FRIDAY THE 13TH STRIKES AGAIN

Oh, Friday the 13th. You're being a little shit, yet again. We have history, Friday the 13th and I. 

When I was fourteen, on Friday the 13th I stepped on a hidden sailboat mast that was embedded in the sand at a Cape Cod beach. A metal disc at the end of the pole cut my foot clear through the nerves. Sliced it like a chef's knife through warm butter. Bled like Carrie at the prom from my flipflop shooting blood up like a reverse fountain. Ah, good times, good times.

Another Friday the 13th, I smacked my head on the roof of a rental car leaning over to get inside because I forgot it wasn't my regular car and misjudged the entry angle. Yes, indeed, a funny sight for anyone else in the Dunkin Donuts parking lot. Except for the fact that I was driving with my young children, so, head-smack or not, I had to get behind the steering wheel and pretend that my brain wasn't trying to crawl out of my forehead.

This Friday the 13th, my apartment is scheduled for routine maintenance: Replace the battery on the entry door, install a new door lock and handle on the porch, and replace the HVAC air filter. Simple, right? I leave my phone off all day at work, so imagine, if you will, my confusion when I start up my phone in the late afternoon and receive a message that my replacement water heater will be installed when and if it arrives today.

Say, what?

The apartment complex was recently sold, so there are new owners. Maintenance is now an automated text service. So, I text back that there must be a mistake. My apartment is just getting routine door maintenance. 

Nope, that does not compute with the text I get back. They replaced my hot water heater because it "let go." Since moving to this complex, this is the third hot water heater (two different locations) I've gone through. Before that, at my old townhouse, I went through three, as well. This tells me that there is corrosive crap in the water. It also tells me that hot water manufacturers are crooks.

I arrive home well after the dinner hour and find that one of the light strings on my porch (only one of the two) is blinking on and off and on and off. Someone has obviously been on the porch and obviously touched something they aren't supposed to touch. Also, all of my porch items are now sitting in my living room, and my couch has been moved. I assume this is to bring in this new hot water heater that I supposedly needed, but it wouldn't have killed anyone to politely move the couch back to its original position.

Next, I discover that my apartment is at a cool 62 degrees from the door being open so maintenance could access my porch. I go to turn on the heat and notice a brand new air filter on the floor. I text maintenance: Did you guys change the filter? Is this a new one? An old one? Should I save it for you? I mean, what the hell do I know? I wasn't here all day because I have to work. All I know for sure is that my entire porch is inside now, and my house is chilly.

I decide to check the water. It takes about three minutes, but, finally, the faucet runs hot. Good news for a shower later. Then I notice that it isn't getting any warmer in here. As a matter of fact, the vents are blowing cold air. Did I accidentally turn on the ac (that broke during the heatwave over the Fourth of July)? No, the heat is "on" and set to 70. With the current temperature up to 63, this puppy should be cranking.

I text the automated system again. Ella (AI's name) assures me that I can reach a service member, but only if I send a photo of the thermostat. I snap a photo, tempted to add icicles from the Christmas tree. I send the photo. An hour later, someone shows up. I tell him about the hot water heater. (Shouldn't he already know this?) He checks that. He checks the HVAC. He seems to think they're connected. Do I have hot water? I check again. Two minutes this time to get hot water from the faucet. 

Suddenly, all work stops. Maybe the part they need will come tomorrow. What part? Every damn thing worked fine and dandy when I left this morning. My whole entire place ran like a Bradbury Martian station -- heat at my fingertips, hot water in the pipes, a porch door that worked, and an entry door that never ceased to light up when the code was entered. Now, I am huddled in front of a ceramic heater like a Dickensian character around a brazier fire, scrounging for rotten potatoes that fell off the back of a cart.

At this point, I don't dare take a shower lest the hot water only last a minute or two (after the five minute warm-up period) only to be soaking wet and cold with no heat, either. I don't dare move away from the ceramic monstrosity lest my healing lungs decide to take another chill and I die of exposure. I don't dare take off my Fiberfil vest lest my core temperature plummets. I don't dare fart, burp, or sneeze lest a body part flies off or an organ shoots out -- with today's luck, I'm not betting against anything at all.

Oh, Friday the 13th. You cad! You character, you! Ya got me again, ya filthy buggah.