He is also our handyman. Actually, he was chosen to be our handyman by divine appointment. Here's how I know this.
Every time Will goes out of town (let's say to Europe, for example), something in our house explodes, or runs out, or dries up or just happens to keel over. And whatever "it" is-- be it the plumbing, the well, the hose, a flood or whatever--it calls for Carl's name.
Last time it was the explosive sewer pipe at 3:00 a.m. Lufthansa Flight 569 was just landing in Moscow when the incident happened.
Well, sure enough, the water completely stops (without warning) at 3:00 p.m. on Monday, just as our world-traveler landed in Toulouse.
Now, last time we had a little difficulty getting Carl out of bed to come over and help us. It was primarily because I mentioned that Will was in Moscow, and he heard "Roscow" which translated into Roscoe. Roscoe is a small village 10 miles north of here. Other than wondering what would precipitate such strange circumstances as to not allow my husband to travel the 30 minutes to get home from whatever he was doing at 3:00 a.m. (I can only imagine the thoughts that were going through his head, at this point), he managed to come over and help us fix the problem...
The next morning when I told him that Will was in Russia, he acted kind of stunned. "Oh, Shirley said he was in Roscow".. and the nervous laugh that followed. Meanwhile, I am melting into my kitchen floor with embarrassment and perplexation. (I just made that word up)
Now, this incident happened two months ago, I think.. O.K. three at the most.
And here we are again. But instead of the sewer pipe barfing its guts into my basement, it decided to get constipated and produce no water at all. No water at all. No warning. no water. nada. nothing. zip.
No pipes producing water at 3:00 p.m. Snowstorm scheduled to hit Rockford any minute. Guests arriving at 5:30? Husband in France. So, like.. what's the big deal about that?
I mean , Jesus!! Pray first. Then call Carl.
Remembering the confusion from the last catastrophe. I said very clearly, "Will is in France" when I made my case for him coming over. Thankfully, he hip-hopped over in no time. He's been here so many times, he doesn't even need an escort to find our stuff--the softener, the compression thingy, the fuse box, the water main. He knows it all. Despite his vast knowledge of the bowels of our home and it's previous catastrophes, Carl was not able to fix it (with duct tape)..
We had to call a plumber and use his duct tape. No, really. It wasn't a plumber; it was a well-guy.
What do you call a well-guy? What is the proper terminology for the little dude, dressed in Carharts, carrying a wrench, head in a stocking cap, driving a beatup old chevy, with a million dollar bank account?
The well and pump man.
The well excavation-"er".
The well pumped dude.
I'm here to pump you up.. dude.
Hans and Franz. (for you oldies who remember SNL.. circa 1986)
The little millionaire who has barely finished high school.
He's got to be. It took him 3 hours to make $900.00, on HIS schedule, even.
Nevertheless, he did replace the "pump", I think. I don't know what he did. But the water was working three hours after he got here, thanks to Carl. Carl recommended him.
"I have this great guy who works on my well. "
"Oh, good. I was hoping you could recommend someone."
"His name is Jack. Of course, he's dead now."
"Oh.. so, like.. how does a dead guy work on your well?"
"It's his son now."
So, what do you think? I'd like to have a nice, tasteful statue of Carl made and place it somewhere near the plumbing area of the home. I think it should be wearing hip waiters, a miner's cap with attached flashlight, coveralls, a wrench in one hand and a Bible in the other.
Yup. that's what I'm going to do.