The House Next Door: a diary
by Jeff Oaks
All of this writing is about men. In this undertaking, I am surrounded by men. Not one of the developers is a woman. Not one of the firemen staring at the water in my basement was a woman. I’ve not seen one woman working as a laborer for Dan, the guy who seems to manage things at the ground level. I’m trying to keep my eye on that.
Anyway, once the firemen got the hose through the back door and into the basement and turned on their pump, and the water began flowing out of my house and into the nearby storm sewer, which took longer than you would’ve thought but worked finally; and once the dozen firemen left (the chief pointing out to me as he was going how the construction next door caused all this by impeding the flow of water down the street) with my many, many thanks; and after I made a quick trip to Home Depot to buy a Wayne Waterbug, my new favorite appliance,
to pump out the rest, a process that took until 4 am and which necessitated I stay downstairs all night to move it occasionally to a new spot; after all that, the house felt somewhat secure again. I was exhausted at last like the loved one who’d been sitting up with a friend who’d undergone an operation. I slept from 5 to maybe 7am. It has become the weekend, and as I go down to make sure no water’s come back in (none has), I call my insurance agent to tell her the whole story.
Yadda yadda yadda.
Here enters the only woman in the story: Patty. Who gives the most practical advice about how to handle things. #1. Try one more time to get the contractor’s insurance certificate; #2. If they don’t produce one, put a claim in via my insurance company, and “let the company go after them.” That way, she tells me, you don’t have to worry about it. She tells me things in very reassuring ways: here’s what your deductible is; here is the number for the claims adjuster’ here’s what you tell him or her. Of all the people in the story, I’ve known Patty for nearly 20 years, when I went with my mother to get my first auto insurance. The memory of my mother lingers around Patty like a perfume, so I tend to trust her.
“And you are taking pictures of everything, aren’t you?” she asks.