Juxtapose

I have nothing against plumbers. Two of my little sister's best buddies (they're sisters) are daughters of a plumber who is nothing short of a hard-working, all-American, family-loving, smart Christian guy. The plumbing company chosen by my landlady, however, possesses none of these qualities, as far as I can tell.

They came today and took up residence in the basement to replace both water heaters after the ill fated night earlier this week where hurricane (tropical storm? depression? puffy cloud?) Hannah zipped through overnight and flooded the basement while we slept. That night we had water leaking through our bedroom window onto our toes and all over the floor, and to be honest, when I woke up at 3AM to Mark wondering aloud if the roof was what was leaking, I did not think to go down to our cobwebby crawlspace of a basement to check if the sump pump was running. That morning, however, while I was at work, Mark checked and the basement was nearly dry and the pump was running endlessly, sucking up nothing but air, its water level bulb hung up on some debris nearby. We thought all was well. I can only deduce at this point that either the pump was running all night in response to the rise in the water level and it was not running fast enough during the storm, or one of the other tenants isn't telling that they went downstairs that morning before Mark checked it in the early AM and started the pump up after 3 feet of water had already accumulated. The plumbers tell us the water was probably that high and had already ruined the water heaters, which I believe, being that I had to resort to showering at my parents' house this morning after not faring so well with the previous day's ice-cold shower.

Fast forward to today, where I come home to a pile of plumbers parked awkwardly in my driveway, all in separate cars (they're going green, I hear) and swearing up an Effitty-eff-eff-effing storm in the basement about the lack of good lighting. The existing bulbs down there were apparently burned out. I yelled down to the basement, "Do y'want some new lightbulbs down there so you can see?" No answer. I stumbled down the ill lit stairs to bring them anyway and politely asked if they needed anything else, water, food, blah blah blah. The scrawny college age apprentice plumber gives me a squeaky, "No, but thank you!!" but the two other crusty old plumbers start getting all on my case about the basement flooding, like it's this big inconvenience to them that our basement got flooded and how awful it is that they're getting paid money to replace water heaters. Like it's offensive that the landlady is paying them to DO THEIR JOB. Like I am morally responsible for the crappiness of a job where you have to go into dusty basements and deal with, you know, literal crap. I mean, listen, I understand this more than anyone I think, because, you know, everybody poops - there's a book written about it - and someone's gotta wipe the butts (me) and someone's gotta change the pipes (you). That's life, baby, so suck it up and stop giving me the third degree about my responsibilities as a rent-paying tenant.

Obviously not following my furious telepathic messages being beamed into his bald, cobweb encrusted head, Crusty Plumber #1 starts pointing a sausage-shaped index finger of blame at me, saying, "You know, you really should check down here EVERY ONCE AND A WHILE to see if the sump pump is working, lady, there was a lotta wattah down heah, lady."

And I get all on the defensive like, "We checked the morning after the storm and the pump was working and the floor was almost dry, so I don't know what else I was supposed to do." Then he tells me that I should have checked while it was raining (all night long) to see if the basement was getting full, which of course it was because our entire driveway and out into the main road had become the second Lake Michigan. As if I was going to be able to stem the tide of oncoming water filling our basement, as if I was going to start a bucket brigade, me and Mark in our jammies at three AM, bailing out our ill-kept basement. As if I have access to a magical extra sump pump in the middle of the night. As if I look like the middle-aged landlady who is not me and who he knows is the owner of the property and who is definitely. not. me.

Good talk, good talk, guys. I excuse myself to leave and relax on my couch in my apartment, greatly enjoying a puff piece on UK Daily Mail Online about giant panda cubs being raised by humans after the Sichuan earthquake in China (So cute! Furry Baby panda lumps in a little white human baby bassinet! Who can resist?!).

It's at this juncture that the two child-plumber apprentices come knocking at my door, ask if they can come in to "purge the lines," which is a very fancy way of saying "turn on the faucets and the shower full blast for a minute or so," and they come stomping through my house without even so much as wiping off their muddy boots. I'm still not sure how I am not qualified to do this task myself, exactly, but in any case, I ask them how they're doing and how things are coming along. They say they're about done, so I say thank you as they leave, and then they go out the door and Child-Plumber Apprentice #2 (not the thankful one from earlier), turns to Child-Plumber Apprentice #1 and totally shakes his head all like he's exasperated at me or something, like I am the most ridiculous thing he has set eyes on all day. Only he does it in front of my window so I can see it. That was the great part.

This has been a true life story. My life. Believe it.

Fin.