Plumbing makes my world go round

My cat is hunkered under a chair in the bedroom, hoping the pounding and power tools will stop shattering our peaceful morning. I feel like doing the same. My vacation is almost over, and my landlord has called in a plumber. So much for peaceful relaxation. When I opened my bleary eyes at the ungodly hour of 9:00 a.m., staggered to the bathroom, and turned on the faucet, there was nothing but air. Where usually there is a reliable stream of hot water, nothing, only a gurgle, like a mirage, taunting me, as if to say, this is how it feels to live in another century. Or in an undeveloped country. How would you feel if you had to tote that water five miles from a well or a spring? City kid!

Come on. This is the 21st century. I know what would happen if I had to tote water. I'd die. Call me crazy, but I rely on running water. In fact, without the four modern conveniences—running water, heat, electricity, and internet—I'd shrivel up and die. You know how crazy I got when my internet was on the fritz. Seriously, have you ever counted how many times you wash your hands in the course of your day? I tell you, being able to flush the toilet is a gift from the plumbing gods.

A few minutes ago, my landlord George knocked on my door and said, “We can replace your bathtub fixtures at the same time we do the ones in the other apartment. Can we get to your tub?”

“Right now?” I gulped.

“In a few minutes.”

“Uh, okay.”

Gradually over the years, I have remodeled the space I live in (fondly nicknamed the Love Shack) to suit the whims and fancies of one cat. That means any window that has space for a window seat gets one. That means there are chairs placed just ... so, to make it easy to reach the food court. That means there are places to hide, things to climb on, and lots of rugs to tear up. That means there's a screened back porch with a perfect vista point on which to lounge and eyeball the neighborhood. There's even a cloth-covered office chair with a tall back that is super fun to perch on. (I would try it myself if my butt weren't so wide.)

There's a lovely window in the bathroom, over the tub, that looks out on prime territory for monitoring cats, birds, and the occasional stray dog. I built a cat seat, of course. What a marvel of engineering! An L-shaped contraption, all wood, painted a deep forest green, lining two walls while resting on the edge of the tub, and attached precariously to the windowsill by one tiny screw. Surprisingly (because I am not a carpenter), over the years, the construct has held up well, despite the regular pounding of my 15-pound cat's huge pile-driver feet (he's all muscle). Pat on back for Carol.

After George's knock on the door, I spent a nerve-wracking half hour disassembling the room formerly known as my bathroom. (Who knew you could get so much crap into a 5 x 8 foot space. If I had to, I could probably figure out how to live in there. Don't laugh, I once lived in a 10 x 10 storefront. I know what is possible.) It took me awhile to deconstruct the cat seat. It was wedged in tight. I had to cut off a piece to maneuver it out the door. Now it is parked in the bedroom, making that room impassable. But the bathroom is so empty sound echoes. Strange how it looks bigger with nothing in it. 

And here he is now, a big hulking guy named Eli, carrying a wrench. He makes my place seem tiny and cramped. I am reminded again that this is a one-person/one-cat apartment. Bang, thump, and now he's walking out the front door with a handful of corroded metal: my bathtub fixtures! Two minutes later I hear pounding, knocking, and sawing, in the bathroom of the empty unit next door. I go into my bathroom with my camera, planning to document the mess. There are two pipes sticking out where there used to be handles to turn on hot and cold. As I watch, they slide into the wall, yanked from the other side, like the disappearing legs of the wicked witch of the East. Plumbing and pounding and resentment: Oh my!