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| illustration by Beth Adams |
“Your eyebrow will grow back,” my husband tried to reassure me. Our stove had just exploded, and a 24-hour emergency appliance repair service was on the scene. A pair of technicians worked frantically to correct what a parade of others had missed during the course of a month.
It all began in early November. We had just moved into the Dream House. The repairman showed up and said, “The gas ain’t on.” Forget the Maytag repairman in his pressed blue uniform and king’s English. This whole conversation consisted of “ain’t this” and “ain’t that.”
Whatever he lacked in eloquence, however, my repairman made up for in moxie. As he slid an invoice across the counter, he looked away. “I know it ain’t right to charge you, ’cause I ain’t really done nuthin’. But my boss says I got to,” he apologized. He suggested I call a plumber, or the gas company, or both to find out why I couldn’t turn on my stove. Until then, the Crock-Pot, an unused wedding gift from a dozen years before, would have to do.
My family was less than patient. “Mystery meat,” my daughter moaned.
“It’s pork loin,” I snapped.
I called the gas company and was told I had to wait two days for service, then I could look forward to another convenient “eight-hour repair appointment window.” On the appointed day, a man arrived at 4:45 p.m. The gas company employee listened intently to my problem. “All I can do is test the meter,” he informed me. “I can’t touch anything in or under the house.”
We ordered pizza for dinner.
I called my plumber Robert the following morning and left a voice mail. Robert hails from New York, wears a one-carat diamond stud earring, and drives a Jag. All of which tells me that business is good, because he didn’t bother calling me back for four days. As we sat down for another crock of a dinner, my husband lamented about work. “You should have been a plumber,” I advised.
Robert finally called on Monday and promised to be at the Dream House on Tuesday. “I hate this house,” he sighed as he crawled beneath it. “You got screwed on this house,” he said, as he passed the $185 invoice toward me. “No leaks this time. I bet the stove’s broken. Call the appliance guy again,” he advised. “And, hey, sorry I didn’t call back right away. I was deep-sea fishing. I’m thinking about getting a new boat.”
We had ramen noodles that night.
I called the first repairman and made another appointment.
At 5:45 p.m. (of course) on the appointed day, he arrived. He hovered over the stove, tinkering with the knobs. “If I was you, I wouldn’t use this at all. The back burner’s bad.” A few days later, he came back with parts, made the necessary repairs, and announced triumphantly, “I got you all fixed up.” I was so happy that I didn’t even mind losing another $200.
The day before Thanksgiving, I was all set to make garlic mashed potatoes for the family potluck. I peeled a mountain of russets and cubed each one. I was watching the tiny bubbles in the pan jump around excitedly, almost ready to boil. And then it didn’t. I lit it again, but minutes later, I saw that, once again, the burner was out.
My potatoes were turning slimy and brown. I had no choice but to load the pan and potatoes into the car and drive to a friend’s house. Unfortunately, they are the only people in Dallas without a key stashed under a mat, so I had to break in. My stove had turned me into a desperate criminal.
The day after Thanksgiving, I decided to try the stove one more time to make burgers. Big mistake. It’s difficult to remember whether I first saw the fire, heard the explosion, or smelled the burning hair.
While the emergency appliance team went to work on my possessed stove, I said a prayer of thanks, cursed my repairman, and sent my husband to McDonald’s.
