2

The second I knocked, I could see an eye poke through the peep hole. Room 730, top floor, way down the hall. Service request for a broken oven fan. The door whips open.

“Oh, thank god you're here.â€?

It's a girl, rather she's a girl, a woman I mean. A young woman. Sweat pants and a t-shirt, brown hair in a messy bun. I'm not sure if she's in a hurry, or just disheveled. Either way, this is the most eager someone has ever been to get their oven fan fixed.

“I don't know what happened to it. It just…â€?

“Just like that?â€?

“The oven fan, yes. Just like that.â€? She throws her hands up. Poof. “I was making something on the stove, so I turned the fan on. Then it started making this clunking sound, like clunk-ka-clunk-ka-clunk, just like that. Then it stopped making that noise and my smoke alarm started frigging going off because it wasn't sucking up the smoke any more, and I was freaking out, so I opened the windows, see?â€?

She lets me in and I make my way through her cluttered apartment, stepping over last year's newspapers. Pieces of headlines and bits of obituaries have been clipped out, and tacked onto sheets of poster board that line her walls.

“Are you investigating a crime or something, like Capote?â€?

She gives me this confused look and then realizes what I'm talking about.

“Oh, no. It's poetry. Look.â€?

She prances and hops over two stacks of magazines and Macy's catalogues, pointing out her work.

'THE light, JUne air HAS come Once again,

and I LOVE IT'

“Wow. Well, what do you, what do you call it?â€?

“It's called 'cut-up technique'. I didn't make it up or anything though. They're like ransom notes that sound pretty.â€?

I cross the counter to get to the kitchen and catch my foot on a mound of the Times. Now I'm tripping over my words and her recyclables. I mean, her art. Everybody has to have something to keep them sane, I guess. I pop open the grate of the fan and get to work. She stands there and watches me, arms crossed, bouncing up and down on her heels. I have a captive audience.

Right away, I can tell what the issue is. A broken motor, insulation grade E. It's a simple fix, really. Half of what I do is just knowing what to look for. Once you can spot the broken or malfunctioning component, all you have to do is take it out and replace it with a new one. At that point, it's like working with Legos, except my pieces carry your shit to the sewers and make sure that your TV dinners stay frozen. Normally, I'd be in and out of here in a minute.

But my audience demands a show.

“Uh oh.â€? I say, getting into character.

“Oh no. What is it?â€? She leans in closer and her eyes get real wide. She's over the counter now. I look at her and then get my hands deep inside the case of the fan, furrowing my brow and squinting at some make-believe part way in the back.

“Okay, I think that I can…â€? I say, still squinting, except more intensely now.

She's really leaning in now, and she's squinting too. I pretend to twist a knob, really putting my elbows into it now. I take my pliers out and twist an invisible bolt to the right twice.

“There. Got it. Okay, I'll have to order a new motor for it. It should be here in two or three days. I'll be back up then to replace it. I'll get it working.â€?

She takes a deep sigh.

“You are a lifesaver.â€?

I'd like to thank the Academy.

I let her see my best Marlon Brando impersonation and then I start for the door to leave.

“So you've seen my embarrassing collection of bogus art,â€? she says, stopping me. “What keeps you on two feet?â€?

“Oh, I write.â€?