Drainman: An American tragedy

For the second day in a row, I have spent three hours waiting for the drainman to arrive. And he is still not here! No, I am not waiting for love, I am not waiting for Godot, I am not waiting for Duh-be-yah's twin daughters to launch a collegiate AA chapter, I am not waiting for my sweetheart to call, I am not even waiting for a computer file to successfully download – I am waiting for the freaking drainman. This is not a good thing. Waiting for repairmen is one of life's most uselessly … draining chores.

Since I am professionally blessed – a writer/editor/columnist working at home – all thought processes grind to a halt while I obsess on where and why this repairman possibly could be stalled, when, if ever, he will appear, might he perhaps be the Messiah, and if so, what are the spiritual ramifications and implications of One who does not keep Appointments.

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After a week of much-needed rain hereabouts, I had noticed my basement beginning to go from damp to moist to wet, without being the least flirtatious. And so, as always the reluctant homeowner, I am paying the price for my cute, bricked-over-against-my-will-by-the Rehab Criminal-terrace with its sluggish-on-the-way-to-being-clogged outdoor drain that has not been cleared in nearly a decade.

First, I call The Nationally Known Drain Company with the Silly Sesame Street Name, and rather than giving me an estimate over the telephone, they send someone to stop by. Alarmingly enough, he seemed unable to park his van on the sidewalk, nearly truncated my neighbors' tree, stumbled over my garden fence, tripped on the hose, and forgot he was here to give me an estimate! And when he did, going into his van for a glance at some Drainman's Cheat Sheet, he quoted me a price equal to a week's vacation in Cancun. "I have to consult my husband," I waffled convincingly dusting off unmarried woman's home-repair ploy number 360, "I'll let you know later."

I then leave a message for my regular plumber on the off-chance he does outdoor drains. Because he's also an electrician and a rare-plant enthusiast, he could be triply unreachable, but he's not. Sadly enough, though, he doesn't have the heavy equipment to do drains. But he gives me this fervent recommendation of "The Company." Yes, he says, they're better but less advertised than The Nationally Known Drain Company with the Silly Sesame Street Name, local, no armada of repairmen, but the ones they have know their field and they have a 24-7 800 number for emergencies.

Sounded good to me. The following morning, I check with my personal psychic "Ingenio Presciosczo" for his unique vibrations on the problem and he agrees, "The Company" definitely does better work than The Nationally Known Drain Company with the Silly Sesame Street Name, IF you can get them to show up. Yes, dear readers, THAT part of his prediction sailed over my head as I cancel my appointment with The Nationally Known Drain Company with the Silly Sesame Street Name's repairman who can't even park his van, and arrange for "The Company" to service my drain that same afternoon, at a miniscule hourly rate that amounts to one-third of the original estimate.

Hah! And I wait. And I wait. And I wait.

So, instead of concentrating on my projects at hand, inevitably I become so overly preoccupied with the repairman's non-appearance, I construct a series of worst-case scenarios and several of the most unimaginable disaster sequences, which run, I must admit – as many of my fantasies tend to do – in several directions at once:

• I call "The Company" back and weep, using emotive techniques I recently learned in Bobbye Block's creative improvisation class at the Wilma Theatre. They award me a certificate for one free service visit. I blow the money on a facial, because, as a raven-tressed Internet sage opined this very morning, "For a woman, surface is all. You are your package."

• I call "The Company" back, beg for succor. There is no sympathy.

• I call "The Company" back, informing them that while their reputation is superior to their leading competitor's, their customer fulfillment system, um, sucks, how can "we" get around this unfortunate obstacle, and reschedule for the next day and ANOTHER 3-hour time block.

• I call "The Company" back, tell them off, which involves giving them a shard of my overheated consciousness, cancel the appointment, slam down the receiver, and begin my search anew for reliability, dependability, affordability, trustworthiness, and cute buns.

• I elope, and, unhappily enough, although my groom understands home repair, he clutters the basement with heavy equipment and we subsist on brittle banter and constant additions to his tool collection – decidedly not my idea of a thrilling union. In reality, the pickins are slim, maritally speaking, since this, after all, is Philly, where most of the interesting men are married, dead, or gay.

In the midst of this coruscating repair angst, the New Age goddess "Zoe" calls, declaring she and her husband "Bryce" had terrible problems with the drains of their new property and she would get me a referral, but, alas, she hasn't called back yet, either. Life, they say, is like that. Why and how is my psychic ALWAYS right about home repair? He merely lives in a Manhattan condo. Anyway, I know that in the Feng-Shui scheme of things, a slow or clogged outdoor drain must signify a lack of progress in my life goals. And naturally enough, this is ALSO the very same week Pluto and Uranus are acting quite sinister, astrologically speaking, and my ruling planet Mercury is going retrograde, which, of course, governs communication failures and equipment breakdown. So, it would appear that in the meantime, things are quite ... "stuck."

Oh, and the drainman? I'm still waiting.