Patches

One gets to see all manner of life and lives as an appliance repair person.  And Flagstaff is home to all manner of these lives.  We service the exceedingly wealthy who are in town occasionally to visit their second homes in the gated communities.  We go on calls to the indigent who have been led off the streets or brought in from their camps in the forest by social assistance organizations and are living in shacks that are in dire need of some social assistance of their own.

We were asked to check out a refrigerator in one of these housing authority communities.  We were told the tenant was always home, so we didn’t need to make an appointment.  It was in “the neighborhood.” The neighborhood where the crime level is higher.  The neighborhood where there are chain link fences jailing growling dogs.  The neighborhood where the only landscaping is what will grow despite the broken cemented areas and forgotten refuse.  The neighborhood where landlords charge exorbitant rents for houses and mobile homes that somehow still stand defiantly despite their structures and utilities being absolutely against code.

We walked up to the mobile home’s front door after Rob cautioned me to lock the truck.  The steps were rickety looking, but actually swayed as we were let into the house by the tenant.  The interior belied the exterior – it was in a much cleaner condition than expected.  Tinny strands of an aria were being broadcast through a timeworn radio. The man of the house was of medium height and build with a face that I considered belied his age.  I guessed he was younger than he looked.  His thinning, fine hair sprung from his head.  His eyebrows were triumphant arches over his blood-shot eyes whose crystalline blue still claimed predominance, even in his attempt to avert them.  His shirt was flannel.  His jeans – and they were jeans at one time – were covered in beautifully hand sewn patches of every color and pattern imaginable.   (Later, I told Rob that I actually thought he looked a little like me. Rob replied, “Indeed.  He had the map of Ireland all over his face, too.”)  What he lacked in words he certainly made up for in movement as he darted about the room with anticipation-charged energy – eyebrows arching and hands clapping in what can only be described as delight.

We all squeezed into the kitchen area as Rob opened the refrigerator and proceeded to diagnose the problem.  Rob mumbles a lot, hems and haws, chews his lip and has a decent amount of eyebrow arching himself while he thinks out a problem.  I am Rob’s mind-reading-right-hand man, and tool-provider, but before I could rummage through my toolbox for the flashlight, the man had whipped one out from who-knows-where and was dancing behind Rob to shed the best possible beam.  Rob was only intent on the job before him, but I was beginning to take more notice of this guy. 

I told him I loved the music he was listening to.  He said he only listens to NPR.  The more he spoke, the more I sensed he was beginning to trust, and the longer he would hold eye contact.  He said even NPR is one-sided, but if the media was going to try to manipulate you, he would rather listen to that side.  But he mostly listed to NPR for the classical music because it was so soothing.

Meanwhile, back at the refrigerator -- when Rob would free a screw from the back panel, cheers from the eyebrow gallery were raised; the flashlight beam would spin around the room before resuming its place on the next screw.  When Rob had trouble with the wiring, little hops of piqued energy from the tenant were transmitted to Rob’s fingertips, and sure enough, the flashlight would twirl in celebration as the wiring obeyed.  This guy was getting to me.  I was becoming totally engaged in his vigor.  Rob started feeling it too.  Every successful turn of the screw was being met with applause.  Every unsuccessful attempt at a fix brought a momentary pall to the action.  Flashlights and eyes were twinkling, while Pavarotti was serenading our drama.

Finally – it worked!  The new fan was spinning.  There was an invisible group hug that was felt by all the hearts in the room.  Patches, as I was now beginning to call him in my mind, was ecstatic.  There was no question of the joy he was now experiencing.  Rob and I packed up our tools.  I was a little sad to be leaving.  I enjoyed my time with Patches so much.  But there was something else. Something else that seemed so contradictory to this moment of happiness I was just a part of – that Patches had pulled me into.  He was so thrilled to have been part of fixing his refrigerator, elated that is was fixed, but…

There was no food in the refrigerator.  At all.