me and the boys

Way back in the early 2000s, I worked in the marketing department of Pep Boys, the national chain of after-market auto supplies. In the nearly four years that I worked in the company's main headquarters in Philadelphia, I set foot in an actual Pep Boys retail location at total of  two times. Once was to buy a set of Pep Boys bobble head characters. The second time was to fix a flat tire on a rental car while on vacation in Southern California. Aside from that, I had no reason to avail myself of Pep Boys' services. I had a local mechanic that I brought my car to for regular service. I had also heard my share of  "horror stories" regarding the level of care (or lack of) provided by Pep Boys mechanics. Customers described a wide range of experiences frm "stellar" and "excellent" to "awful," "unprofessional" and even "criminal." I was privy to a story summitted by a very unsatisfied customer who told of a routine stop to fix a flat tire. When the service was completed and her car war returned to her, she noticed that one of the car's windshield wipers was broken. She went on to question how this could have possibly happened, seeing as how the wipers are no where near the tires. I also heard a tale of how a customer's car was knocked off of the hydraulic lift in the service garage. I even saw full-color photographs to corroborate this customer's complaint. I will say that my personal experience in a Fullerton, California Pep Boys was short and sweet.

I owned my last car — a 2004 Toyota RAV4 — for twenty years. In that time, I recall getting a flat tire once. That dreaded little light popped up on my dashboard and, after consulting the owner's manual to determine the meaning of that little glowing pictogram, I drove my car over to my local mechanic and got a new tire. The end. That was the first and last time I had to deal with anything of that nature. In Spring 2023 I bought a brand new Subaru Crosstrek. In the 17 months that I have owned and driven my new car, the "flat tire" warning has lit up on my dashboard three times. Each time, after first cursing profusely, I drove my car over to the service department of the Subaru dealer from which I purchased my car. The first time, they were able to plug the damaged tire for a nominal fee. The second time required me to buy a new tire. Just two weeks after dropping two hours and two hundred bucks on a new tire, the light ticked on again while I was on my way to work. After unleashing a spontaneous barrage of carefully chosen expletives, I considered my options of how to quickly and efficiently remedy my situation. I wouldn't be able to get to the Subaru dealer until the weekend. It would be risky driving around with the threat of a full-blown flat tire looming over me. My tires seemed to be okay, but that damn light on my dashboard told me otherwise. I decided to take my car to one of the many service garages I pass on my way to work. I remembered there was a Pep Boys not too far away. I settled on making that a stop on my way home from work... providing my tire would hold out until the end of the day.

After work that day, I checked my car's tires. They all seemed fine — fine enough to get me to the Pep Boys just down Route 130 from my place of employment. I drove the short distance and pulled my car into Pep Boys parking lot. I parked, got out and headed to the front door. I half expected Rod Serling to step out from behind a stack of tires — a cigarette smoldering between his fingers — and announce that I had just entered The Twilight Zone.

This particular Pep Boys was different than any that I had seen before (all two of them). There was no retail section. No shelves with merchandise of any kind.. It was jus a big empty space, poorly concealed with a series of large posters advertising the various services that Pep Boys offers. Off to one side were large metal racks with dozens and dozens of tires. Along the back wall were piles of cardboard boxes. Just ahead was a reception counter, behind which stood two fellows in Pep Boys branded work shirts. They both looked liked characters that had just escaped from prison seen in countless television police dramas. As I approached the counter, neither man said a word, but they did not break the laser-like stare they had fixed on me. It was obvious that I was going to have to initiate this conversation. I cleared my throat and spoke up. I explained the light on my dashboard and the fact that my tires seemed to be okay. The one man finally asked for my key fob and handed me a clipboard to fill out a brief informational form. I asked if this would be taken care of while I waited. He didn't answer, but I believe I detected an ever-so-slight nod. I took that as a "yes."

So I waited. And waited. And waited.

After twenty-five minutes, I saw my car pulling into the otherwise empty service area. Through a large window, I saw a mechanic raise my car up on the hydraulic lift. I suddenly had flashbacks to those photos I saw twenty years earlier, but everything appeared to be okay. The other silent guy from the front desk joined the mechanic, but I couldn't tell exactly what they were doing. The first man, the one who asked for my key fob, stood silently at the desk and stared off into space. He did not appear to be anxious to entertain any of my potential questions or concerns, so I reconsidered asking about the timetable of my car's repair. I said nothing. I just continued to crane my neck to get a better view of the activity surrounding my car. I could see the lead mechanic wipe the sweat from his forehead and cheeks often by grabbing the front of his t-shirt and enveloping his face with it, exposing his large, hairy belly in the process. He also appeared to be moving in slow motion. His actions were jerky, as though illuminated by a strobe light. He walked to and from my car, sometimes wielding some sort of tool, sometimes not.

 

Finally, with just a few minutes remaining before the store's posted closing time, I was beckoned silently to the reception desk. The first man waved my key fob in my direction and motioned for me to present myself front and center. 

"We plugged it," he said, uttering the most consecutive words since I had arrived. 

"So, I don't need a new tire?," I asked. 

"No.," he replied, returning to his monosyllabic speech pattern.

He handed me a bill for $20 and change and I swiped my credit card in the terminal. The man handed me six pages that he had plucked from the tray of the printer behind the counter. He passed me my key fob.

"Where is my car?," I asked. He pointed towards the door and said nothing. I didn't press my line of questioning. I figured I could find my car on my own. Once out in the parking lot, I spotted my car the same space in which I had originally parked. I got in and started the engine. After driving a few feet, the flat tire light on my dashboard dimmed. It has not come back on since.

Although, I did find a large, greasy handprint on the hood of my car — the Pep Boys Seal of Quality.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

another nail in my heart

When did this become the car blog?

One morning last week, I got into my car and pressed the ignition button. This is something I have been doing for years except for the "button pressing" part. It used to be a key, but since I entered the 21st century this past spring when I purchased a 2024 Subaru, I press a button to start my car.

On this particular morning, I spotted a light on my dashboard — a light with which I am very familiar. A few years ago, my family and I were in Southern California. On my insistence, my wife and I went out one afternoon for some celebrity grave hunting... as one does when Disneyland just doesn't cut it. We headed out to Melrose Abbey Memorial Park and Mortuary, just a few miles south of Walt's first theme park. As we pulled in to the parking lot, Mrs. P pointed to a light on the dashboard of our rental car. We determined that it was the "flat tire indicator" and a call was placed to a local AAA service station while I strolled among the graves.

More recently, my wife's car sported the same light. A little closer to home, she took the car to our somewhat suspect mechanic who made the repair... and then some. (You can read about that HERE.)

So, when I saw the same light on the dash of my eight-month-old car at a time when I should have been well on my way to work — I was less than pleased. Among the many things that I hate, I would rank "inconvenience" somewhere near the top of my list. I turned the car off, stomped back into my house, stomped up the stairs, stomped over to my wife's side of the bed to wake her up from a sound sleep.

"My car has a flat!," I grumbled, as I lightly — lightly! — shook her awake. I told her I'd have to take her car to work and I asked if she could call AAA to change the tire. I added that I could not tell which tire was flat, because, after a quick check, all the tires appeared the same to me.

Later in the day, Mrs. P called me with a progress report. She said instead of taking the car to our usual mechanic and be subjected to a probable fleecing, she drove to a small garage just about the corner from our house. This place has been in its location for as long as we have lived in our house, but we never gave them the opportunity to service our cars. But, today was the day! Mrs. P told me the guy at the garage was pleasant and helpful. He assessed the tires and determined that the recent snap of cold weather was causing the tires to lose pressure. He pumped the required amount of air into each of the tires and — sure enough! — the offending light on the dashboard went out. He waved off my wife's attempt to give him a few bucks for his trouble. Instead, Mrs. P returned to his shop with a Dunkin "Box o' Joe" and a dozen donuts. This gesture set her back more that just a "couple of bucks," but it appeared that the problem was solved. No more inconvenience and that was good enough for me. 

This was Friday, so I had the opportunity to take my car to the Subaru dealer for a "just to make sure" check. After driving my car around the block, the tire pressure light didn't come on. I decided to forgo a trip to the dealership.

On Monday, I got in my car to go to work and — goddamn! — if that light didn't come on again. I got out and looked carefully at all of my tires. I even pressed on them. Hard! They felt firm and steady. None looked the least bit flat. So, against my better judgement, I drove it to work. I defiantly drove the 15 miles, spanning a bridge into another state, to my job (as well as the 15 miles home). I did that all week. A couple of those days, it rained. The thought of getting struck somewhere between my house and Pennsauken, New Jersey crossed my mind more that a few times. The thought of how dumb and stubborn I was being also crossed my mind. But, nevertheless, I drove my car — with its low tire pressure light mocking me from the dashboard — for five consecutive days. On Day Six — Saturday — I woke up bright and early and took my car to the Subaru dealership... something I should have done five days earlier.

A friendly service technician asked me what was the nature of my visit. I explained all about the low tire pressure light and the encounter with our neighborhood mechanic. I reluctantly told her that I drove the car for five days before bringing it in. She had me initial a form and then directed me to the waiting area in the service department. I had no sooner poured myself a cup of complimentary coffee when the service technician approached me to say that a nail was discovered in the driver's side rear tire. I authorized a repair and — one hour and twenty-seven dollars later — my car was mine... sans "low tire pressure" alert,

No more inconvenience... and no more visits to neighborhood mechanics.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

moneygrabber

There's an old joke. A guy calls a plumber to fix a small leak in a pipe. The plumber arrives and he's led down the basement steps to view the leak. The plumber examines the pipe from all angles, assessing the situation. Finally, he says to the homeowner, "This looks like a 'Miami job.'" The homeowner asks, "You mean you saw a similar type of leak on a job in Miami?" "No," the plumber clarifies, "I mean with the money I get from you for this repair, I'll be able to spend a month in Miami."

Before I purchased a new car this past May, I drove my trusty Toyota RAV-4 for nearly twenty years. Over the course of two decades — as you can imagine — my car required its fair share of maintenance and repairs, as well as yearly safety inspections required by the state of Pennsylvania. When my car needed service, I took it to a mechanic named Dewey whose shop is in my neighborhood. Dewey is a nice guy, I guess. He would sometimes pick my car up at my house and drop it off when the work was completed. He has a genial demeanor, often limiting the technical jargon when he was explaining the repair that my car would need after I told of the abnormalities I thought my car was experiencing. 

The repairs that my car required — at any given visit to Dewey's shop — were extensive. Always. Even for annual inspections, at times when my car was running — in my opinion — just fine, Dewey would find something within the confines of my vehicle's body that would cost me a couple hundred dollars. Always. Once I needed a new headlight. While changing the headlight, Dewey told me that discovered that the intake valve of the deferential influx capacitor was not in tip-top working order. He innocently asked if I'd like it replaced and soon, a lousy new headlight was costing me four hundred bucks. State inspections  that should cost around fifty dollars, would always require some crucial engine component. Without a replacement, my car would not pass inspection and possible lead to a more serious issue. Of course, the new part would set me back a few hundred dollars. This went on for years. I don't think Dewey was an incompetent mechanic. I think he just went out of his way to find something wrong with my car every time I brought in. He wasn't going to let me take possession of my vehicle without a payment of at least a hundred bucks. I know nothing about the innerworkings of a car, so I was at the mercy of Dewey's perceived "expertise." So, I had him make any repair he suggested and I paid whatever he told me the bill was.

... until this year when I purchased a 2024 Subaru Crosstrek for the price of my 2004 Toyota RAV-4 and an undisclosed amount of cash. Because of the delicate computer system that is standard on new cars, I purchased an extended warranty on my new vehicle, thus eliminating any future dealing with Dewey. I would be taking my new car to the Subaru dealership for state inspections, any future maintenance and eventual repairs. My wife, who drives a 2018 Toyota takes her car to a Toyota dealer for maintenance, so, as far as I can see, Dewey is out of our lives. As a matter of fact, Mrs. P ran into Dewey at the supermarket and told him that I had purchased a new car. She said he appeared happy and wished me "good luck" with the car.

One day last week, Mrs. Pincus returned from running errands to discover that her car had a flat tire. After the involuntarily voicing of a few choice words, she called AAA and waited for someone to come and change the tire. Afterwards, we discussed her options for getting the flat tire repaired... and repaired quickly. First, we considered the Toyota dealer, but without an appointment for service, who knows how long the wait would be for a "walk-in" repair. The last thing Mrs. P — or anyone — wants to do is spend countless, non-productive hours in car dealership waiting room. The next option was rather obvious — Dewey.. We were fairly sure that Dewey, who operates a one-man repair shop, — would be only too happy to fix a quick flat tire for a member of the Pincus family. After all, we were loyal customers for over twenty years. (Yep, we took our cars before my Toyota to Dewey!) 

The next morning, Mrs. P took her "temporary spare tire equipped" car over to Dewey's shop. I, of course, had left for work a few hours earlier. That afternoon, I called my wife to see about the progress of — what I assumed — would be a fast repair. 

"How's your car?" my text to my wife read.

A few minutes later, I received this response...

She went to to explain that — according to Dewey's expert assessment — her car would need four new tires and rear brakes. 

Apparently, Dewey missed us.

Desperately.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

and we'll all float on okay

This story was written prior to the global COVID-19 pandemic, when going to a store and interacting with other humans at close range was a normal occurrence. — JPiC

I am — by no means — handy. Anything outside of changing a light bulb leaves me baffled. Sometimes even that simple task is a bit overwhelming.  If something in my house needs repair, I am very quick to call and pay someone to fix it. Someone who isn't me. 

Three years ago, I changed the flapper ball at the bottom of the toilet tank in my thrid-floor bathroom. This was quite an undertaking. Really. First, I had to figure out how to turn off the water supply to the toilet tank. Then I had to empty the tank and remove the old, broken flapper ball. I took the spent piece to Home Depot to compare it to the shiny new ones on display, making certain I was buying an exact duplicate that would fit snugly (and correctly) in the hole at the bottom of the tank. I checked and rechecked, holding the gummy, black hunk of rubber up against the pristine packaged specimens. When I got home, the actual replacing was surprisingly simple. The whole job took just a minute or two and the toilet was back flushing the way it was the day before. I was quite proud of myself and I secretly hoped that I would never have to attempt another repair in my house again.

Last Sunday, I heard the water running in the toilet in our second-floor bathroom. I went in, jiggled the flush handle and waited until the mechanism in the tank properly seated itself and stopped the last few trickles of water. It didn't. I jiggled it again. Still, I heard the annoying sound of running water.

"That sounds like it is coming from upstairs." my wife informed me. I climbed the stairs to the third floor and was greeted by the loud sound of running water. I removed the lid to the toilet tank — the one I so expertly repaired two years ago — and saw, to my horror, that the plastic float ball was bobbing in the nearly-filled tank. It was unnaturally perpendicular to the thin brass rod to which it was attached. The little threaded plastic collar had snapped and was hanging on to the rod by a tiny shred of plastic. Even to the uninitiated, this did not look right. I knew the float ball would have to be replaced. From past experience, I turned off the water supply to the tank and made a mental note to stop at Home Depot on my way home from work. We have three bathrooms in our house, so this would not be too much of an inconvenience.

On my way home from work the next day, I did indeed stop at Home Depot. I don't go to Home Depot too often. Aside from the light bulb aisle and that one time I bought a new flapper ball for my toilet, I don't have much use for a lot of the stuff they sell. I located the "toilet repair" aisle and began my quest for a toilet float ball. Now, I worked in my father-in-law's hardware store for twenty-five years and I just saw a broken one in my toilet tank at home, so I knew what they looked like. I looked up and down the aisle. I saw flush handles and wax rings (for attaching the toilet bowl to the floor) and all sorts of nuts and bolts... but no float balls. I saw an awful lot of packaged toilet fill valves in various configurations.... but no float balls. I saw every possible component that would allow me to construct an entire toilet from scratch.... except there were no float balls. I looked at shelves that I had looked at three and four times half-expecting a huge box of toilet float balls to magically appear.

All during the time I was carefully scanning the shelves, there was a Home Depot employee ignoring me as he opened cartons and placed a few more display trays of toilet fill valves from different manufacturers. I cleared my throat and reluctantly asked where I could find a toilet float ball. I hate to ask employees where things are in their stores. I have come to understand that they don't know where anything is and they don't care if you ever find it. They hate their jobs and just want the evening to end.

The Home Depot employee looked up from his work and replied, "We don't carry them. That's for an old toilet. No one uses them. They use these now." He pointed to the shiny packages of toilet fill valves that took up most of the shelf space in the aisle. He picked up one of the packages and pointed to a small plastic cylinder that was wrapped around a larger plastic cylinder. "This replaces the float ball.," he explained. I frowned as he continued. "They sell them in this kit, but you gotta buy the whole kit." He showed me a sealed plastic bag that contained a few plastic pieces including a toilet float ball. The shelf tag proclaimed a retail price of just over thirteen dollars. I frowned again and announced "I'll pass." I quickly left Home Depot.

When I got home, I did a quick Google search to see if a toilet float ball was still "a thing." The search results told me that it was. Amazon had them. Walmart had them. And, according to their website, Home Depot had them, too... just not one near me. 

My next day's commute home was interrupted by a hopeful stop at Lowes and Walmart, conveniently located next to each other. Lowes' toilet repair aisle was nearly identical to the one at Home Depot, except all of the orange decorative trim was blue. Their shelves sported the same items including a wide assortment of newfangled toilet valve kits which had — allegedly — caused the extinction of the toilet float ball. I left Lowes, not even considering asking any employee for assistance. I went over to Walmart and found their plumbing department even less stocked, but featuring the same goddamned toilet valve kits.

This was getting ridiculous. How could a piece of such simple technology just become wiped clean from existence? Did someone actually build a better mousetrap that replaced a tried-and-true mousetrap so quickly and completely? In addition, I was now three days without an auxiliary toilet in my house.

The next day, I came straight home from work and ordered a toilet float ball from Amazon for four dollars. Two days later, a big padded envelope with a big bulge in it arrived on my front porch. I tore the envelope open on my way up the stairs to my third floor. I lifted the lid of the toilet tank. I removed the old, broken float ball and tossed it in the trash. I worked the new float ball onto the threaded brass rod. Once it was screwed on as far as it could go, I turned the water supply back on. I could hear the rush of water and the new float ball leveled off at the water line in the tank. Then all was silent. I briefly admired my handiwork, as though I just whacked a perfectly pitched fastball over the outfield fence. Finally, I carefully replaced the tank lid.

And, as of right now, Pincus Plumbing Repair is officially out of business.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

dirty water

I am not much of a handy man. My collection of tools with which I tend to the needed repairs around my house consists of three hammers, five screwdrivers — three straight, two Phillips — a set of Allen wrenches* and a lightweight pair of pliers. I also have a small container of short brass nails that I use to hang the many framed, autographed photos I have accumulated from the many collector shows I have attended. Aside from the occasional self-extracted nail in a floor plank that needs to be taught a good pounding lesson or a loose chair screw in need of tightening, I rarely have the opportunity to ply my limited home-repair skills. And that's good, because anything more challenging than changing a light bulb or... or.... changing a light bulb, well, then I'm in over my head.

I will tell you that I have advanced slightly above the level of my father's fix-it prowess. I remember a long-ago family project involving painting the bedroom I shared with my brother. My mother picked out and purchased paint and the event was planned for an upcoming weekend. Bright and early on Saturday morning, my mother (not my father) moved all of the furniture out of the way and covered everything with dropcloths and old sheets. She laid out brushes and rollers and turpentine and disposable trays filled with paint. She instructed my brother and me to dress in old clothes and then, when we were suitably outfitted, she offered additional direction on painting procedure. In the meantime, my father dressed up in what had come to be known as his "handyman costume." He'd put on a pair of white canvas pants speckled with assorted sizes of multi-colored paint splotches, a shapeless denim shirt decorated with a similar amount of paint and — as the crowning glory — a white painters hat that he scored for free when he paid for the paint. He smiled proudly as he paraded around the prepared bedroom, modeling his outfit for the family. He picked up a dry brush and mock-painted the faces of my brother and me, We laughed and he did this many more times until it was no longer funny. Finally, he dunked a roller into the tray of paint and made a couple of sloppy drags across the wall. Then, he plopped the roller back in the tray and announced that he was going downstairs for a cigarette. That was the last we saw of him until my mom, my brother and I finished the job ourselves. At least I now have the sense enough to hire a painter,

My father's constructive efforts left a lot to be desired. There were broken windows in forgotten rooms on the second floor of our house. There were frayed electrical cords and broken lamps throughout our house. I'm not sure my father even knew how to replace a light bulb. I was sure, however, that he knew nothing about plumbing. That did not stop him from hiring a plumber (who happened to be my uncle) and berate the poor guy as he banged around under our failing hot-water heater.

I know I am not handy and I don't pretend I am. I can tackle easy jobs, but even those can end with less-than-stellar results. (May I direct your attention to a door in our house that doesn't quite close all the way since I "fixed" a loose hinge.)

I have been noticing, for a few months now, that the toilet in our third-floor bathroom has been taking a particularly long time to fill after flushing. I have lifted the lid and stared into the tank for inordinate amounts of time, expecting to see — I don't know — a big, flashing arrow pointing to exactly what needs fixing/adjusting/replacing. So, I... y'know.... kept an eye on it. Surprisingly, it did not fix itself. It actually got worse, making high-pitched whistles and strange gurgling noises as the tank slowly refilled. A few days ago, after a flush, the water in the tank just ran and ran and ran. Again, I extracted the lid and I saw the flapper ball at the bottom of the tank was flopping at an awkward angle, nowhere near the hole at the base of the flush valve it's supposed to cover. (See? I learned something from working weekends in my father-in-law's hardware store for 25 years!) Quickly, I shut off the main water supply to the tank and stared helplessly into the porcelain abyss. After a day, I decided to take a trip to Home Depot to buy a new flapper ball and tackle this repair myself, goddammit! As I perused the many flapper balls on the shelves, I was very pleased to see that each and every package was labeled "universal." Good thing, because I took no measurements. I bought a lovely brick-red number with a sturdy-looking chain and a five dollar price tag and headed home to begin and end my little project before dinner.

I sprinted upstairs, filled with confidence. I yanked the lid off the tank. I popped open the blister-carded flapper ball and untangled the shiny new flush chain. With a fistful of paper towels, I reached to the bottom of the empty tank and deftly ripped the one remaining attachment of the old flapper from its weakened grip. The old ball, after who knows how many years of waterlogged submersion, had been rendered soft and gummy and tore away from its single mooring easily. With my path clear and my determination high, I fastened the new flapper ball into place, connected the chain to the flush handle with the recommended amount of slack and replaced the tank lid — all in a matter of mere minutes. I restarted the flow of water to the tank and, after a test flush, all was working properly. I was triumphant!

A day or two later, I noticed that the sink in our main bathroom was a little slow in draining completely. My wife had been feeding some organic, biodegradable solution into the drain on a semi-regular basis with minimal success. Drunk with my new-found "master plumber" power, I twisted the pop-up drain plug out of its chrome-rimmed hole. Clinging to the bottom of its four-inch plastic shaft was a wet, gray mass that looked like an animal tail. I pulled the stringy mess off and tossed it in the trash. I replaced the drain plug and ran some water into the basin. It swirled and wooshed down the drain with the force of Colorado River rapids.

So, am I ready to take on more complex home repair projects? A new counter-top for the kitchen, perhaps, or a little rewiring in the basement? No sir. I am not. I will stick to hanging pictures and changing light bulbs. I will leave the big stuff to someone who needs a big metal box to carry their tools.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* I'm not sure why I own Allen wrenches. I don't know anyone named "Allen."

I'm your handyman

Last week, my wife discovered that a fair amount of water had collected in an area of our basement. Twenty years ago, the basement of our house was converted from a cement-floor-crumbling-wall storage area to a finished room with a tile floor and paneled walls. It is the current home to a Back to the Future pinball machine, an arcade-size Q*Bert video game and my dual collections of baseball memorabilia and autographed celebrity photos. So, the last thing I want near all that prized stuff is water. Mrs. P lugged out the ShopVac (one of the greatest purchases I ever made) and sucked the errant liquid up off the floor. After some repeated prompting (and ignoring), I got my lazy ass down to the basement to empty the water from the ShopVac's holding tank. I was just about to wheel the vacuum out to the adjacent laundry room, when I noticed that a new puddle of water had accumulated in the exact same spot on the floor. It hadn't rained for several days. I couldn't imagine where the water had come from. Silently, I surveyed the room. Then, I heard an unmistakable "drip-drip-drip" coming from a far wall. Upon closer inspection, I saw a crooked path of yellowish water was clinging to the wall, running from the ceiling to the floor and forming a small tributary that fed the larger pond that now occupied my basement floor.

"Shit!," I thought, with the same anger and helplessness that overcomes every homeowner at one time or another.

I vacuumed up the puddle, sopped up the stream on the wall and called to my wife to see if the general contractor who lives across the street was home. This guy is great and, to an inept, mechanically-challenged artist like myself, he is a godsend. He fixed and rescreened my antique wooden storm door. He built a beautiful front porch for my house to replace an ancient and dilapidated one. My wife has a long list of household repairs to keep him busy for months (maybe even years).

Within minutes, he was scanning our basement ceiling through narrowed eyes, pushing against the damp Sheetrock walls and toeing the baseboards.

"I'm sorry," he began, in his Israeli accent, "I have to break through the ceiling to find the leak. But, I promise, it will only be a small hole."

"What exactly is a small hole in a ceiling?," I thought, as he jammed the business end of a claw hammer into the smooth, white drywall. Debris rained down on to the floor, along with shreds of finishing tape, splashes of stray water and whatever other shit has accumulated within the walls over the past twenty years.

"Ahhh," my neighbor said, as he pointed to the source of our liquid troubles, "right there!" and he added, "Oh crap! What did this guy do?" That was an assessment of the quality of work completed by the contractor who had built our basement. We'd been told, by various workers and handymen over the years, that this guy had no idea what the fuck he was doing. Our neighbor showed me where a long, sharp screw had pierced a piece of copper pipe. Water was dribbling from the area of contact. Now, I know absolutely nothing about construction or remodeling or home repair. But, I do know that one does not drive a screw directly into a water pipe to hold it in place. They make brackets for that purpose and that's what professional contractors use... unless, of course, you are an idiot.

Our neighbor immediately began to take steps at solving our soggy dilemma. He placed a plastic container under the leak, mopped up the spilled water and set out for Home Depot to purchase a sturdy, puncture-proof piece of replacement pipe. As the day progressed, my wife and I were treated to a symphony of hammering and sawing and buzzing and gurgling as he fitted the new pipe in place and began preparations for repairing the giant hole in the ceiling. We felt the work was in capable hands. Our neighbor called it a day at around 7 PM, telling us he'd be back to finish in the morning. He said his goodbyes and crossed the street to his own home.

The next day, I left for work with the understanding that Mrs P would contact our neighbor to arrange for the completion of the work in the basement. When my day at work was finished, I hopped on the train and headed home, anxious to see the progress that was made during the day.

After exiting the train at my station, I walked down the block to my house. As I approached my front walk, I saw a huge stain of spilled white paint splashed across the incline of my driveway. Flecks of white dotted the small grassy area that calls itself my front yard. The paint splotch was about four feet across and glowed brightly under the streetlight that illuminates the space in front of my house. I walked across my front porch, taking note of a few paint-white footprints, and unlocked the front door. I could hear construction sounds coming from the direction of the basement door. I followed the noises down the steps and I found my neighbor busily dragging a paintbrush across the surface of fresh, unblemished drywall.

"How's it going?," I inquired.

"Good. Good.," he cheerfully replied, "Sheetrock is up and I'm painting. This is just the first coat, you know."

"Really?," I countered, "It looks to me like the first coat is on my driveway."

Lucky for me, he laughed.

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