Shockingly Stubborn

As I was leaving for work yesterday, I caught the middle of an argument between my parents. “Don't you go up on that roof!” my mom admonished. The skylight in our kitchen had been leaking, and after the last few days of rain, it had gotten worse. I had no wish for my dad to lug a ladder up from the basement and climb on to the roof, especially since it was still damp out and threatening to rain again. When I arrived at work, I called home to reinforce my agreement with my mom. I'm working with one of my bands on Saturday and Sunday, and I'm taking next Monday off from my regular job to recover. I pointed out that I could help on Monday if he could just wait for a day when I was home. My friend Rey, who was in earshot of my conversation and has known me since college, joked that he's heard me have that argument many times in the last 12 years. It's not the first time there's been a leak, and not the last. Someday I'll own a house, and I can look forward to the various responsibilities and maintenance woes that go with it.

I often wonder how much of my bad luck is my own doing, and how much is hereditary. My parents have had their share of unusual problems, and I can think of one that's plagued them for more than 30 years. I definitely tempt fate more than I should, and possess a powerful reverse psychology that only works against me. If I say “A beautiful girl WON'T fall in love with me,” she won't. If however, I say something along the lines of, “I've never been struck by lightning,” it will result in this morning's mishap.

There's a certain routine one develops when working in the same office long enough. I usually walk in, hit the power on my computer, set down my gym bag, turn on my overhead light, get out a banana and a sports drink, and check my voice mail while my computer starts. This morning I walked in as always, hit the power button, set down my bags, and noticed the monitor was still dark. I figured I hadn't pushed the button far enough and tried again, to no avail. My overhead light was working, but a desk lamp next to my computer would not turn on either. The logical conclusion was that the cleaning people had perhaps knocked my surge protector loose. I moved my chair, crawled under the desk, and began feeling around and checking the connections in the dimly lit space. Everything seemed to be plugged in, so I decided to try another outlet, the one my overhead lamp was plugged in to. That light was on, so I could rule out the outlet if my computer still didn't work in the new outlet. It did not, so I began to suspect my surge protector. I unplugged the computer and the desk lamp, and took the surge protector out into the light. I didn't see any switch or anything that a vacuum might have hit, so I plugged it back in to the first outlet. I then plugged my lamp in, and then my computer. I had the computer plug barely in when

BTZZZZZZZZZZTZZAAKKTT!!!!

I let out a cry of alarm and leapt back as a four-inch blue-and-white spark leapt from the outlet. Cautiously, I pushed the plug in the rest of the way and turned on my computer. It worked, as did my lamp, so it seemed to me that the problem had been solved. Rey came by and asked why I was pale, sweaty and shaking. I hadn't noticed, but I told him I was probably just startled by the spark. This elicited a few incredulous “What?!”s from my neighbors, who all agreed that a call to office services was in order, that I probably should have called them when the computer first wouldn't turn on. Honestly, I like to look for solutions to potentially simple problems on my own first. I'd be embarrassed to make a phone call and be told I had a plug in backwards or some other obvious solution that made me feel and/or look like an idiot. Rey thought it was a stubborn streak like my dad's, and that I'd be climbing up on roofs when I was in my seventies. As my computer seemed sluggish, I reluctantly left a message with office services, who apparently weren't too concerned that an employee had gotten a spark since no one every got back to me. By the afternoon, my machine seemed to be working normally, but I definitely wouldn't turn down a new surge protector.

My house was strangely dark when I got home. My mom's car was missing, so I figured my parents had gone to the store or to the arboretum my mom works at. I found the door unlocked, and when I stepped inside I noticed the basement light was on. “Hello?”, I inquired of potential thieves and murders. “I'm down here!” replied my father, “trying to fix this damn oil burner!” I set down my gym bag and made my way to the basement, where a 75-year-old man covered in grease and surrounded by wrenches was looking both puzzled and disgusted. “I had the guy look at it today but he wanted $95 an hour, so I said the heck with that. I'm gonna fix it myself. Do you know how to cut glass?” I said no, and moved closer. He began draining one of the water pipes into a large plastic bucket, but the years and Carpal Tunnel Syndrome have not been kind on his hands. The water sloshed and spilled, and the drop lamp he was fumbling to keep under one arm was making me nervous, especially with the cord coiled at his feet in the water. I remembered the time I'd seen him use a blowtorch on a stubborn rusted pipe, dangerously close to a car's gas tank, and I realized that my bad luck wasn't hereditary. Tempting fate is what runs in my family. I quickly took the light from him and moved the wire out of the water, and held it for him. Eventually, I even convinced him to switch with me when he kept dropping wrenches, and he held the light while I turned the bolts he told me to turn. My mom arrived home from her arboretum and came down to check on us. As I relayed the day I'd had while tightening the pipes, she smiled at Rey's comment that I was stubborn like my dad and her eyes darted for a second to the oil burner. It was an ironic bookend to the day.

Tel Pére, tel fils. Father and son: shockingly stubborn.