Pipe Dreams

This essay appears in Silly: Stories in Ordinary Time.

It all began with our annual plumbing inspection. We probably spend more for it than we should, but the plumbers at the company we use are always courteous, punctual, and get the work done correctly the first time.

They also don’t send you a generic text saying, “Your tech will be there between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m.” On the day of your appointment, you’ll receive a text with not only the time, but a full-color photograph of the pipe jockey they are sending to your house—for security reasons, of course.

They sent me my notification last March. I still have the text saved on my phone.

His name was Bryson. Believe me, the name fit.

Twenty-something—sporting a tool belt and a suspicious amount of forearm. The kind of guy who looks like he calls every female customer “ma’am” and somehow makes it sound flirtatious.

And dammit—I was at work.

Sean, however, works from home most of the time, so he got to host Bryson for the inspection. Meanwhile, I was slaving away at the clinic trying to focus on quality metrics and not the faint sheen of imagined sweat on Bryson’s—sigh—biceps.

Okay, I get that I’m old enough to be Bryson’s father. The fact that I’ve been on the AARP mailing list for the past six years and counting is not lost on me.

I haven’t actually joined AARP, mind you. I haven’t Googled “reverse mortgage” or “knee-replacement options” or “do they make Centrum Silver for men who still think they’re hot?”

And yet, once I turned fifty, there it was—a thick glossy envelope in the mailbox with my name on it, practically winking: Hey there, you silver fox. You’re ours now.

But—I’m not dead. I still buy fitted T-shirts. I still remember how to flirt. And I’m only occasionally afraid of falling in the shower.

But Bryson? There I was—sitting at my desk in the clinic, looking at the text message reminder with his picture, fanning myself with a printout of my next patient’s cholesterol panel.

When I got home, I tried to play it cool.

“So, ” I asked, not at all like a man in the throes of a mid-life hormonal crisis, “how was… Bryson today?”

Sean looked up from his laptop, like I’d just asked him to order a pack of sliced hippopotamus from Amazon Prime.

“He was fine,” he said flatly, eyebrows knitted in faint puzzlement.

“FINE?” I exclaimed. “You mean professionally competent? Or Donatello carved him from a block of plumbing-grade marble fine?”

Sean blinked.

“Silly,” he muttered, and went back to his spreadsheet.

* * *

About two months later, a minor leak developed under our kitchen sink.

Wonderful.

When it comes to owning a home, it’s always something. One day you’re trying to find an electrician to come troubleshoot an outdoor driveway light that shorts out every time it rains more than ten minutes, the next day you’re Googling “carpet stretching” after you’ve tripped over that weird hump in the upstairs hallway by the laundry room for the umpteenth time.

I pulled all of the various bottles of cleaning solution, dish detergent, and hand soap out from under the sink. I even found a water-stained box of rusty Brillo pads I’d forgotten all about. I’d purchased them in 1989 at Dot Drug in Iowa City when I first moved out on my own. They had resided with me at six different addresses since then.

Anyway, down onto my aching back I went—sliding under the sink with a flashlight to look for the source of the problem. Our cat Molly decided that I needed company, so she crawled in next to me and sniffed tentatively at the damp spot that had developed under the pipe joint where the dishwasher drain outlet connected.

Well, there’s the issue. Once again, the cat for the win.

I slithered back out and padded to the garage in search of a suitable wrench to try to tighten it up. After rummaging around for a few minutes, it was clear I didn’t have the right tool for the job.

Crap. Off to the hardware store.

Ever since buying this place back in 2004, I’d spent an inordinate number of Saturday afternoons browsing the aisles of our local Lowe’s with a slightly baffled expression, hoping that a kindly associate would eventually take pity on me and ask if he or she could help.

Being both a diehard gardener and bargain hunter, Sean usually tags along on these trips so he can peruse the garden center—typically spending most of his time in what I refer to as the “houseplant hospice”—the $1.99 sale section featuring various mismatched botanical untouchables. They usually look to me like all they need is a blindfold and a cigarette—Sean thinks all they need is Miracle-Gro and love.

This Saturday was no different. As soon as I parked the car, he made a beeline for his usual haunt while I headed into the store for the plumbing section. Once I got there, I set about searching the shelves for pipe wrenches.

As I was doing this, I heard a warm baritone voice with a honeyed Southern accent behind me ask, “Can I help y’all find anything?”

Oh good God, yes, please. I have no idea what I’m doing here.

I turned around, and there he was, wearing a Lowe’s sales associate’s vest. I’d recognize that neatly trimmed Van Dyke and football halfback physique anywhere.

Bryson!

Perhaps he’d left the plumbing company—or taken on a second job. I blinked and stammered as I stared up into those blue eyes.

“Uh… yeah… um… I need help with my pipe. I mean… I can’t get hold of it… no. Well, what I mean is I need something big enough to tighten it.”

Oh. My. Word.

This was going downhill quickly. I flushed bright crimson and felt the heat go to my face. Bryson looked—puzzled. He smiled faintly and tried to appear helpful.

“What kind of pipe are you talking about, sir?”

“Well, it’s really not that big.” Good lord almighty, somebody help me here. “I mean, it’s under the sink, where the dishwasher connects.”

Finally! I’m starting to make sense.

Bryson nodded, and gestured for me to follow him. We headed to the end of the aisle where an assortment of pipe wrenches and other tools were displayed. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. The man was Adonis in a blue smock—Lowe’s very own hunkiest Smurf.

He selected what he thought might be the appropriate wrench and asked, “Do you think this would work?”

“Yeah, that should fit my pipe just fine.”

Oh, sweet baby Jesus, here we go again. Get a grip, Helen.

As I hurriedly cleared my throat and tried to rephrase that, Sean suddenly popped up behind me—oblivious to my dilemma—and announced, “Babe, they have a good deal on Naked Man orchids, so I’m going to pick up a couple. I’ll meet you in the car. Oh, hey—Bryson, right? Nice to see you again. I didn’t know you worked at Lowe’s, too.”

Bryson looked over my shoulder at Sean, and then back at me, vaguely concerned. His face twitched ever-so-slightly. Mine was short-circuiting like a damp ceiling fan. I was just relieved Lowe’s wasn’t running a special on shagbark or sausage plants. I would have had a stroke on the spot.

I looked back at Sean and said through gritted teeth, “That’s fine. I’ll be out to the car in a minute.”

He walked on around with a faint nod to Bryson and wheeled his cart determinedly down the aisle. A slight smirk appeared on Bryson’s face as he began to do the math in his head.

Busted.

I took the wrench from his hands and made a show of inspecting it carefully. In truth, I wasn’t sure if this would work or not, but I continued to scrutinize it like a monkey doing a math problem, stalling for time to regain my composure.

As I collected my wits, a sweet, gray-haired lady in a cardigan embroidered with daisies came up behind him and asked:

“Excuse me, sir, I need some caulk. Do you know where I might find it?”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph… I did NOT hear that.

I simply had to escape this theater of the absurd before my soul left my body right there on the sales floor.

I mumbled my thanks to Bryson as he turned to assist the woman in her search for—God help me—caulk. And couldn’t we all use a little more help with that?

I scurried to the self checkout with the pipe wrench as fast as my sensible Skechers slip-ons would carry me.

* * *

When we got home from our little shopping expedition, I slunk back in the house—minus my self-respect—and once again crawled under the kitchen sink with my new pipe wrench.

Damn. It didn’t fit.

It was as I had secretly feared. Bryson’s tool was too big for my pipe. Such a pity—story of my life, really.

I decided to look on the bright side. I could always call the plumbing company on Monday and see if Bryson was available.

As far as the wrench was concerned, I didn’t have the nerve to go back to Lowe’s for a refund. It remains tucked in the drawer of my garage workbench to this day, unreturned—like my AARP membership application.

And unused—like my dignity.