demolition, 11.14

So I have this plumber. His name is George. He came to me recommended by my friends Kevin and Kelly, who were still a little awestruck when they relayed the details of their meeting with him. He showed up at my house and looked at the pipe drain, looked at the backyard, and shook his head. He Did Not Think It Looked Good. I wanted him to say This Doesn’t Look Too Bad, but no. He kicked around the alley for a bit, and left after giving me a quote which made my knees buckle and the blood drain from my head.

Now, in my experience with plumbers, they all remind me of each other. Older, thickly-built men with mustaches who speak little, smoke Marlboro Reds, and look like they could snap you in half for talking the wrong way. George is no exception. He is an older man with a full head of white hair, built like a 30-year-old (he’s in his mid-sixties.) He wears the requisite jeans, work boots, a blue chambray work shirt and a blue Dickies work vest over it. He has no moustache, however. When they passed along his number, Kevin and Kelly called him Curly, and it fits almost perfectly.

Fast-forward to this morning, when he showed up in his blue plumber’s truck to begin demolishing the beautiful patio I spent all summer installing. I had woken early to begin removing brick, and had the entire area prepped before he got there. This surprised him. Even more surprising, I think, was the fact that the skinny guy helped him all day—not just handing him tools, but clearing and hauling the shattered remains of my brickwork, shoveling the soupy dirt over the broken pipe, and loading up his truck when the jackhammering was done. During his smoke breaks, we traded stories and found some common ground. He left as simply as he came, with a curt “Well OK, I’ll see you tomorrow” and was in his truck and gone.