Sounds expensive," I said.
"Oh, you bet! I'm going to have to shut off the water."
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
"OK."
"So where's your auxiliary shut-off valve?"
I looked at him dumbly, my heart simultaneously sinking and beating faster with a sense of panic at
the thought of an impending humiliation. "The auxiliary shut-off valve?" I repeated, stalling for time.
115
"Yes."
I cleared my throat. "I'm not entirely sure," I said.
He cocked an eyebrow in a way that indicated that this was going to make a story for the boys back
at the depot. "You're not sure?" he said, a disbelieving smile tugging at his lips.
"Not entirely."
"I see." Not only would there be a story in this, but the extra charges would fund a very nice
Christmas party, possibly with dancing girls.
It was clear from his expression that no householder in plumbing history had ever not known the
location of his auxiliary shut-off valve. I couldn't bear to be the first.
"The thing is, actually, we don't have one," I blurted.
"You don't have one?"
I nodded with great sincerity. "Seems the builders forgot to put one in."
"You don't have an auxiliary shut-off valve?"
"Afraid not." I made an expression to show that I was as incredulous about this as he was.
I had hoped that this would lead him to come up with some alternative way of making the repair, but
this was a line of inquiry that he wouldn't drop.
"Where's your primary shut-off then?"
"They forgot that, too."
"You're joking."
"I wish I was."
"Well, what would you do if you had a burst pipe?"
Now this I knew. First, I would hop around excitedly, going "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!" as
you might if, say, you looked down and unexpectedly found your legs on fire. Then I would try to
stuff something like a sofa cushion into the leak, making it worse. Then I would hop about some
more. Finally, I would dash out into the street and flag down passing vehicles. At about this point
Mrs. Bryson would return home and sort everything out. That, at any rate, is how it has always been
in the past when we have had a water-spraying event.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
Obviously I couldn't admit this to the repairman, so I tried a new tack and said: "Wait a minute. Did
you say auxiliary shut-off valve? I thought you said ancillary shut-off valve." I feigned a hearty
chuckle at our comical misunderstanding. "No wonder you're looking at me like that. It's in the attic."
I started to lead the way.
He didn't follow. "Are you sure? Normally they're in the basement."
"Yes, exactly-in the basement," I said, immediately changing direction. I led him down to the
basement. I should have thought of that in the first place. The basement was full of mysterious
things-pipes and spigots and boilers-any one of which might be a shut-off valve. I trusted that he
would spy it immediately, and I would be able to say: "That's it. Yes, that's the one." But he didn't do
anything. He just looked to me for
116 guidance.
"I think that's it over there," I said uncertainly and pointed to something on the wall. "That's the
fusebox, Mr. Bryson."
The trouble with lying, as our own dear president has learned, is that it nearly always catches up
with you in spades. Eventually I broke down and admitted that I didn't have the faintest idea where
anything in my own house was, other than the refrigerator, television, and garage. As ever, I ended
up seriously embarrassed and hundreds and hundreds of dollars out of pocket. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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I don't have any idea when we might hope to see it. Still, to look on the bright side, if it isn't here in a
little over six decades, it will be somebody else's problem.
LIFE'S TECHNICALITIES
If there is one thing that I trust I have made clear in these pages over the past many months, it is that I
am not very good at technical stuff, even at the most basic level. For instance, I have only just
learned, to my considerable astonishment, that what I had for years called "duck tape" is actually
"duct tape."
In my experience, you either know these things instinctively or you don't. I don't. What's worse is that
repairmen know that you don't know. I can't tell you the number of times I have taken a car to the
shop because of some minor pinging noise in the engine and undergone an interview with a mechanic
that has run something like this:
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
"What sort of revs have you been getting on your piston torsion?"
"I don't know."
114
"Have you experienced any slippage on the disk platter?"
"I don't know."
He nods thoughtfully, taking this in. "And what sort of flexion ratios have you been getting on your
axial carriage?"
"I don't know."
Another long, thoughtful nod. "Well, I can tell you without even looking," he says, "that you've got a
cracked combobula-tor on your manifold and a serious misalignment in your drive train."
"You know that without even looking?"
"No, but I know that you don't know-and boy is it going to cost you!"
Actually, they have never said that, at least not exactly, but you can see that that is what they are
thinking.
So when, the other day, Mrs. Bryson announced to me that the washing machine repairman was due
to call and, moreover, that I would have to deal with it because she was going out, I received the
news with some foreboding.
"Please don't leave it to me," I begged.
"Why not?"
"Because he'll realize in the first five minutes that I'm an idiot and ratchet up his prices accordingly."
"Don't be silly," she said airily, but I knew in my heart that this was going to be one more in a long
line of regrettable repair encounters.
When the repairman arrived, I showed him to the washing machine-I had made a special effort to
find out where we keep it-and then retired to my desk, hoping that by some miracle he would make
some small adjustment that would cost about fifty cents and then quietly let himself out, but secretly I
knew that it wouldn't be as simple as that because it never is.
Sure enough, about thirty minutes after he arrived he came to my study holding something metallic
and oily.
"Well, I found what it is," he said. "You've got a broken fly valve in your transverse adjudicator."
"Ah," I said, nodding gravely, as if that meant something to me.
"And I think you may have some seepage in your distributor sump."
"Sounds expensive," I said.
"Oh, you bet! I'm going to have to shut off the water."
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
"OK."
"So where's your auxiliary shut-off valve?"
I looked at him dumbly, my heart simultaneously sinking and beating faster with a sense of panic at
the thought of an impending humiliation. "The auxiliary shut-off valve?" I repeated, stalling for time.
115
"Yes."
I cleared my throat. "I'm not entirely sure," I said.
He cocked an eyebrow in a way that indicated that this was going to make a story for the boys back
at the depot. "You're not sure?" he said, a disbelieving smile tugging at his lips.
"Not entirely."
"I see." Not only would there be a story in this, but the extra charges would fund a very nice
Christmas party, possibly with dancing girls.
It was clear from his expression that no householder in plumbing history had ever not known the
location of his auxiliary shut-off valve. I couldn't bear to be the first.
"The thing is, actually, we don't have one," I blurted.
"You don't have one?"
I nodded with great sincerity. "Seems the builders forgot to put one in."
"You don't have an auxiliary shut-off valve?"
"Afraid not." I made an expression to show that I was as incredulous about this as he was.
I had hoped that this would lead him to come up with some alternative way of making the repair, but
this was a line of inquiry that he wouldn't drop.
"Where's your primary shut-off then?"
"They forgot that, too."
"You're joking."
"I wish I was."
"Well, what would you do if you had a burst pipe?"
Now this I knew. First, I would hop around excitedly, going "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!" as
you might if, say, you looked down and unexpectedly found your legs on fire. Then I would try to
stuff something like a sofa cushion into the leak, making it worse. Then I would hop about some
more. Finally, I would dash out into the street and flag down passing vehicles. At about this point
Mrs. Bryson would return home and sort everything out. That, at any rate, is how it has always been
in the past when we have had a water-spraying event.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
Obviously I couldn't admit this to the repairman, so I tried a new tack and said: "Wait a minute. Did
you say auxiliary shut-off valve? I thought you said ancillary shut-off valve." I feigned a hearty
chuckle at our comical misunderstanding. "No wonder you're looking at me like that. It's in the attic."
I started to lead the way.
He didn't follow. "Are you sure? Normally they're in the basement."
"Yes, exactly-in the basement," I said, immediately changing direction. I led him down to the
basement. I should have thought of that in the first place. The basement was full of mysterious
things-pipes and spigots and boilers-any one of which might be a shut-off valve. I trusted that he
would spy it immediately, and I would be able to say: "That's it. Yes, that's the one." But he didn't do
anything. He just looked to me for
116 guidance.
"I think that's it over there," I said uncertainly and pointed to something on the wall. "That's the
fusebox, Mr. Bryson."
The trouble with lying, as our own dear president has learned, is that it nearly always catches up
with you in spades. Eventually I broke down and admitted that I didn't have the faintest idea where
anything in my own house was, other than the refrigerator, television, and garage. As ever, I ended
up seriously embarrassed and hundreds and hundreds of dollars out of pocket. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]