A new friend told me that any tour of her family’s new house includes a look at her new boiler, which represents a chunk of cash they couldn’t spend on something a lot more fun, like a new bathroom.
So naturally I was less than thrilled when the boiler guy stood in my basement yesterday and spoke words you never want to hear from any repairman, let alone a boiler repairman: “I’ll put in this new part and then we should just pray.”
On the very same day I dropped my car off at the shop because it squeaks whenever I turned a corner or went over one of Riverdale’s many, many speed bumps.
“Tell him it’s the suspension,”‘said M.
I can’t tell you what suspension is, but I do know my minivan was no match for last years’s winter. Between the snow drifts, the crater-like potholes and the unpaved roads, the van crawled into spring on it’s last breath. (I have already written about the place in town that charges $25 to basically reattach the bottom of Honda Odysseys that have been torn off by ice.)
Later the day, in the middle of boiler drama, I get a call from my mechanic, Bruce.
(Allow me just say that if all people in life were a) this good at their jobs and b) this respectful to women, complainers and feminists would be out of business. And I’m not just saying this because his name is Bruce. Bruuuuuce.)
“Your suspension (whatever that is) is fine,” he said. “Wanna know why it’s squeaky? It’s your bike rack, and your front bumper, which is about to fall off.”
I didn’t feel like an idiot, because Bruce doesn’t let me. This summer when I drove in and said, “it’s barely running and the battery light just went on,” he said, “that’s not your battery, that’s your engine light, and I’ll fix it.”
No judging. No shame. Bruuuuce.
The car is fine. And it seems that the boiler guy has a direct line to God, because it’s fine too.
Bring on winter. (Ok, not really.)