Updated: Apr 29
I'm not a plumber, and neither is the person hired to be my plumber apparently...
A slow trickle drips from the tub faucet in my old home, a nod back to the aftermath of February's unexpected freeze-pocalypse that hit much of the Lone Star State. After several attempts to remedy the problem myself-- blowing out elbows, blue jean seams, and being sprayed in the eyes on numerous occasions with what I hope was water from the area's questionable municipal supply, I conclude the issue to be above my pay grade, swallowing my pride and enlisting the help of a professional.
Two months later, the "warranty work" claim is finally in motion and the plumber arrives. He's not the type to say hello or introduce himself, but instead, a guy that skips right past me, making a beeline to get to work.
I have no qualms with the approach. I don't need to feel warm and fuzzy, I just want my tub faucet fixed.
He studies the issue. The frustration builds in his eyes as if its ready to leap right out of him while he fumbles with his tools, attempting to conquer the complicated faucet.
I give the chap the benefit of the doubt, knowing the work he does is back-breaking and often thankless. While he scoffs his way through the job, I work to remain cordial and upbeat, even explaining my own fruitless efforts to resolve the issue. Still, the man's sour attitude worsens.
And then, the trickle gets back to a better flow. I consider the issue moderately improved. I complement the progress. The man remains dissatisfied, before arriving to the following conclusion,
"You're going to need a real plumber to fix this."
My mind races. I struggle to find words, instead opting to study the textured ceiling above as the taste of cynicism drips from the tip of my tongue, fighting ever so hard not to roll my eyes or give him the grief he actually deserved.
It probably didn't help matters when I informed him the logo on his truck and uniform weren't the most original Halloween costume.
Some of this was fact... some of it was fiction.