GETTA CARBON-MONOXIDE DETECTOR

Yes, thus, I am a gas-man. Now, before your "100x-faster-than-any-computer" human brain goes through its internal microfiche Roladex and conjures an image of a slovenly-looking man with a hanging beer-gut and dirty blue jeans that hang low on his hips, exposing his ass-crack, let me interject.

Okay. I agree. That's the picture I came up with, too, before I started working for the gas company. The gas-man was the twin brother of the plumber...a whole lotta crack goin' on.

I saw meter readers (and their asses and guts don't a *chance* to get fat) walking their routes and I thought to myself, "Wow. What a mundane job. A chimpanzee could do the same." I found out, when I started--with a college degree--as a meter reader that, yes, a chimpanzee probably *could* be trained to do that job. And probably a really really smart rat, as well. Walk, read meter, input, walk, read meter, input, walk, read meter, input...you get the point.

But multiply that "walk, read meter, input" by 600, on a slow day. I was walking, at a minimum, 8 miles a day. At the end of the day, I would come home, heavy-lidded, and nap for an hour. It was physical fucking work. (And my legs never looked better. Muscle atop o' muscle. When I got out of the shower and looked at my musculature, my *own* knees got weak.) Anyway....

You may be asking, "College degree? Doing that work?" Listen: Yes, I was definitely underemployed. But I look at it this way: An honest day's work makes an honest man. I don't mind getting my hands dirty. And I saw the entry-level position as a means to an end. Get into a utilities company and you probably won't have to worry about lay-offs, plus, if you have a college degree (yes, even English) you may be that much more attractive if you desire to move up in the company. And, sad to say--and I don't agree with this shit--meter readers probably make as much as fifth-year English teachers. Besides, 'twas never my passion to teach. Hell, no. I get flustered talking in front of THREE people. No, my passion is writing. AS AN ASIDE, DID YOU KNOW THAT STEPHEN KING PUBLISHED HIS FIRST BOOK, "CARRIE," WHEN HE WAS WORKING AT A LAUNDROMAT TO SUPPLEMENT HIS TEACHING JOB? Sorry. Asides aren't usually so blaring. But, it's true. He did. And I could. (I have stories I could tell you, children....)

So, anyway, seniority rules in union jobs, and I moved up. Pipe-fitting, service turn-ons, meter removals, meter installations, Cleopatrionizing the Umbidulls...just waking you up. Yes. Boring fucking work. To this day, it is still boring. My brain is in danger of atrophying. Which gives me pause because who, in his right mind, wants his brain to atrophy? No one, is who.

Gas leaks. Natural gas, a flammable substance, leaking. If the lower explosive level gets between 4% and 15% gas-to-air saturation, people could find themselves flying through the air, next to Fido, and landing on their couch, relatively unharmed, 90 feet from their now-scalped house. Natural gas is safer than liquid propane, and I'll tell you why. (I've bored you this far, why not go for a complete sweep?) Natural gas is safer because it is lighter than air. Liquid propane is heavier than air. So, while a natural gas leak from, say, the furnace in the basement, would rise and rise and rise throughout the house until basically the whole damn homestead was filled--and people aware--before exploding, liquid propane, heavier than air, would collect, in the basement, on the floor, gaining higher and higher power and vitriol...before exploding. Gas explosions usually blow the roof off. Propane explosions blow the house clean the fuck up.

So. Dangerous job. And we "gas-men/women" get paid accordingly.

But the really cool thing, for an English major, for a people-watcher, is the interaction with every strata of socio-economics. Poor people need gas; rick people need gas. Crazy people need heat; "normal" people need heat. Slobs need hot water and anal retentives need hot water. I meet all kinds. That axiom is never more true than while "chasing gas leaks."

People with more wealth tend to overreact to "a gas smell" more than do people with less wealth. Women--and this is true as an arrow--tend to smell gas better than men. It's almost as if women's noses are more sensitized to Danger. And men just think, "Shit. It's nuthin'. Don't go all worrying, Mrytle." Mrytle's nose is right more often than it's wrong. And then there are people who call in gas leaks when their meter is shut off for non-payment, perhaps thinking that, if a serviceman is out there for a gas leak call, well, he'll surely turn the gas back on when all is found to be good. There's not really a name for those people, but there is a phrase: "Back to the end of the line. Sorry." They'll have to wait until their order comes up. In due time, Hezbollah, in due time.

I actually went out on a gas leak call, once, where there was, in fact, not even a meter on the house. It had been removed and the fuel line capped. It made me more sad than angry, though:

Pontiac, Michigan. It's not a nice place to live. It's socioeconomically down a rung on the Success Ladder. Minorities, mainly, live there. Better--poor people live there. It's almost like a sister to its southern neighbor, Detroit. Trash is on the streets and often one will see homeless people, and people with psychological issues and prostitutes. (More on that at a later date.)

So, I drove up to this gas leak call, which my computer had informed me that the caller had called in a: "gas smell throughout.multiple rooms.levels.basement.heer gas blowing.evacuate."

I pull up into the driveway and get out of the van. There is an older woman there, outside the house, near rickety-looking steps, standing next to a wheelchair. She plops in and wheels herself out from under the dingy laundry hanging on the clothesline. [If I were to get into the conversation, with all the punctuation and side-notes, I'd be here all night. (And it's already two in the morn, here in Michigan.) So, I'll go with the abridged version.]

She told me that her son had smelled gas and had heard a hissing noise. She said this, intermittently. See, she had a pacemaker, and talking made it tougher to breathe. I told her to take her time; I wasn't going anywhere. (And I didn't want her to kick it, right there in the driveway.) So she reiterated that the smell was in the basement and this had been her home--on South Paddock--but, just recently, she'd been living "a couple streets over. South Marshall." I told her that I would go in and investigate and--did I happen to mention that she was eating a Meals-on-Wheels excuse for SUBSTINENCE?--and I went inside.

The door opened easily enough but, when I looked to my left, there was a big-assed glass cabinet, with all but one of its panes broken, blocking access--except for the wee, which is me--up the stairs to the kitchen. I went past it and surveyed the kitchen. There are some times, on this job, where one will say to himself, "NO ONE lives here. No fucking WAY does someone live here." This was one of those times. I walked into the kitchen with my impotent gas detector--remember? no gas meter, NO gas!--and my writer's mind took in the shambles. Cereal boxes on the floor, two time-blinking microwaves entangled in a lovers' leap-frog, an armchair halfway in the doorway to the hallway...periodicals piled, a Christmas tree stand in the corner, next to a broom that had seen more spider than sawdust...overall, it was a foreboding kitchen. And most kitchens are cheery! I sidled past the big-assed glass cabinet and made my way down in to the basement. (660 South Paddock! For those of you scoring at home! I don't know why I remember that address, and I could be off a numeral, but I think it's a pretty gosh-damn close approximation!)

Downstairs? ...Was hell. You've heard of shut-ins, right? Where newspapers do pile up and STUFF does pile up, and the "shut-in" makes paths from the "bedroom" to the "bathroom" to the "kitchen?" (Where Colonel Mustard did it with a pipe wrench?) This was more of a Trash-In. Shit was piled...EVERYWHERE. I began to become worried about vermin. I could "see" them in my mind's eye: beady red eyes, slick fattened bodies, pinkish curled tails. Rabies.

"What the FUCK am I doing here?" I wondered.

(As an aside. My compatriots at the gas company--90%, at least--would not have gotten past that Cabinet Loom. They would have entered, in their free-form comments "house unsanitry. no gas mtr. no lk.")

Anyway, I'm a Golden Boy. I fucking *care*. Listen:

There was no access to any gas-powered appliance. Ay every turn, garbage--damaged furniture, shoes, plastic kids' toys, FURNITURE--reared its head. My flashlight sputtered but, before it did, I THOUGHT I saw a shadowy furnace. And, a gas-powered water heater. In the distance, mind you...far past the piles of shit.

"WHAT the fuck am I doing here?"

I clambered back up the stairs, believing cat-sized rats and fleas the size of eggs were hot on my trail.

I walked nonchalantly back through the squeaking side door and met the woman in the wheelchair, in the fading sunlight, next to the rickety stairs and underneath the clotheslines. It was 6:30.

"Ma'am," I said, "There is no gas leak. There is no meter. There is no gas. My detector isn't picking up anything. So, your son heard gas hissing and smelled gas?"

"Yes, he did." She paused for a great whooping breath. "He should be coming anytime, soon. Do you see a man on a bicycle on the road?"

I scanned the road. I saw a few people walking aimlessly--it seemed--but I saw no "man on a bicycle."

"He should be coming anytime, soon," she murmered, as she ate the rest of what looked like a "chicken" dinner. Mashed peas or potatoes, who could be sure?

I looked at my boots. $200, a year ago and--still!--in great shape.

"I've lived in this house thirty years," she said suddenly, whoopingly. "Just the last 10 months're so, I lived over on South Marshall. I just want to get back to my home, here," she added.

I'd grown weary. A gas leak? No. Her sons--one on a bike, the other shadowy--had torn her house to shreds. Left garbage mildewing and fleas festering. God knows what else. "Your son's coming?"

"Do you see him on the road? He'll be on a bicycle."

I made a show of looking down the road. "I don't see him," I said. I thought: THAT FILTHY MOTHERFUCKING CRACKHEAD. DESTROYING HIS MOTHER'S HOUSE AND, AND.... "I don't see him," I said.

"Well, I need a meter so that I can get back into my HOME."

I tried to get logical with her. I looked down on her gumming her chicken and said, "What about South Marshall? You've lived there for awhile. Can you go back?"

"I just need a meter."

I held up a silencing palm. I went back to my van and got one of the pink "Sorry I Missed You" tags. I brought it back to her--she was standing now, but stiffly--and I pointed out to her the 800-number. "Call them and tell them that you need a meter set."

"Can you write down what I need to say?"

I did so. All the time hoping her crackhead son wouldn't show up on his bicycle. I didn't rightly expect him to, but, one never knows.

"Thank you, son," she said as she plopped back into her wheelchair, her Meals-on-Wheels dinner tray lying, forgotten, next to her right wheel. "What's your name again?"

"Uh, Adam."

Her face brightened immediately. "Adam! First man! Adam and Eve! Did I tell you that my daughter died of Cirrhosis?"

After a few exchanges I determined that her daughter had died, not of cirrhosis, but of Muscular Dystrophy. That sucked, I determined. Her daughter had died and the old woman--I've forgotten her name--had been left in the oh-so-incapable hands of her two crackhead sons, one 38 and the other 43. The 43-year-old was the one who was supposed to have ridden down the trash-swept streets, on his bike, like an overgrown Id.

"Is he coming?" she asked.

I looked, scoured, the streets for him. Seriously, I did. I didn't want to leave this woman here. I actually wanted to see the dude; I wanted to try to be Doctor Phil. I saw nobody. "No," I said, "I don't see him."

"So I call this number and tell them what you wrote and I'll be able to live in this house again?"

"Yes," I said, and I got paged for another--legitimate, this time--gas leak.

The sun had another hour.

"Adam and Eve," she said, whoopingly.

I nodded. "Yeah. I'm Adam."