The Roto-Rooter Report

I stumbled into the kitchen to make the coffee. It had been a perilous journey from the safety of the eiderdown. Something was wrong with my neck- the spasms in my back that made my last trip back from Up North such an adventure last month had diminished, but now reappeared higher up, first on the left side and now on the right.

Looking straight ahead was about all I could manage, once upright, and twisting the torso was the least painful means to survey the kitchen counter. The cell phone was blinking the icon that indicated there was a message from nine hours before- never good news.

I pressed the right buttons and listened to the voicemail from Annook. It went something like this: “There is ten inches of standing water in the tub off the master bedroom. Called Roto-Rooter. They said to let it sit overnight and see if it drains and they will plunge the sewer connection tomorrow. Early flight. Left key under mat.” There was a phone number to contact the Rooters, and an abrupt click of finality.

Crap.

I navigated my paper notepad into my available field of vision and jotted down the number. I placed it above the “0930 conference call” and below the “documents to the credit union” and “meet appraiser” at the eleven-thirty position, and well above “Big Pink Holiday Party at 6:30. Each note has a little box to the left to be checked off when complete and give me a false sense of accomplishment.

I pecked at the keyboard for a while until I ran out of what passes for creative time in the Socotra household and dragged my sorry butt to the office, making the conference call seconds before my name was uttered on the roll-call.

Sweet success. When the meeting was done, I scanned personal financial documents into .pdf format on the Ricoh copier in the supply room and sent them off on an unsecure internet connection, wondering if I would regret it.

Then I called the Roto-Rooter firm in the Little Village By the Bay to see what was going on with the foot of water in the tubs, and the cryptic remark about the toilets.

There are two things in a house that I tread gentle on: electricity and water. Both have elemental consequences, and the idea of the basement turning into a hockey rink was about the last thing the Socotras need this festive holiday season.

I worked long-distance with the Rooter guy through the day, changing gears from really hungry business partners, home appraisers, and the credit union. I gobbled ibuprofen to keep the shards of pain shooting up both sides of my neck. Sometime before the end of the business day and before turning the lights out at the office, the Rooter guy called from the house. He informed me that the tubs had drained, but that the carpet was damp outside the master bathroom, and that the water meter in the basement indicated there was water flowing somewhere even with all the faucets turned off.

“Do you know what it is?” I asked.

“Nope. I am a sewer guy, not a plumber. You probably ought to have us plunge the connection every couple years. I don’t think we have been here in a decade.” I nodded and a spear shot up my neck.

“Nothing wrong with sewers,” I said encouragingly. “But you have no idea where the leak is?”

“No clue. You need a plumber.” I thanked him and asked him to drop the key in the mail-slot when he left and realized that I was going to be traveling sooner than I had anticipated.

Double crap.

That meant a quick trip to the farm to collect mail and feed the cat before I blew out of the state. Then I drafted a quick note to my siblings on what had transpired, and made a reservation for a four-wheel drive SUV to go to Michigan. Then I turned off the computer, looked at my watch, and saw I had time for a glass of happy hour white at Willow before the holiday party commenced in the lobby of Big Pink.

The older residents are early-birds, and the shrimp would be long gone if was late.

At Willow, I pulled up a stool next to Old Jim. The place was packed with merrymakers a lot further into the seasonal spirit than I was. Jim was talking to John-with-an-H, who bemoaned the fact that someone’s FOIA request was going to cause him an extra couple days in the office to produce e-mails related to an ongoing investigation.

“Bah, humbug,” he said. “I thought this was going to be the last day in the office this year.”

Jim snorted. And took a long pull on his Bud. He doesn’t have an office.

“Lot of that going around,” I said, and signaled to Elisabeth-With-an-S for a refill and the check. “You look great tonight,” I said. “I have time for one more. Then the holiday party back at the Building.”

“I hate those things,” growled Jim. “Waste of time.”

“it is the only time we see everyone from the building once the pool closes,” I said. “It is always interesting to see who shows up for the free food.”

I flogged the Bluesmobile back across the Arlington blocks and found a place to park in front of the building minutes before the official start to the party. Ancient residents clutched plastic plates awaiting the arrival of the shrimp.

Jiggs and Mila and Charlie were soon there, and 007 and Chris the Concierge, and Leo the Engineer and his daughter and the Porters and the cutest two kids in the building.

There were veggie platters, meatballs and a ham. The shrimp, of course was there briefly, and spinach dip in a pumpernickel round loaf of bread and a large platter of deviled eggs.

A bartender was pouring wine over by the mailboxes. I checked the mail and took the elevator up to the unit to get a very tall vodka and my camera. Heading back down to the lobby, I smiled. The good news was that I did not have to cook dinner.

The bad news, of course, that I would be back in the house in Michigan sooner than I thought. I wondered if I should pack my hockey skates in the trunk when I pulled out of town.

Nice party, by the way. Most people seemed happy and hungry. I got enough pictures to capture the sentiments of the season, and then went back upstairs for more vodka. I shut and locked the door behind me.

“Ho, ho, effing Ho,” I said to the darkness, and turned on the Christmas lights I did not take down last year. It really cheers the place up, you know?

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

The full photo account of the party is available to friends and friends of friends, whoever you are, on my Facebook page.  All rights reserved.