Thursday, September 17, 2009

Were we to extend the nautical metaphor from the other night, draw it out even further past its prime, we’d probably talk about how pirates might fix a leaking ship. All hands would be on deck, peg legs clunking to an urgent tempo, pails sloshing every which way, the wail of wenches filling the air as crew and captain alike bail out a sinking vessel.

But when it comes to a leaking air conditioning system, left in the wake of the Pirate, the course of action changes. I wasn’t about to use the Internet again to find a service provider, obviously, for fear that another grizzled old coot would show up in my foyer, this time with all his vital organs failing on the spot. In fact, the more likely scenario would have included an actual corpse being delivered to my doorstep, wrench clutched in one hand, canister of Freon in the other, supported by naught but the grace of rigor mortis.

I opted to call my HVAC guy instead–let us call him the I-Doctor–who appeared on the scene with a Geiger counter-like leak detector and all manners of tubes and gauges. By the time we crossed the hour mark, dozens of detector beeps had emitted from both attic and yard, where metal pieces from a dismantled unit were strewn all over the lawn. The verdict? Outside unit was fine, and there was nothing strange in the attic, and the low-tech leak test–applying upwards of 300 psi to the system and watching for any telltale drops–had passed.

The Freon, however, was truly gone. Disappeared. He outlined my options: he could cut the line, check if there was a leak in the wall, or possibly– Or possibly someone’s been taking Freon hits on my dime. He held forth on how another job with vanishing Freon culminated in the cops apprehending one such junkie, and even as he began to inquire about the neighbors, my thoughts turned to the Pirate, whom I pictured crouched in my backyard, sniffing refrigerants with his one working nostril. For fuck’s sake, I mean.

“They get high off that shit,” the I-Doctor concluded, bringing me out of my reverie.

“That’s probably why you seem so mellow, right?” I remarked.

He appreciated this. I think? At least enough to reassemble the shards of metal on the grass and, since it’s fall already, simply refill the Freon and call it a day. Cutting the line could wait.

This stuff fascinates me. I’d like to learn how the system works, repair it all myself, and why couldn’t I do so? I mean, if I can build a computer, it can’t be that much harder, right? If you can dodge a wrench, then you can dodge a dodgeball, a wise man once said, and that logic is airtight. I see it now: a lucrative side business, embossed business cards, my frigid reach extended to every borough, and all who hear my brand name–The VAC-Daddy–shall tremble from too much cooling.