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November 16, 2006

GRACE UNDER (water) PRESSURE

This morning at 2 AM, Caleb started barking. I followed him to the kitchen. He growled and pointed in the direction of the hot water tank, which, wedged in a corner, is hidden behind the wrap-around floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. I peeked through the gap between shelves and wall, alarmed by strange noises. But what I saw was worse – an indoor cataract.

A primitive affair, the tank lives behind the L-shaped shelves. Between the tank and the shelves is a waste-space for cleansers and rags, empty flower pots, winter boots. The floor there was sodden. Water was gushing from beneath the shelves.

I panicked and ran for a bucket and sponge mop. From 2 until 4 AM I sopped up fetid water. I emptied the bucket ten times. I called the landlord, who does not live in Manhattan. We both called the local plumber, whose answering service could not get anyone to come. Call the fire department, I was told. But there’s no fire, I thought.

Is this considered an emergency? Doubtfully I dialed 311. Three-one-one said dial 911. Nine-one-one got through to the fire department, and a man cried “Where’s the fire?� like in the movies. “Not a fire,� I hastened to clarify. “My water tank’s flooding.� The man said they’d send a “responder� right away. I envisioned someone driving over in a FD car, never dreaming it would be the whole fire truck megilla.

I waited and mopped and moped. The woman who lives below called. “Uh, Jane?� she began. “Karen, it’s the water tank,� I said. “Get out your buckets.� She said okay. She did not complain.

I thought: How can I turn a negative experience into something positive? My arms ached like an unpracticed oarsman’s. Sponge, wring, sponge. Run and dump grey water in the toilet. Sponge, wring, dump. Sponge some more.

Eckhart Tolle—I listen to his Cds every night. I ought to have soaked up his messages by now. He says: Stay in the moment, surrender to what is. Transcend the thought-forms of panic and dismay. Yes, I can. Rather than succumb to those instinctive yet conditioned dominant options of fear and frustration, I focused on the task: Mop. Wring. Dump. Suddenly, being in the midst of chaos was okay, an adventure.

Around 4 AM, Demitri, who lives two floors below, came up. He knew how to turn off the tank’s water and gas lines. The two-hour flood abruptly stopped, along with its scraping din. When the fire truck pulled up in its beacon-flashing glory, Demitri went down and sent it away. I said: What an ordeal this is! He replied: Comes with living on the physical plane.

We pushed and pulled the cumbersome bookcase out to the middle of the floor. But first we had to remove all the books. Such accumulation!

Demitri saved the day, or rather the night.

Unable to sleep, I scrubbed the storage nook, which I hadn’t laid eyes on since the last tank had bled to death, 14 years ago. Around 8 AM I took the patient dogs out. We bought soapless Brillo pads to plug the mouse holes, which had proliferated between tank explosions. Perfect, arched entryways, like in cartoons, and invisible in the sepulchral waste-space. Now they loomed in a row like a miniature aqueduct, an image not so far fetched in these circumstances.

The plumber ordered a new tank, but doesn’t know when it will be delivered and installed. Looks like I’ll be camping in for a day or two with cats, dogs, fewer mice, and no hot water. I have my tasks cut out: Quell the rancid smells with incense. Dust the floored books. Repaint the waste-space storage nook. Heat water on the stove for a sponge bath or two. And practice gratitude.

Posted by Jane on November 16, 2006 4:29 PM

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