There's no emergency like a water emergency. It brings out our most primitive fears. We inevitably think about Noah's flood and the final deluge. When water runs out of control indoors, we have the worst kind of domestic crisis. When the plumbing fails, we panic.
The typical suburban house provides plenty of opportunities to panic. Basements flood, cesspools collapse, valves, pipes and faucets disintegrate without warning, and drains block up for no reason at all. For those accustomed to French plumbing, this is business as usual. But, in America, our whole lives depend on the assumption that plumbing is perfect. In Manhattan, people who suffer from bad plumbing simply call the janitor and go straight to their therapist. Here in the suburbs, we must take responsibility for our own plumbing disasters.
Plumbers are a kind of suburban aristocracy, like firefighters. They are heroic, almost mythical figures, with their elusive habits and their vast estates in the Hamptons. People whisper the names of favored plumbers like those of cosmetic surgeons or particularly successful brokers.
We used to have an excellent plumber called Joe, which is the perfect name for a plumber. Joe always arrived promptly in an ancient truck. His Mercedes stayed discreetly in the garage at home. He tackled the latest catastrophe with a skeptical air of one who has seen it, and indeed waded in it all before.
Joe's diagnostic skills were reassuring. Like a physician, he began with a standard catechism of questions:
"When did the trouble start?"
"Did you notice any symptoms before that?"
"Have you suffered from any gurgling sounds right here?"
"Have your bathroom habits changed lately?"
Being slightly deaf, he ignored the answers and headed straight for the basement carrying what seemed to be his only tool – a huge wrench which also served as a hammer, a crowbar, and a kind of conducting baton to accompany his lectures on hydraulics, pressure, gravity, and the inadvisability of flushing major household appliances down the toilet. When the job was done he would invariably apologize profusely for the bill.
Joe retired and went to his reward in Florida or on the French Riviera, and it was hard to replace him. Big companies have overwhelmed the independent plumber, much as they have the swept independent family doctors into health care corporations. The plumbing companies are efficient. They send a big shiny truck full of equipment, and what is now called a "technician" with an iPad full of instructions and a cell phone to call the chief plumber back at headquarters if things go wrong. These technicians speak more politely than Joe ever did, but they seem to follow a kind of script. They have an annoying tendency to recommend new repairs, new spare parts, and new equipment. Joe would always fix the old worn out stuff somehow, like the traditional family doctor – instead of a heart bypass a few rubber washers or an aspirin would do the job. And there’s another thing. I’ve noticed that the brave new water management technicians of the brave new twenty-first century never, ever, apologize for the bill.
Copyright: David Bouchier
