Dead Men's Stories

The next day, I am met with an even more deconstructed kitchen and a call from Wally. As I examine the myriad new holes and protruding wires, like errant nose hairs, I listen, more or less, to the bad news.

My wiring is a mess. (Yes, I believe we’ve established that.)

No, it’s really a mess. (Okaaaayyy….)

Well not only are all of those thing, you know, the fridge and the stove and all that all on the one breaker, the line is not even up to code. (He mentions some numbers that mean nothing to me. He may as well have been reading from a Chinese menu.)

Some things are even daisy-chained to things on the second floor. (Whatever that means.)

Whoever did the wiring during the last renovation (In 1980…think Shaper hair sprayed, gravity defying hair dos) did a really bad job. It was completely irresponsible. Dangerous. You’re lucky you didn’t have more trouble.

Well I have plenty now, don’t I?

I think back to when Lars and I bought the house. Hil was born the very next year and weeks later, our sump pump failed during a hurricane (isn’t that always the way?) The guy we’d bought our first house from was an electrician/plumber who had converted our oil heat to gas a few months before. We called him to replace the pump.

He goofed around with the kids and drank coffee in our damp but drying basement while he pulled out the pump and put in a bigger, better model. He suggested a backup and that we purchase a generator. Then he took a look at the electric panels to put the pump on its own breaker.

There were two boxes. An old and a new. He opened the newer one and looked at the sticker inside. The one that indicates who did the electrical work.

“Oh, I know this guy!”

“Do you? Small world!” I say, bouncing Hil on my hip, throwing wash on the line that runs across the basement.

“Well, I did. He’s dead. Died of a drug overdose.”

Well now that would explain my current predicament quite nicely wouldn’t it?