The House Next Door: a diary; or Men’s Silences

by Jeff Oaks

On Monday, rain was expected, and I was worried that the site was still not prepared in case we got another all day rainfall. I tried to call the company whose truck I’d seen– DeFrank Development–but the number on the Better Business Bureau was not in service. I looked up the developer on the Allegheny Real Estate Website and found PennRegent, found their website, which is sleek and hip, but couldn’t find a clear way to reach them. I found their site on Facebook and messaged them with my concerns and asked if they could help. No one answered. Finally, growing more and more concerned, I posted on a social site NextDoor Lawrenceville, asking if anyone knew the contractor’s number? One of my neighbors suggested trying the our neighborhood business/ development organization, Lawenceville United, so I called them. 

In the small world of Pittsburgh, it turns out that one of my old students is now the director of that organization, and I explained to him the situation, which he understood immediately. He gave me the number of one of the developers, but my message went directly to voicemail. So I called back my old student, who said he’d put in a call himself to the younger of the father and son development team. A little after that, he said, Zach would call me. Nothing.  Who did finally call me was Dan, who’d clearly gotten the message that I was worried. He assured me that he’d make sure that they’d build a barrier to replace the curb, and everything would be taken care of. 

Great, I said, glad to hear it. 

And then I came home after teaching that day, I found this: 

But now I had Dan’s direct number, so I called him. (And, I should admit, some amount of soul-searching because nearly every voice in my head was saying, oh, don’t bother that nice guy; maybe nothing will happen; maybe we won’t actually get rain; do you really want to be a pain; who are you to tell Dan how to do his job?).  But I could see what was wrong very clearly:

If you take out the curb, you have to set up a new one where the old curb was. So, I told Dan, somebody’s got to come down here and rake that gravel back about three feet, move these sand bags behind the gravel to support it against the water flow.  Otherwise, these sand bags are going to trap the water into a pool right in front of my house and that’s not good either.  

I tried to talk to him about how water runs down the street, that you can’t trap it or, as he was thinking, redirect it. You have to give it passage.  “Well,” he said finally, “you know best how water works on your street. I’ll send someone down to fix it.” 

I thanked him and went into the house feeling irritated that I’d had to explain what seemed to me to be a completely obvious engineering issue and glad I’d had the courage to speak, to “persist” against the voices that told me to just keep quiet, to go along with the boys, to not make waves.  I was enormously exhausted. 

Two hours later, a young man named Christian, as if out of an allegory, arrived and dig exactly what I’d explained to Dan needed to be done. He’d been sent alone. I stayed up in case he needed anything. For another hour or two, he shoveled and positioned and repositioned sand and gravel. When he was finished he knocked on the door to show me his labor, which was exactly right. I should’ve ordered him a pizza. I said I was sorry he’d had to come out but how grateful I was that he had. He shook my hand cheerfully. 

There was no more water in the basement, or just a little dampness that would disappear soon. 

I thought, okay, I can rest a bit now. I’ve made my point. They know what to do. They won’t do it again. 

Yesterday, I came home to this: 

And a forecast of rain, lots of it.

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