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.
With a fully functional HVAC system at my disposal, I regale you from a place of comfort tonight, ambient temperature calibrated to a soothing 76 degrees Fahrenheit, mental faculties completely free of humidity, and every button on my keyboard at your service, primed to clack away as we convene for our Tuesday ritual. Back in July, when lukewarm air suddenly began to issue forth from all the vents, I turned to the Internet for help. My trusty contact was on vacation that week, unfortunately, and in his place appeared an ancient, stringy fellow with missing front teeth.
I offer you these details not because teeth are required for HVAC expertise, but because I wish to honor the narrative tradition. The Pirate, let us call him, recounted a litany of misfortune as he unloaded his truck. He proudly displayed a fresh scar from a car accident, then reminisced about his kidneys, and finally, in a stirring epilogue, spoke of how he suffered a heart attack recently and didn’t even know it. It was wretched. There was empathy, if only because I could appreciate a string of unfortunate events. He replenished the Freon, the air conditioning sprung back to life, and I gladly wrote him a check, hoping some of the dollars would go toward his good health.
And then, a month-and-a-half later, the Freon was gone. This stuff is supposed to last, mind you, and I subconsciously cast the first stone at the Pirate. Again, teeth and heart? Not prerequisites. I wasn’t in the market for a dentist or a cardiologist, after all, and yet I couldn’t help but wonder whether a serviceperson who–
A) Possessed a full set of choppers and
B) Wasn’t at death’s door
–might’ve done a better job.
I chose to wonder no more, so I picked up– Well, you’ll have to wait until Thursday for the rest. Make sure to bring all your teeth when you return, and we shall talk of many things: substance abuse. Bone-crushing pressure. The Greater Theorem of Wrench-Dodgeball Avoidability. There may even be light profanity. I plan to deliver on this last point, bare minimum, because it appears tonight’s discussion has been woefully deficient in this department, without so much as an aitch-ee-double-hockey-sticks. Shameful, really.
There I was, on a brightly lit tennis court a few evenings ago, huffing and puffing and trying to will my leaden legs into motion, when it dawned on me that no help was coming. I had brought this state of affairs upon myself, believing in recent months that infrequent rounds of golf and a good attitude were all I needed to approximate exercise. Boy, was I wrong. Within three minutes of warming up, I was completely winded, drenched, head pounding, a living, cautionary tale for why you should purchase a membership at the Y. Imagine a walrus, if you will, being forcibly taken out of cold storage–cold, yes, even for a walrus.
What hasn’t been cold is my townhouse in the past week, since my HVAC has been on the fritz again. With a couple repairs under my belt now, I’m that much closer to becoming a certified serviceman, and sure enough my diagnosis–Freon leak–was confirmed earlier tonight. Are central air systems usually this shoddy? I’ve begun to suspect the builders, ironically named Superior Construction, may have unearthed a rich quarry of shit when they were prospecting for raw materials. Think a Bluth-quality home from Arrested Development, only made of poop.
I don’t think a coherent flow is achievable at this point, so! Urban Dictionary. I’ve heard it mentioned aloud twice in just two weeks, and such a frequency warms what’s left of my heart. Some recent favorites, if you’ll indulge me: “manther,” “hiking in Appalachia,” “douchebaguette,” and “afterclap.” These are the words I learned in class today. This is the frontier of our language, where English is made and consumed as it pulses to its own secret music. And to hear of others partaking in it? It gives me hope.