Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Two nights ago, as I lay awake at one-forty-six AM, ambient temperature eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit and rising, I found comfort in imagining something cooler, like the scorching river of coal connecting the Eighth and Ninth Circles. Next to the river grew a crop of unholy habaneros, lovingly tended by shrieking fire imps, and near the field was–could it be?–a Baja Fresh, whose terrifying presence jolted me to my feet. I stumbled downstairs for a cup of water and sanctuary from the heat, all the while asking myself, “Was it worth it?”
Back in April my AC broke, and after paying a ridiculous $90 diagnostic fee to learn I had to shell out another $150 for a replacement part, the Carney Radar immediately began blaring. The part in question, a contactor, resembled something manufactured in shop class, so I stopped the repair guy, fired up Google, and found the exact same piece for $17 shipped. I decided to order it myself and, to avoid incurring another $90 diagnostic fee from this den of shysters, hire the same repair guy directly. Contract the subcontractor, as it were. He agreed to the tune of $50, washed his hands of the $150 gouge, and gave his blessing for my plan.
There was a time cost and a learning curve, of course. Turns out that particular brand of contactor was discontinued. I guess that’s why it was worth $150, you know? For its rarity. Two backorders and five weeks later, I popped open eBay, typed in the voltage and amp specs needed, and a compatible contactor was on its way, which brings us back to this weekend.
It was unseasonably cool in May, but the gravy train came to a stop this Sunday, when the mercury began climbing to proper heights. Hours before imagining a river of fire and habaneros and all that stuff, I had attempted to build a ghetto swamp cooler by lashing together two fans, a few cardboard boxes, and a pot filled to the brim with ice. Let’s just say it failed. I hadn’t pictured the ice melting so quickly, and when condensation began dripping onto the cardboard boxes, close to the fans, I concluded death by electrocution probably wasn’t worth the 70-odd dollars in savings.
I dismantled my ill-begotten invention, slogged through the night, and then, hours later, finally had the contactor in hand. After a couple phone calls, $50, and some waiting, I’m happy to report my air is being conditioned once again. I know a solid HVAC guy now. Going to try to fix a computer his son broke, in fact. Via e-mail, of course–we’re not that tight. I saved a little money. Learned about fuses and compressors and contactors. Increased my tolerance for heat. Gave the middle finger to the sordid world of institutionalized HVAC repair. Totally worth it.