You don't expect your plumber to be a girl. When you're waiting for the plumber to show and you go to answer the door, the last thing you expect to see is a tall, beautiful brunette. But there she was, standing right out there on my front stoop: a genuine, bona fide, licensed and bonded female.

I must have been one of her first calls of the day because she looked fresh and tidy. Her hair was in a neat braid, and her light-blue short-sleeved shirt was still clean and crisp. I wanted to look for a name patch on her chest, but I didn't want her to see my eyes go down there. She was holding a shallow metal box that was also a clipboard in one hand, and a small red toolbox in the other. No makeup or perfume, as far as I could tell.

"Joanne from My Plumber," she said. She was looking for some recognition in my stunned expression, waiting for the gears to mesh. "I'm here to look at your sump pump."

"Oh, right," I said. "Hi. Of course. Come on in."

I got out of her way so she could get past me. When the door was closed, I held out my hand and said, "I'm Todd." She had to pin her clipboard under her arm before she could take my hand. Her handshake was quick and precise: a single, exaggerated pump. I was still in disbelief.

"So," she said, "which way to the basement?" She was leaning to the side, trying to see past me down the hall.

"Oh, it's this way," I said. I turned and opened the basement door, flipped on the light, and started down the wooden steps. I could hear her little black tennis shoes on the steps behind me. "With all this rain we've been getting, the sump pump's been running practically nonstop, and from the way it smells, I think it's getting ready to burn out."

I really had no idea if it was burning out or not, but my neighbor Rick said it probably was. Rick knows all about things like sump pumps and heat pumps and gutters and roofs. He aerates and fertilizes his lawn twice a year and waters it if it's been more than two whole days since it's rained. He puts little styrofoam cozies on his hose bibs in the winter to make damn sure they don't freeze.

Me, I didn't even know what a sump pump was until the remnants of a hurricane came up the coast, dumped about seven inches of rain on us in one day, and I kept hearing a disconcerting gurgling in the basement. I searched online and discovered that the noise was this thing called a sump pump. Then I looked up "sump pump" and learned that I had something called a sump pit in my basement that collected water when it rained, and that the sump pump's job was to pump the water out into my backyard when it got too high. Who knew?

"How old is your pump?" Joanne asked.

"I'm not sure," I said. I yanked the chain to turn the light on at the bottom of the steps. "We've only lived here about three years. Where we're from, no one even has basements."

"How old is the house?"

This seemed like information any responsible homeowner should know, but I honestly had no idea. I tried to picture a year on some of the paperwork we'd signed when we bought it, but I couldn't remember seeing one. Just so I wouldn't look like a complete imbecile, I finally took a guess. "About sixteen years," I said. Just in case she was about to uncover evidence to the contrary, I added, "Give or take."

"Well, it's probably the original pump, then," Joanne hypothesized. She stepped through a framed-out doorway and yanked on another chain dangling from the ceiling. I hated going in that room. The chain always brushed against my ear before I could find it with my hand. The first time it happened, I flinched and slammed my head into a two-by-four. "It's probably about time to replace it."

"How long do they last?"

Joanne was already down on her knees with the cap off the sump pit shining a bright little flashlight into the darkness in the floor. Her thick blue polyester pants were making a shape I'd never seen those kinds of pants make before.

"Oh, yeah, this needs to be replaced," she said. "They're usually good for about ten years, so if this is the original pump, you're definitely living on borrowed time." She sat up on her haunches and turned to looked at me. "I'd strongly recommend replacing it."

"Is that something you can do?" I didn't know if maybe she had to call someone else, or if I had to call a special sump pump company or something.

"Yes, sir."

"Today?"

"Sure. I have a few out in the truck. Should only take about twenty minutes."

"Great," I said. "Let's do it then."

As I watched her go back up the stairs in front of me, I realized I completely forgot to ask how much it would cost.

I followed Joanne up and down the stairs as she got herself situated. She had to say "excuse me" several times to get past me when I was busy talking instead of paying attention. I asked if I could carry some of her tools for her, but she politely declined. Once she had everything she needed down in the basement, she bent back over into the sump pit and started making soft grunting sounds as she worked. Her shirt was tucked securely into the back of her pants and held there with a thick leather belt. After about a minute, she sat up and turned to look at me.

"This'll probably take about twenty minutes," she said. I could see that she was starting to sweat. "You don't have to stay down here. I'll come get you when I'm finished."

"Oh," I said. "Ok. I'll just be up in my office, then."

She gave me a quick smile, pressed her forehead against her sleeve, and got back to work.

My goal was to get five resumes out that day, but I couldn't concentrate with Joanne in the basement, so I brought up the sports scores instead. I saw that Steve McNair, the old quarterback for the Titans, was found dead. He was shot to death in Nashville. I wasn't glad he was dead or anything, but I was kind of glad he got shot rather than dying of a heart attack or a stroke or something. He was born the same year I was. A lot of people had been dying lately. Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, Ed McMahon, Dom DeLuise. That guy who sold OxiClean and Mighty Putty on TV. I'd just heard about some lady who was killed when a branch fell on her minivan on her way home from the pool with her six kids, and now her Facebook page just sits there, eerily frozen in time, her final thoughts morbidly upbeat and optimistic. I sometimes thought about all the people I knew I would see die before I died: my parents, Amy's parents, Amy's grandmother, pretty much everyone on every sitcom I ever watched growing up, every football and basketball player I looked up to as a kid, all my friends' parents who drove us around when we didn't have rides and sometimes bought us beer. Whenever I started thinking about death, it made me wish I believed in God.

I heard something bang downstairs which got me thinking about Joanne again. I wondered how she became a plumber. She wasn't a lesbian, I didn't think, and she didn't have any kind of an accent. It was like instead of becoming a real estate agent or something, she just decided to become a plumber. Maybe her father was a plumber and he used to take her out on calls with him. Or maybe she was some kind of a plumbing prodigy and that's all she ever wanted to do, like this genius Saab mechanic I read about in college. She wasn't wearing a ring, so maybe this was what she had to do to support her kids after she tossed her alcoholic husband out on his ear one day. Or maybe his number came up prematurely and he got electrocuted on the job, or a metal beam fell on his head, or maybe he went to the doctor one morning with a stomach ache and found out he had pancreatic cancer and was dead three months later.

Whatever her story was, she seemed like a simple girl. A really easy girl to get along with. She wasn't the type to complain all the time about how much you were making and to try to talk you into asking your boss for a raise every other week. Or to always want a new car. Or to book a five thousand dollar Disney vacation without even consulting you first. Or to just sit there and watch the trash truck go by instead of taking the trash out herself just because you wanted to sleep in a little on a Tuesday or a Thursday. Joanne looked like the kind of girl who worked hard, then came home, took a shower, and just wanted to snuggle up on the couch with a beer for the rest of the evening. Maybe dinner and movie once a week. Maybe a softball league, or a little bowling now and then. She looked like the type of girl you could come up behind when she was washing the dishes or doing the laundry and put your arms around, pull her against you, reach up and cup her breasts, make love to her on top of the drier, then pass a joint back and forth, share a pitcher of margaritas, and nap away the rest of the afternoon.

I heard Joanne coming up the steps so I switched to my email. Nothing new.

"You're all set," she said behind me.

I tore myself away from my work and swung around in my chair. She was holding her toolbox in one hand, and bucket in the other with my old sump pump in it. It was black and crusty and looked like a rusted robotic heart.

"Already? That was quick." Her face and neck were a little shiny with sweat and I could see her chest rise and fall under her shirt. A few pieces of hair were out of place.

"It's pretty routine. I've been replacing two or three of these a day lately."

"I guess all this rain's good for business."

"Certainly doesn't hurt."

I didn't feel much like a gentleman with her standing there holding her toolbox and my old sump pump, so I stood up.

"Why don't we go in the kitchen and sit down."

"I'm going to go put this stuff in my truck and get your ticket written up," Joanne said.

"Good plan," I said.

I opened the front door for her, then left it open so she would know to come on in again without ringing the doorbell or knocking. The dog wasn't in her kennel, but she was asleep on the couch and too fat and lazy for the thought of running away to even cross her puny mind. I went upstairs and covered up my feet with socks and shoes, put my wallet in my pocket, and went back downstairs. Joanne wasn't back yet, so I turned off the TV and waited in the kitchen. I couldn't find my coffee cup so I took down a new one and filled it up, then I sat at the table. The Spongebob place mat in front of me was sticky with syrup or something.

"Sir?"

"Come on in," I shouted. "I'm in the kitchen."

She came in holding her metal box clipboard deal. There was a pink piece of paper on the front. I stood up from the table.

"Have a seat," I said. "Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee? Glass of water? Maybe a cold beer?" I smiled to let her know I was mostly kidding.

"No, thanks," Joanne said. She didn't sit down. She put the clipboard on the table and pointed to a few X's with her ballpoint pen. "I just need you to initial here and here, then sign and date down here."

I had no idea what I was signing. I guess I was confirming that the work was done, agreeing to make payment in full, waiving all my rights, absolving My Plumber from any and all liability should my basement flood or my house burn down. All I cared about was the total at the bottom. $590. Fuck.

"Is a credit card ok?"

"Sure," Joanne said.

I didn't know whether to use the MasterCard or the Visa, so I gave her the MasterCard and hoped for the best. Every now and then, we get something in the mail from the bank with a bunch of reward points which Amy gets very excited about. It puts her in a good mood for about five minutes, so I use the MasterCard whenever I can.

Joanne opened up her metal box and took out an old Nokia cell phone along with what I immediately recognized as a device for swiping credit cards. I used to sell point-of-sale systems, and sometimes I had to demo this thing called an AirSwipe which was almost the exact same thing. I mostly sold POS terminals and software, but customers always wanted to see mobile solutions for their employees in the field, so I demoed them even though pretty much nobody ever bought them. I guess I should have been selling to plumbers.

Joanne connected the card swiper to her phone, swiped my credit card, then entered the security code, her merchant ID, and the total. I used to know a bunch of dummy codes you could use to screw around, but I don't remember them anymore.

I was about to tell Joanne more than she probably ever wanted to know about POS terminals when I heard the garage door start to rumble. Amy had driven the kids to school that day because it was too muddy to walk, but she'd been gone all morning which meant she either met friends for coffee or went shopping or both. The garage was too full of junk for either of our cars to fit inside, but she always opened the garage door and came in that way when she had bags to carry.

The door between the kitchen and the garage swung open and Amy stepped in practically festooned with white and red Target bags. She stopped right where she was when she saw Joanne, then looked at me.

"This is the plumber," I said. "The sump pump, remember?"

"Hello," Joanne said, glancing up.

"Hi," Amy said. She still looked very confused.

"Joanne replaced it," I said.

"Joanne?"

"Joanne," I said. "The plumber. Her."

Joanne had already gone back to her paperwork. My wife still stood there like she was anchored down by all those Target bags and couldn't move. She was staring at Joanne. I swear, Amy checked her out way more than I ever did.

"Ok, all set," Joanne said. She plucked the yellow carbon copy of the form out from behind the pink one, but she didn't hand it to me. She just left it on the lazy susan and started down the hall. "You all have a nice day."

"Thank you," I said. I followed her down the hall. I noticed that the runner was crooked and covered with dog hair. It has this no-skid tape on the back which meant once it got crooked, it stayed that way. "We really appreciate you coming out."

"Give us a call if you need anything else," Joanne said over her shoulder, then she let herself out.

When I went back into the kitchen, Target bags covered pretty much every available surface. Amy was laying some clothes for one of the kids out on the back of a chair. I couldn't tell which kid they were for. They grew too fast to keep track of.

"That was the plumber?" she said. "She didn't look much like a plumber to me."

"Tell me about it," I said.

"How much was it?"

"$590."

Amy did one of her little laughs that wasn't really a laugh. "You realize your severance won't last forever, right?"

"It was the best deal I could get," I said, watching her unpack Target bags. Apparently we were in desperate need of several new DVDs and some scented candles. "I called all around. I even negotiated the price down."

"I don't understand why all the sudden we need a sump pump. We never had one before."

"We never had a basement before."

"Anyway, if you're not too busy, there are more bags out in the trunk."

I picked the My Plumber receipt up off the table. There was a box that said "Technician" and inside was the name "Joanne Payton." The name "Payton" made me think of Walter Payton, one of my favorite football players growing up. He spent his entire career playing for the Chicago Bears. Rushed almost 17,000 yards. Scored 110 touchdowns. Died of liver disease when he was just ten years older than I am now.

I keep a chair set up in the garage so I can go out there and sit when I'm tired of being in the house. I was out there watching the rain wash away sidewalk chalk when I felt something on my shoulder. I looked up and saw a big bubble in the drywall above me. Another drop of water fell and nearly got me in the eye.

I'd heard somewhere that you should never poke at a bubble in your drywall or else the whole ceiling will fall in on you, so I moved my chair, took some car wash supplies out of a bucket, and positioned the bucket under the drip. I figured I'd ask Rick what I should do when he got home from work. He usually rolled in around three.

The phone rang behind me. I'd brought it out with me in case someone called to offer me my dream job. It was sitting on a box of Better Homes & Gardens and Real Simple and O magazines that my wife insisted she was saving the recipes from even though, as far as I could tell, she always cooked the same three dinners.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Nickell? Joanne from My Plumber."

"Joanne! Good to hear from you. How are you?"

"Fine, thanks. I'm just calling to follow up on that sump pump. Everything working ok?"

"I guess so. I haven't noticed any problems."

"Any moisture in your basement?"

"I don't know. I haven't been down there since you were here."

"Have you heard it running?"

"Come to think of it, I haven't."

"It's probably a lot quieter than your old one, so you might not hear it. You might want to go downstairs just to make sure your basement's still dry. As long as it stays plugged in, you should be fine, but it's not a bad idea to check on it every now and then — whenever you're cleaning out your air conditioning filter or something."

"Good idea," I said. I remembered when we bought the house, the home inspector told me I should clean out my air conditioning filter once a month. He showed me where it was, and when he pulled it out, he shook his head at it. I'd planned to do it on the morning of the last Saturday of every month, but it had completely slipped my mind. "Hey, I have another problem you might be able to help me with."

"The best thing to do is to call our 800 number so we can get a ticket started for you."

"I will, but while I have you on the phone, let me just ask you one quick question."

It was quiet for a second, then she said, "Ok."

"My garage ceiling is leaking."

"Are there any plumbing fixtures above your garage?"

I tried to picture where the master bathroom was, but I couldn't tell if it was over the garage or over my office. "I'm not sure."

"Ok, let's try this. Is there an access panel in your garage ceiling?"

"An access panel? You mean like to get into the attic?"

"Exactly."

"Yeah, I'm looking at it right now."

"Ok, then there's nothing but crawl space up there which means it isn't a plumbing problem. It sounds to me like you have a leaky roof."

"That's what I figured. I just wanted to get a second opinion."

"You can poke your head up through that access panel and see what's going on. My guess is you'll see some rotten plywood up there that needs to be replaced."

"I don't think my ladder is tall enough. Do you have one that'll reach?"

"Mine won't reach either," she said. "And since it isn't a plumbing problem, I recommend you call a roofer."

"Do you know any?"

"I can't recommend anyone. I'd just check the phonebook if I were you."

"Good idea. Hey, listen, can I get your number so I can call you back after I've checked the basement?" I was looking around for something to write with. I picked up a fat piece of purple sidewalk chalk.

"You can just call the 800 number and leave me a message."

"What if there's a problem?"

"Explain it to the dispatcher, and they'll send someone out. Good luck with your roof, Mr. Nickell."

She hung up before I could wish her a pleasant day.

I put the phone in the pocket of my sweatpants, made sure the bucket was still right under the drip, and went inside to get something to eat. I fixed myself a turkey and mustard sandwich which I ate standing up at the counter while watching ESPN. There was no mention of Steve McNair. His death was already old news. They'd moved on to this year's All-Star game, the Tour de France, Wimbledon. Sports for the living. I stacked my plate in the sink and went in and checked my email. Two of the resumes I'd sent out that morning had been returned, apparently because a virus was somehow detected in the attachments. The emails said they were automated responses and they recommended that I run some anti-virus software that I thought I already had running. Really I just needed a new computer. When my brother-in-law was here, he tried to use my computer to find the closest Cheesecake Factory and said it was so full of viruses and spyware and adware that it was practically impossible to use. When I told him how old it was, he said the best thing to do was to just buy a new one. He said when they got that slow, there wasn't much you could do. That's what I'd been trying to tell Amy, but she didn't believe it until she heard it from her brother. He does something with supply chain management software, so Amy thinks he's the only one who knows anything about computers.

My office blinds were open and I saw Rick's car go past my house. He was home early for some reason. Rick used to sell commercial real estate until he got pink-slipped. He worked on his lawn non-stop for about three months, then got a job doing something in a hotel. He has to go in at some ungodly hour in the mornings, but he's always home between two and three, and since Debbie doesn't get home until 6:30, he gets plenty of time to himself. I stepped into my flip flops and jogged through the rain to his house. The phone was still in my pocket and slapped against my leg as I ran.

"Hey, Todd," Rick said when he opened the door. "Everything ok?"

Rick is about ten years older than I am. He's mostly bald, but he's in pretty good shape, probably from all the yard work he does. He had already changed out of his suit and was wearing jeans and a polo shirt. "The ceiling in my garage is leaking," I said. "Do you happen to have a second to take a quick look?"

"I really can't right now," Rick said very regretfully. "I have to leave for a dentist appointment in a few minutes."

A dentist appointment? I'd practically forgotten what a dentist was. My wife takes the kids every now and then, but I couldn't even remember the last time I went to the dentist. It's just not the kind of thing that makes it to the top of my list. "Maybe I can just explain what's happening real quick and you can tell me what you think."

"Sure, come on in." He moved away from the door and I stepped onto a big American flag beach towel he had spread out. They had their floors redone before the layoff so now they always have towels sitting out for you to step on while you take your shoes off. Their floors are much darker than ours and their house is much more colonial looking. We have the exact same model, I'm pretty sure, but you'd never know it, the way they are decorated. "What's going on?"

"There's a big bubble in the ceiling," I said. "There's no plumbing up there, so I think it's the roof leaking."

"Sounds right to me."

"Do you happen to know how to fix roofs?"

"Roofs are the one thing I don't mess with. I can't risk falling off and injuring myself."

"Good point," I said. "I hadn't thought of that."

"But I can give you the name of a good roofer," Rick said brightly. "I'll be right back."

He went into the first-floor office which, in his house, was his wife's. It has huge built-in bookcases and lots of fancy molding. Debbie has her own business called "The Disorder Doctor." She teaches people how not to be such massive slobs. Amy is always talking about how we need to hire her, but I keep telling her that I'd be happy to throw all her stuff away for her for free.

Rick came back with one of those sticky notes with a name and phone number on it. "Here you go. This guy's great. He did our roof about five years back."

"Thanks," I said. "Hey, I finally got that sump pump replaced." I figured this was something that would interest him.

"Oh, great! Did you end up using My Plumber?"

"Sure did," I said. I figured he was covertly talking about Joanne. I smiled.

"They're a good group of guys. We've been using them for years." He moved toward the door to open it. I could see it was time for him to head to the dentist and for me to leave.

The roofer didn't look much like a roofer. Joanne didn't look like a plumber, but at least she was dressed like a plumber. The roofer was dressed like an account manager on casual Friday. He had on jeans, but they weren't work jeans, and he was wearing a white cotton oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His black hair was short and messy, but in a fashionable way, and he had on those kinds of glasses that are so nerdy that they're cool.

Even though the roofer was dressed better than I was, he didn't hesitate to throw up a ladder and stick his head right up into that crawl space. In fact, he eventually crawled all the way up there and disappeared for a while. I kept waiting for him to come crashing down through the ceiling, but he apparently knew what he was doing. When he was ready to come back down, he passed me his flashlight so he could use both hands. It snowed little pink tufts of insulation while he got the access panel back in place.

"Ok, I have good news and bad news," he said when he was safely back down on the floor. He was a little sweaty, but still looked very hip. "The good news is that the leak won't be any trouble to fix. We'll have to replace a couple sheets of sheathing and do some re-shingling, but it's a straightforward job. Nine hundred bucks tops."

"Ok," I said. Nine hundred bucks didn't sound like very good news to me, but I guessed it was all relative.

"Now the bad news is that you're going to need an entirely new roof pretty soon. How old is this house?"

I decided to stick with what worked. "About sixteen years," I said.

"Yeah, that's what I figured. Roofs are good for between fifteen and twenty years, and without an attic fan, it's closer to fifteen. I'd say you've got anywhere from one to three years left before you're going to have to replace the entire roof, so you might want to consider going ahead and putting that money toward a new one now."

"How much is a new roof?"

"I'd have to do some measurements to quote you an exact price, but I've replaced a few in this neighborhood for between ten and twelve."

"Ten and twelve thousand?" I'd tried to prepare myself so I wouldn't react like that, but it didn't work. "Are you serious?"

"That's cheap," he told me. "Back when oil prices were so high, I was having to charge between fifteen and twenty. If you think about it, your roof is basically nothing but wood and oil."

"Isn't there something cheaper you can use?"

"Cheaper than wood? Not really. But I'm not saying you have to go that route right now. You might get lucky and get three more years out of it. I just want to make sure you know what your options are, and what you're putting your money into. Anything we fix now, we're just going to have to rip out in a year or two."

"Twelve thousand dollars isn't exactly an option right now," I said.

"I hear ya'. Just so you know, we do have some very attractive payment plans available, but if you just want to fix the leak now and wait, that's totally understandable."

Payment plans. For a roof. Now I understood why he was dressed so well. I was already on a thirty-year payment plan for my house, and he was offering me a payment plan for the roof. Payment plans on top of payment plans. Literally. I was also on a payment plan for both my cars, the TV, the new appliances Amy bought six months ago, and I was probably about to be on another payment plan for a new computer if I wanted to send out my resume anytime soon. We wanted to get on a payment plan for the kids' college tuition, but it was looking more and more like they'd need scholarships if they wanted a higher education.

And then there were all the subscriptions we had going. Cell phones, TV/telephone/internet, satellite radio, the security system, Amy's magazines I don't think I've ever seen her read. Where did people get the money to pay for all this stuff? Why was everyone around me driving a BMW or a Lexus while I drove a Corolla? The only answer I could come up with was inheritance. Either everyone around me had already inherited a bunch of money, or else they knew they would once their parents finally checked out so they didn't mind piling up some debt in the meantime. It actually wasn't a bad financial plan, if you thought about it. You certainly couldn't rely on raises or a better job or bonuses anymore, but you could always count on death. That was the one promotion we all had coming.

"Let's just fix the leak," I said. "By the time the roof finishes rotting, I doubt I'll even live here anymore."

"I hear ya'," the roofer said. "Let me grab my laptop and we can set something up."

While I waited for him to come back, I thought about what Amy and I were going to inherit from our parents. All I could I think of were more garages stuffed with more crap we already had and already didn't want.

When Amy's parents divorced, her father moved into a double-wide at the shore. Even though Amy hated him for what he did to her mother, a free vacation was a free vacation, so Amy drove down there with the kids for the rest of the week. I stayed behind to send out resumes, wait by the phone, and to poke at the dog occasionally to make sure she was still breathing.

I never made it into the shower the day before, so I decided to take one after breakfast. Since nobody else needed to take a shower, and since there wasn't anyone around to flush any toilets or yell at me to get out, I stayed in for a while. Once I felt the water starting to get cool, I washed myself as fast as I could and got out.

I started thinking that I ran out of hot water too fast. We had the water heater replaced when we first moved in, and although we didn't get the biggest one they had, the one they sold us was supposed to be good for an entire family. I didn't look at the time before I got in, but I didn't think I took a family-length shower. The water also didn't feel as hot as it usually did. None of this really mattered to me, but Amy had to have her hot showers, so I figured I'd better call the plumber and get it looked at before she got home.

I went downstairs in my towel and found the receipt from the sump pump. It was under one of the stacks of mail in my office. I called the 800 number at the top.

"Thank you for calling My Plumber. This is Lauren speaking. How can I help you?"

"Good morning," I said, and then realized it wasn't really morning anymore. "I think there's something wrong with my hot water heater and I was hoping you could send someone out today to take a look."

"Is it leaking?"

"I don't know. I haven't been downstairs to look at it yet."

"Well what seems to be the problem with it?"

"The water isn't as hot as it usually is. And I ran out of hot water during my shower this morning."

"Did you check the pilot light?"

I didn't know if we had a pilot light or not, but I told her I had.

"Was it lit?"

"It seemed fine."

"Ok," Lauren said. "Can I have your name, please?"

"Todd Nickell."

"Todd Nickell," she repeated. I could hear her typing on her computer. "And are you still on Grandview Vista, Mr. Nickell?"

"Sure am."

"Ok. It looks like we should be able to get someone out there in the next hour or so. Does that work for you?"

"Sure does."

"Great. Please be sure to have all pets put away and to have the affected area cleared out."

"Hey, is there any way I can request a specific plumber?"

"Excuse me?"

"There's this one particular plumber you have who I think is especially skilled and professional that I'd like to request."

"It doesn't really work that way. We'll send whoever frees up first."

"Can you tell me who that might be?"

"I really don't have that information in front of me right now. But all our plumbers are equally skilled and professional, so it really shouldn't matter who we send."

"Ok," I said. "I was just checking."

"Thank you for calling My Plumber," Lauren said before she hung up.

I went back upstairs to get dressed. As I hung up my towel, I looked down at the scale, but I didn't step on it. I wondered how far past 200 I was. I was never more than a buck fifty all through high school and throughout most of college. Back then, I used to swim practically every day. I wasn't nearly as good a swimmer as my sister, though. How that kid could have drowned, I swear I'll never understand. She swam like a beautiful magical mermaid. I still have a bunch of her trophies and ribbons packed up in a box in the garage.

I straightened myself up, then turned around and looked at myself in the mirror. My arms were featureless and straight and white like long PVC pipes, and my body looked like vanilla soft service ice cream. I looked down at my legs. My ankles and half my calves were bald from so many years of wearing dress socks. I seldom wore shoes or socks anymore, but for some reason my leg hair wasn't growing back. At least I was keeping all the hair on head. I had a few wiry pieces of gray which I hoped would eventually make me look distinguished instead of old, but it was still too early to tell.

It was hot outside but I decided to wear a pair of pants instead of shorts. It was always cool in the house anyway because we kept the AC running all spring and summer since the windows were all painted shut and we can't open them. I picked out a nice pair of jeans and a white cotton shirt. I left the top two buttons open and turned up the sleeves. Instead of flip flops, I stepped into my old leather Birkenstocks. Back in the bathroom, I rubbed some gel between my hands and crushed it into my hair. I hadn't shaved for the last two days, but the look wasn't bad. I used some Listerine to get rid of the coffee on my breath, then rubbed some of the Polo Black I got for Father's Day on my wrists and behind my ears. You have to apply it to pulse points to achieve maximum effectiveness, I'd read once in GQ.

I just finished rinsing all the dishes in the sink and loading them into the dishwasher when I heard the doorbell ring and someone knock on the door. I wondered if people like plumbers and pizza deliverers and Mormons were used to both ringing and knocking since so many people's doorbells were broken. Most people with broken doorbells probably didn't even know they were broken since they seldom rang their own doorbells. I dried my hands on a dish towel and closed the dishwasher. On my way to the door, I patted the top of my head to make sure my hair wasn't sticking up too much, and I adjusted my shirt so that it hung just how I liked it.

The man at the door was tall with black hair and a black horseshoe mustache that for some reason I associate with very mean and very pissed off Marines. His eyebrows were low on his heavy brow and he looked at me like he already didn't like me. He was holding one of those metal clipboards that Joanne had.

"Bruce from My Plumber," the man said.

I didn't know what to say. For some reason, all I said was, "You?"

"Yep, me. You got a problem with your water heater?"

"I don't know," I said. "I guess I do."

"You did call, right?"

For a second I thought about playing dumb, but then thought better of it. "Yeah, I called."

"Well let's take a look, then."

I led him downstairs in complete silence. I suddenly wasn't in a very talkative mood. The water heater was in the same room as the sump pump, and I stood outside the framed-out doorway and pointed. I let him find the light for himself.

"This looks like a brand new unit," he said. "What kind of problems you having with it?"

"My wife said she ran out of hot water faster than usual this morning, so she asked me to call. She's paranoid about hot water. It's probably nothing."

Bruce got down on his knees and peered through a little opening at the bottom of the tank. "Your pilot light's on," he said.

"Yeah, that was the first thing I checked."

"How long was your wife's shower?"

"I don't know. I was working."

"This is a forty gallon unit which is usually good for two to three people." He gave his mustache a hardy rubdown while he sized up the giant white cylinder. His hands were about twice the size of mine. "Let's check the temperature. Where's the nearest faucet?"

"Upstairs."

I brought him upstairs and into my nice tidy kitchen. He turned the faucet on as hot as it would go, plucked a thermometer from his shirt pocket, and held it under the water. In just a few seconds, there was so much steam that he had to step away in order to see the little digital readout.

"Your water's plenty hot," he said. "You got kids?"

"Yeah, three."

"You really need to turn your water temperature down to no more than 120 degrees. This is way too high."

"It is?"

"It wouldn't take more than two seconds for one of your kids to get severely burned from water this hot."

"How do I turn it down?"

"You know that little red dial down by the pilot light? Dial it down to warm, wait a day, and check the temperature. Anything over 120 degrees is too hot with kids in the house."

"Thanks," I said. "They must have turned it all the way up when they installed it."

"Other than being up too high, I don't see anything wrong with it." He started scribbling on a form on his clipboard. "My guess is that demand was just higher than normal this morning from laundry or the dishwasher or something and it hadn't had a chance to replenish. If it happens again, give us a call."

He handed me the clipboard. I already knew where to sign. I didn't expect there to be a total since he didn't do anything, but there was. Forty bucks.

"Forty bucks?"

"There's a forty dollar service fee just for coming out."

"But you didn't do anything," I said.

"Doesn't matter," Bruce countered. "Being here meant I couldn't be somewhere else." He looked at me in a way that suggested I not pursue the matter.

"Fine," I said. "Is cash ok?"

"Cash works."

I had two twenties in my wallet which I got as cash back at the grocery store. That was the only way to sneak any money past Amy since she read all the credit card statements. I volunteered to do the shopping before she left so I'd have some money to eat out. I was planning on at least one night of steak and a few beers at Outback, but so much for that.

Bruce opened up his metal clipboard and put my two twenties inside. He handed me the yellow copy of the work order as he walked past me. "Have a good one," he said.

I followed him down the hall and out the front door, but before he could get into his van, I stopped him.

"Hey, do you know Joanne?" I said.

Bruce turned around and watched me for a second before he answered. "Yeah, I know Joanne."

"Is she working today?"

"Yeah, she's working."

"Do you happen to have her number? I just wanted to ask her something about the sump pump she installed."

"You can ask me."

"It's something I think only she'll know. No offense, but I mean since she did the installation and everything."

Bruce shook his head and sort of laughed through his nose into his mustache. "Buddy, you're just not getting it, are you?"

"Getting what?"

"Joanne doesn't want to talk to you."

I didn't know what to say for a second. We just stood there looking at each other. Finally, I said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"She asked me to take this call so she wouldn't have to deal with you, and frankly, I don't blame her. I mean look at yourself. What did you think was going happen here today?" He shook his head at me again before turning around. "For Christ's sake, open your damn eyes."

I stood there and watched him get into his van, back out of the driveway, and pull away up the empty street.