Page 31 of Error Handling
I tear open my purse and dig for my phone. When I moved into the apartment three years ago, my landlord, Gary, told me to download an app. What is it called? At Your Service, or something like that.
I scroll through my apps, all bazillion of them, and finally give up and search my app library. There it is. I click on the app, select my password from the phone’s vault. As my account signs in, I try to remember what I’m supposed to do. Luckily, there’s a large red button at the top that says EMERGENCY. I click it and write “HELP” in the Problem Details field, and then hit Submit.
Gary assured me this was the best way to get help in case of emergency. He subscribes to the service, and it pings verified technicians in the area who might be available to help. I’ve never needed the app, so I don’t know whether it’s going to work.
“Someone should be coming,” I say after tossing my phone in my purse.
“I can try to shut off the water in the meantime.”
“You either cause things to break, or you’re here to save me from all the breakage.”
“We can discuss that while I’m figuring out why the Nile River is running through your apartment.”
“Okay.”
We exit the Equinox and slosh through water to reach my house. When I open the front door, a deluge pours onto my shoes. No water penetrates my combat boots, but I still scream.
The short hallway leading to my living room is submerged in half an inch of water, the vinyl floor allowing none of it to escape.
“This isn’t good!” I holler.
I run past the living room. On the back porch Dolly whines in her crate, a different sort of whine than “I’ve been in here for hours, let me out.” More like, “Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.” Dogs are so intelligent. I hope Dolly isn’t standing in a foot of water, but I can’t let her out until we’ve determined the source of the leak.
“I hear it,” Christopher says.
I also hear the pattering of unrestrained water. This is no bedside Zen fountain. The tinkling offers no calming effect. Thank goodness I don’t own this home. Gary will have to pay for the repair.
“There,” Christopher says after we splash into the kitchen.
Water is leaking from the cabinet under the sink. When he opens the door, a tsunami crashes onto the vinyl floor. He drops to his knees, pushes aside a soggy roll of paper towels, a bottle of Soft Scrub, and other cleaning supplies, and then sticks his head inside to assess the damage.
“I think one of your water supply lines popped loose,” he says, his voice muffled by the surrounding wood.
“That sounds bad,” I say over the spray of water. I hug my forearms against my stomach.
Christopher pulls his head from the cabinet and stands. “Where is your water shutoff valve?”
“I have no idea.”
“Do you have a basement, a utility room?”
I shake my head. “Neither.”
“Lemme check your crawlspace.”
“Um. Spiders.”
Christopher shrugs.
Where will I sleep tonight? What if the water soaked my bedroom carpet too? I head that way while Christopher exits the front door in search of crawlspace access.
Thankfully only the living room carpet is soaked. The hallway carpet leading to my room is still dry. Both my bedroom and bathroom are also dry.
Dolly, my fawn pug, whines, reminding me she’s still stuck in her crate. I reenter the kitchen and check on her. The enclosed back porch is also dry, thanks to a wood transition piece between the kitchen and the porch. Dolly sits alert, wiggling her curly cinnamon bun tail and following my movements with worried eyes.
“I can’t let you out yet. I’m sorry.” I stick my fingers through the wires, and Dolly licks them hungrily.
I hear a thump from beneath the kitchen. Christopher’s muffled voice rises through the floor. All I can make out is, “I’m stuck.” Which is undoubtedly the most important part. Great. Now we’ll have to call in the fire department for a search and rescue.