Sometime between the hours of 8 AM and noon, he knocked on my front door. Navy, short-sleeved jumpsuit, worn at the knees. Toolkit sitting next to his feet. He introduced himself and shook my hand. Firm grip, callouses. He was there to fix our oven. I explained to him that it won’t keep temperature. Keeps cooling down in the middle of my baking. A wave of hot and cold. Of course it is. What isn’t?
He moved our rug and pulled out the range. Didn’t say much of anything else to me, but murmured affirmations to himself, “Okay. Alright.” I heard wire curling against steel and pieces being pulled apart, pushed back together again. He didn’t curse or sigh heavy. Just fell in rhythm with his work. He finished quickly.
Sitting at the kitchen table writing, I wondered if he had any idea how heartbreaking the work he does is. How I long to be an appliance. One faulty piece swapped out for a new one and suddenly I’m steady. Predictable. Exactly what the gauges say I should be. How much I wish everything could be fixed.
But then I remind myself that at least one thing in my life can be. I can call a number on a sticker and Dave can come to our apartment and make our oven work again. How fortunate are we?