A play in some number of very brief acts
1 AM Last Night
Outside Thermometer: I'd say six, maybe seven degrees. Brrr...
Oil Burner: Click. wheeze ... (no further comment, just a lot of mindless method acting aka creaks and groans)
Me: We have no heat.
Her: (grogily) Uh huh.
Teenager: Zzzzz
Two Pugs: WTF, man?
2 AM
Me: You'll be here when?
(sinister background music)
Heater Repairman (aka HTRM) : 7 AM
3 AM
Phone: Ring
(more sinister music)
HTRM: I forgot, call the office at 6, they'll put you at the top of the list. We're real busy.
Me: ok
5 AM
Her: Do you want Oatmeal.
Me: I hate Oatmeal. Is it hot? Yes.
Two Pugs: WTF, man? We hate Oatmeal. And we aren't wearing these stupid f*cking jackets any longer, either! This is all so beneath us.
Her: (shivering) My God, I'll never understand why homeless people don't move south in the winter.
Me: I've pondered that eternal mystery myself to the point that it's just a joke and I'm not in the mood for frickin' jokes. (A somber reflection on our Colonial ancestors and a silent musing as to how I might be able to get across the Delaware right now were the HTRM on the other side with coffee, some warm danish and a 3/4 inch Craftsman wrench.) I also wonder if the Delaware has ice just now. Most likely it does.
Her: Well, it certainly does make you think about poor people.
Me: (pause, genuine reflection on poor people) If I knew one that could fix this got-damned oil burner tonight, he might not be so f*cking poor, now would he?
Two Pugs:(now only speaking amongst themselves)
1: Did they say poor?
2: Relax. I told you the breeders had them checked out.
1: If I die here like this, my breeder will take them for eveything they own.
2: Relax. Let's send them a message. Come on. We'll go sh*t on the rug.
1: Cool (exit stage right)
6 AM
Her: (hanging up phone) He said as soon as possible.
Me: Oh, just f*cking wonderful.
Teenager: Zzzzz...
Two Pugs: Move over you assholes, there's only so much room under these blankets. You want maybe we should sh*t here, too? And could you please stop talking and moving around so much. We're trying to hunker down here.
7 AM
Her: (hanging up phone) He said as soon as possible.
8 AM
Her: (hanging up phone) He said as soon as humanly possible.
8:30 AM
Her: (hanging up phone) He said they're loading up the truck and we're the first stop. The repairman has three other stops first, then he'll be here.
Me: They load up the refueling truck, not the got-damned repair truck! We don't even know if we need oil and he said he'd be here at 7 to check it out. Gimme the phone.
Her: Glaring look.
Me: (on phone) Do you remember that generous tip I gave you last year, when you came to service the burner on a Saturday after we had some plumbing changes? Just on the off chance, did you maybe think I gave you that because you were so f*cking charming, or what? Cuz you sure as sh*t ain't f*cking charming, buddy. And you aren't really so very much got-damned good looking, either! Did you know that, you son of a b*tch? So, then why don't you ask yourself what that was all really f*cking about, assh*le. Now, I WANT MY GOT-DAMNED HEAT!!
Two Pugs: F*cking aye, man. It's about freakin' time. I don't get why people take so much sh*t in the first place. Must be bad breeding. We woulda dumped on the b*stard's rug last night.
9 AM
Re-fueling AND repair truck miraculously appear together.
Two Pugs: Just let us at the son of a b*tch. You ain't seen an ugly dog bite til you get a look at one of our flat, crooked-mouthed motherf*uckin' dog bites, dude. Come on. And we'll crap in his got-damned cab when we're done, to boot.
Re-fueling truck: Gurggle, gurrgle, splash ...
HTRM: Gotta prime it and bleed the line good so it doesn't quit when I leave.
Oil Burner: Cough, sputter, wheeze ... hum.
Me: Do you have $X in cash?
Her: I think so.
Me: Give it here.
Her: Why?
Me: Because if this poor guy ever loses the ability to start f*cking oil burners he might actually wind up poor and homeless one day and move to got-damned Florida. Then where the hell would we be? Think of it as insurance - poor insurance.
HTRM: (taking money) Well, thank you. Always glad to help out. Just give us a call whenever you need us.
Two Pugs: Graft. We see it all the time in the dog trade.
Teenager: (Yawn) School?? It's too cold to go to school.
Two Pugs: Uh, I think someone forgot breakfast. What do you have to do to get service around here, anyway? Sh*t on the got-damned rug? Or what? Cuz we WILL go there, yanno!
Hey, I was snow Skiing at Mary Jane on Saturday. It was 30 degrees on top of the slops. Spring Skiing. Babes on the patio...Hit 70 on Sunday...
Watch where you walk...
Posted by: Michael | Tuesday, January 25, 2005 at 12:32 AM
Yeah! Thanks for nothing, Fly Boy. We were sitting in the living room in got-damned Parkas!! ; )
Posted by: Dan | Tuesday, January 25, 2005 at 02:54 AM