I smell. I’m not stating that I have the capability to sense an aroma; I’m stating that there is a certain aroma about me. Its not the smell of success, nor is it a subtle hint of Drakkar Noir common about me in the 5th grade. It’s the smell of sweat, the smell of man… a lot of it. It’s the smell that is the direct product of not showering. Its not that I’m against bathing, or boycotting cleanliness in the name of a cause, it’s the fact that my gas has been unexpectedly turned off and I have no hot water.
This discovery was made earlier this morning as I stared at my shower like a dog learning physics. After nearly 15 minutes of waiting for the water to change from ice cold to anything bearable, I realized the pilot light must have gone out and I turned off the water to investigate the water heater. Warning: If you don’t deal well with stress, or you still have a desire to remain on earth, don’t attempt to relight a pilot light. It could possibly be the scariest thing done in the home outside of living in matrimony.
Relighting the pilot light is not a difficult job in theory, but the warnings manufacturers place on the water heaters are enough to question mortality. The instructions for relighting the pilot are there, but they’re sprinkled with warnings about how improper procedure can result in an explosion. This thought of melted flesh left me with a hard decision; call for help and remain filthy or risk it all and get that shower. As I whipped the sweat from my brow and caught a hint of my under-arm, the choice was clear and moments later I was re-reading instructions.
After several failed attempts, and nerves like a bomb technician cranking a jack in the box, my roommate Jeff rediscovered an invoice he found taped to our front door. Sure enough it was a bill from the gas company claiming that our service had been terminated due to insufficient funds (ironically remembered AFTER I had already ‘risked my life’). A phone call to our gas provider resulted in a less than favorable explanation: our former roommate who had been paying the bill online, neglected to mention they only sent notices to him via email, leaving Jeff and I completely unaware of any sort of fee. Without sufficient payment, the gas company had no choice but to terminate our service leaving Jeff and I without hot water or a working oven.
The real thrill came when I made an appointment to have our service turned back on. Of course I was making the call on Friday, the day before the weekend, so I painfully assumed they might not make it over until Monday. As if I was Dominique Wilkins, and the operator a brash Michael Jordan, she picked up the ball and took it to a new level. “Sir, the soonest we can return your service is going to be Thursday afternoon.” Thursday afternoon, literally 6 days away. Like selling Manhattan for a trunk full of treasures, I had gotten screwed. 6 days without a personal shower. 6 days without a working oven. 6 days with little to no dignity. 6 days of awesome stories.
“Who will survive, and what will be left of them?”
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