Thursday, August 14, 2014

Doing the workman dance

What's a girl to do? Last night, I smelled acrid smoke--alarms did not go off, but it was bad. I checked my room, my daughter's, the outside front and back--and finally called the fire department.

They rolled up--five guys--tall, rangy, the same ones who have carted me off in an ambulance before. It was like old home week. I asked was it my imagination--oh, no, there was a haze.

They had scanners, checked around--it was the hot water heater. Burned up. Six months off warranty, of course.

They set it up to drain with the hose, left the breaker flipped, and, I noticed later, had undone my cord spaghetti in my room and put everything on the powerstrip. That is their DNA.

When my kid got home from the night shift, she was upset--we had a fire in her room six years ago. Not a great memory. She swore the thing was still making noises, even though it supposedly had no juice.

We called an emergency plumber at 2 AM. They called back faster than a doc would have. He said the noises were from no air coming in as water drained--something like that.

He came back at 8 AM. This is when the dance began. My heater was not to code, it had no valve of some sort to keep it from being a "steam bomb" etc. Scare the old gal, that's the ticket. Oh--and the noises--the shutoff valve was not shut off.

He is still working and is pleasantly OCD--cardboard everyplace, booties on his feet, overexplaining.

The tab? A thousand bucks.

Sooo, young people, when you think about that starter house, take a longing look at your apartment--it comes with a super and paid repairs.

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