In a hypothetical city where hypothetical buildings are built with hypothetical concrete. What happens when a pipe breaks and this pipe happens to be embedded in 30 year old concrete in your hypothetical kitchen floor:
A. You call the plumber and he comes to “take a look at it” and leaves without doing much. Anyway the musty smell sort of reminds you of the waiting area at Dino's Italian Restaurant
B. You don't tell anyone and stay secretly happy that it is a water pipe that is leaky and not a sewer pipe while continuing to enjoy the small shower you receive every time you walk through the doorway downstairs
C. You quickly move out of your penthouse and into another penthouse
D. The landlady calls the plumber to come at 4, before your husband is home from work and so you must rush home right after school during the busiest week of the school year, “finals week.” You get home, barely in time, and rush to make the bed and take out the trash. You are hungry, starved in fact, but decide to cook your last tamale (made for you by the wife of one of your husbands friends) after the plumber leaves.
The plumber arrives at 5:18 (apparently, time is judged in different ways in Mexico, mainly, I think, because they are using the metric system.) At this point you are seriously famished. The plumber begins to unpack his less than cleanly tools in the kitchen. Soon you hear tapping an cracking, and no, your ears do not lie to you. What you hear is the sound of the tiles of your hypothetical kitchen floor being torn up one by one to show, in all its glory, the hypothetical concrete floor that lies beneath. You are relieved when this tile destruction is over, as you are trying to finish writing the final exam for your seventh graders, this is difficult to do went you are blinded by hunger and someone is continuously shattering porcelain. The plumber, however, is not finished, oh no, faaaaaaaaaaaaaar from being finished. For, as everyone knows, after you chip away hypothetical tiles you must saw through the hypothetical concrete, which the plumber now starts doing.
You have heard the sound of concrete being sawed with a blade before, and you dislike the sound quite a lot. You had forgotten however, about the very fine dust that is created when concrete is sawed. And how much is created, clouds of it in fact, when someone is sawing your entire kitchen floor (don't try and open the window, the monsoon has shifted and is beating against your window panes with seriously giant drops of water, and anyway, the window is right above your only electrical outlet, the one your computer is currently plugged in to.)
You are relieved when the noise stops, and happy because you know the dust, which flies freely in all areas since you live in a studio apartment, is not good for your computer, or your lungs for that matter. But, to your chagrin, as soon as the sawing stops the chipping and cracking of concrete begins, and when the chipping stops, you guessed it, the sawing starts again. By this time you have figured out the pattern and have decided to put away your computer in a plastic bag that is sealable. You also close the closet and put all random clothing articles in your suitcase that is still serving as your chest-of-drawers until you have enough money to buy one of those cool plastic bin type things ( you forgot to put your husband's NIKE shorts in your suitcase, but we'll cross this “puente” when we get to it.) By 7:45, all noises have stopped and it is like a dream scene, as all is quiet and covered with a think layer of this fine white dust. You, however are unable to enjoy this serene atmosphere as you have passed out on the floor due to extreme hunger and asphyxiation. Well, not quite yet.....
The plumber comes down the stairs and asks, “Tiene una escoba?” Um, dunno. You think to yourself, but you reply, “No se.” The plumber asks you again, this time much louder, and waves his arms in interesting yet indistinguishable motions, like a nightmare charades game where people purposely make nonsense movements just to confuse you, “TIENE USTED UNA ESCOBA.” You reply, “No se, si tengo una escoba porque no entiendo la significa de la palabra 'ESCOBA.'” Being sort of a resourceful guy, the plumber returns to his pack and removes a paintbrush. He says, “Es como este, pero mas grande...” he waves the paintbrush around a bit just in case you didn't see it. You think to yourself, why the hell would I have a giant paintbrush hanging around my hypothetical apartment? And then...suddenly...you make the connection, escoba=giant paintbrush=BROOM. By this time the plumber has gone back to the kitchen and is sweeping dust with the small paintbrush. You proudly bring him the giant paintbrush (aka the broom or “escoba” if you will) and hand it to him. He can tell you are very happy with yourself and secretly he is thinking, “Si estas viviendo en Mexico, necessitas aprender el idioma tonta.” He smiles and takes the broom.
You are pleased that the plumber is cleaning up his mess and yet, you know that it is extremely difficult to sweep up fine, fine powder. And then! Dun dun dun! Your husband comes home. He is grouchy because he had a bad day. And now he is more grouchy because his entire penthouse is dusty, even his very favorite black NIKE shorts which look sort of striped/faded now with the addition of dust (oops, your mistake). He marches right up to the plumber and asks if he is finished. The plumber replies that he is in fact done for the day, but that he will have to return tomorrow “at 4” (or 5:18 for those of us using the metric system) to finish looking for the leaky pipe. Your kitchen is a total shambles, chunks of hypothetical cement everywhere. However! You now (somehow) have water in your kitchen sink after 6 months of nuthin'. Woohoo! BUT! Don't get too happy yet, for tomorrow, at 5:40 am you will discover, that there is no longer running water in your shower.
