Julie decided it was time for me to fix the shower in my bathroom. It had been leaking a bit for about three years, which I hid by keeping the door closed to hide the dripping sound and the window cracked to prevent mold from blossoming. Never cleaning the toilet or sink contributed to the room’s privacy. However, this weekend Julie’s parents are coming to babysit the princesses while Julie and I go to New York, and Julie’s fear of embarrassment overcame her fear of disease. So, she donned some rubber boots and latex gloves and slid the door open with her nostrils pinched shut. Once she cleaned the shower she discovered the constant stream of water drizzling from the showerhead. And she told me to fix it before we left for New York.
Wednesday, I left work at lunch and drove home to tackle my bathroom project. Since I had to start by turning the water off, Julie helped out by starting a load of laundry and firing up the dish washer. That gave me time to munch on a turkey sandwich and ponder my impending handyman failure. Once the spin cycle started, I commenced to fix’in.
The shower in my bathroom is a step-in deal that some idiot dreamed up circa 1959. Whoever the genius was, he had sense of commitment, as evidenced by the complete lack of an access panel to the plumbing fixtures. The only way to reach the pipe fittings and faucet parts is through the small round holes in the tile wall through which the handles emerge. It’s a pain, to say the least. On the good side, the handles have been attached since before I was born, so their good and tight.
Thirty minutes of twisting futilely on the wrench without budging the jammed cold water faucet and I was ready to try a different approach. Long experience and a short attention span have taught me that leverage is everything in these little projects, so I went rummaging around in the garage for something appropriate for freeing the faucet from its aged prison. What I found was my Marine Corps entrenching tool. I opened it to 90 degrees, placed the base against the tile wall and the shovel’s lip under the handles base, and leaned against the handle. POP! The handle shot off and cracked against my ribs. Success! Five minutes later I was on my way to the plumbing store with both faucets on the passenger seat of my truck.
Palmer’s Plumbing is a surreal experience. I traded 12.65 in cash for two freshly re-worked faucets with new gaskets, a 3/4-inch hex wrench, two new faucet seats, and a 20-minute instruction on installation which was given by the old-world Italian gentlemen who owns the store. He’s a class act. He leaned across his counter, held the faucets out to me, and talked me through the installation procedure. “You’re a smart young man,” he said, “not like a guy I tried to explain this to last week. He wouldn’t listen. He was one of those young computer guys who knows everything, not like you at all.” I took the hint, shut my mouth, and paid attention.
Mr. Palmer runs his shop with his wife and daughters, making it the only place I can imagine where grown men obediently listen to women explain how to fix toilets, plumbing, and sundry other household items. It also leads to some unexpected experiences. While waiting for my faucets to be finished, I heard a female voice say, “just look at my cleavage.” Every man in the building looked. A young lady, I’m guessing a granddaughter, had brought in a homecoming dress to show off. I tried to look away but we were all busted and a chorus of feminine laughter echoed through the narrow store. “You don’t expect to hear ‘cleavage’ here,” one of the ladies chuckled. “Maybe ‘ball-cocks’ or ’nipples’ but not ‘cleavage’.” They were still laughing with the other customers when I walked out through the back door.
A short drive home and I climbed back into my shower and re-installed the faucets, amazed that I was able to complete the task without busting any pipes or shattering my own fragile ego. As I put my tools back in the garage, Julie poked her head through the kitchen door. “Are you going back to work?” she asked. I shook my head and smiled, visions of romantic awards for my hard work filling my mind. She smiled slyly. “Good, I need you to help me move some stuff so I can paint.” Shit.
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