It’s funny how two
separate conversations in one week could cause me to remember a single day that
happened many years ago.
First of all, last
Friday an HVAC technician was scheduled to come check out my furnace because
after the last heating season, I was told the burner was being held together
with only rust and would need to be replaced. So I decided, even though it was
85 degrees outside, it might be a good idea to replace it before the temperatures
plummeted to below freezing.
Which, in New
Hampshire, could happen in an hour.
But first, I wanted an
estimate. No sense scheduling a repair I couldn’t afford…like just about anything over $100.
The guy, Scott, arrived
right on time, looking as if he’d just come from lifting a few 300-lb.
weights at the gym...using only his thumbs.
“Hi!” he said, flashing
a smile (even that looked muscular). “I’m here to give you an estimate on a new
boiler.”
“Um, it’s a burner, not
a boiler. I have a gas furnace.”
He looked puzzled. “I
was told you have a boiler.”
“No, it’s just a regular
hot-air furnace.”
He just stood there, perplexed.
So I dared to ask him
exactly was his job title was.
“Sales,” he said. “A
technician was supposed to come over, but he had a family emergency…so they
sent me instead. How old is your furnace? Maybe it’s time for a new one?”
I wasn’t in the mood to
hear a sales pitch. I wanted an estimate for a new burner. Period.
“It still runs fine,” I
said. “I don’t think it’s ready for the scrap heap yet.”
Scott stared at the sign
on my door: “A House is Not a Home Without a Rottweiler.”
“Do you actually have a
rottie?” he asked.
Many people might think
that was kind of a dumb question, but I’d recently read that one of
the best ways to deter burglars is to fake that you have a big dog, even to the
point of buying a huge dog-dish or a dinosaur-sized chew bone and leaving them
out on the front porch.
When I said yes, I did
have a rottie, Scott smiled and said, “Oh! I LOVE rotties!”
So I introduced him to
mine, Wynter, and it was mutual love at first sight…kisses, hugs, belly rubs.
Scott left here, smiling. While I was left with a rusty burner and still no estimate.
Then on Sunday, I was
visiting my friend and her husband and they described how he’d recently had to
sit and wait for countless hours in a hospital emergency room while suffering
from stomach cramps and an urgent need to set up camp in the men’s restroom.
Fortunately, his problem easily was resolved once he finally saw an actual physician.
So how are these two
seemingly unconnected incidents related? They reminded me of an incredibly stressful
day I experienced over 20 years ago.
Back on that day, I was
having trouble with my cable TV, so the company said they’d send a technician
over to assess the problem.
When he arrived, the
first thing he said to me was, “You have dogs!” His tone, however, indicated he
wasn't pleased.
Both of my dogs were out
in the yard and barking at him, so I guess that might have been a clue that
yes, I did have a couple.
All I could see was the
guy’s nose, which was poking around the edge of the door frame. “Please,"
he said. "Lock them up in a room or I’m not coming in!”
“They’re outside in
a fenced-in yard,” I said. “You’re perfectly safe with them out there while
you're in here.”
“Yeah, but I'll probably have to check for any problems both inside and outside,” he said. "If you don’t lock them up, I’m leaving. I have been terrified of dogs ever since…the incident.”
I had no idea what the
“incident” was, but I was tempted to point out that his particular line of work
might not be too suitable for someone who was suffering from a severe case of dog-aphobia, as he
appeared to be. However, I did as he asked and called my dogs inside, then
locked them in the bedroom. I was hoping to get the cable repaired in time to watch the latest episode of
my favorite soap opera, so I was desperate enough to do anything he asked...well, almost.
When I returned to the
front door and opened it, I thought the cable guy had left. It turned out he was hiding behind the post on the
porch.
“You can come in now,” I
said.
“Are you sure it’s
safe?” He didn’t move.
“The dogs, as you
requested, are locked in the bedroom,” I assured him.
Once again, he allowed
only his nose to peek around the corner. “Are you positive they can’t open the
bedroom door?”
“My dogs aren’t even
coordinated enough to walk down the stairs without tripping, so I’m pretty sure
they can’t figure out how to turn a doorknob.”
The guy finally came
inside and checked out the cable box, but the entire time, he kept casting wary
glances in the direction of the bedroom. He was beginning to make me feel as if I had two
rabid, drooling werewolves locked in there. Even after he left, I
hesitated to let my own dogs out of the bedroom, he’d made me feel so paranoid.
As I was washing the dishes
after dinner later that same night, I was looking forward to finally sitting down and relaxing. That’s when my husband, who was stretched out in
his recliner, casually said, “I have this weird bruise on my stomach that I just noticed. Can you take a look at it?”
I shrugged, wondering
what could be so weird about a bruise and how it had ended up on his stomach, of
all places. “Sure.”
He lifted his shirt to reveal the Queen Mother of all bruises. It was dark purple and red with a blue border...very colorful. The scariest part was that as I was looking at it, it rapidly kept getting bigger. I grabbed a ruler and measured the bruise. Within minutes, it had increased in size by three more inches. I figured that unless I wanted to watch my husband turn into a replica of the Violet Beauregarde character in the Willy Wonka movies, I'd better get him to a hospital.
 |
| ACTUAL PHOTOS OF THE BRUISE GROWING |
A half-hour later, we
walked into the emergency room. The place was so mobbed, there wasn’t
a single seat available anywhere. We were greeted by an irate man who loudly
told us he’d been waiting for hours, that no one cared if he dropped dead, and the woman at the registration desk was a real witch (actually, he used a more
colorful term, but I’m trying to keep this G-rated).
“I think I’m fine now,”
my husband whispered to me. “Let’s go home.”
The woman at the registration desk interrupted and asked us to have a seat so she could get some
information. After we explained why we were there, she said, “I’m bumping you
up to the top of the list.”
Unfortunately, Mr. Angry
overheard her and became even angrier. He started kicking things (like doors
and the empty wheelchairs near the doors) and shouting about discrimination and
contacting the head of the state’s medical board. He sure seemed to have plenty
of energy for a sick guy.
“Uh, it’s okay,” my
husband said to the woman at the desk. “I’m in no hurry. Why don’t you take care of that guy
first?”
“Oh, I’ll take care of
him, all right,” she said through gritted teeth. “Security is on its way
to pay him a little visit as we speak.”
We were escorted into an
examining room where my husband’s bruise became a tourist attraction, with
several doctors, nurses and even some guy who looked like the custodian coming
in to look at it. The general consensus seemed to be, “Hmmm.”
At 1:30 that morning, we
finally were headed back home. The verdict? That my husband was fine, didn’t
need any treatment, and the bruise was superficial and would fade in about a week or so. It, they
decided, probably was a result of the blood thinner he was taking, so they
reduced his dosage...still, they weren’t completely certain. So I guess the cause of
the humongous, hideous bruise forever will remain a mystery.
Maybe the two rabid
werewolves in our bedroom had something to do with it.
Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.
