Based on a true recent experience: KNOTTED TIES

The phone rings, harsh, metallic, at five a.m. Where I had been was warm, soft. The sand was hot but yet I was comfortable under a large yellow and green striped sunbrella. Suddenly I am not there but am in my bed, dazed, confused. Another jarring ring and I fumble for the receiver. It falls between the nite stand and the bed. I grope for it, pull it up by the wire, and listen.

 

‘Sally, Sally. Help me. My toilet is over flowing. The flood is already almost to my bedroom carpet!’ This has to be a joke. I slam the phone, start to get under my cozy quilt and am jolted up again. ‘Sally, don’t hang up. I don’t know how to shut off the water. Donnie never showed me anything. Should I call 911?’ ‘Christ sake, Woman, don’t call 911. Plod through the water and find a valve or a knob behind the toilet. Turn it off, all the way off, and then start mopping and stop calling me.’

 

Melanie pays no attention to my instructions and calls again. I am furious. ‘Sally, can you bring me some big terry cloth towels? All of mine are already sopping.’ Damn you, Mel, don’t you have a mop, a bucket?’ ‘No, the cleaning service brings their own equipment every Tuesday and they were here just yesterday.’  I am out of control. My friend is an idiot. ‘Call your service. They may have an emergency number. Just let me alone.’

 

The clock tells me it is already 5:30 and I have to be at work by 8. No sense trying to get some more sleep. Knowing I was curt, nasty to my friend I call her, let the phone ring four times. Her message machine picks up. ‘Melanie, I’m coming over now with a bucket and mop, no towels. You can put the wet ones in the dryer.. I’ll be there by 6.’

 

My gray sweats from yesterday are still on top of the clothes hamper.
They’re not quite warm enough for so early. I add a lined jacket, wear old throw away shoes and reach my car. Jimminy crap, I left the bucket and mop in the kitchen. Now I am not only angry at Melanie, I am disgusted with my own carelessness.

 

There is little traffic. As I near the house I believe it may be floating down the street. It isn’t. The front door is unlocked and standing inside is the Queen of Know-Nothing land. Oh, lord, she does look awful. Her hair is scraggly, bare feet almost blue. Her satin robe is dripping and is most likely ruined. Together we go up the damp stairs. At her bedroom door I am sure I hear water running. ‘Didn’t you turn off the water,  Melanie?’ ‘No, I couldn’t find it.’ ‘Don’t you know where to turn off the gas, the water in your basement?’ She gets angry and reminds me Donnie never showed her anything. I let myself go, take her hand and lead her to the basement. ‘Now, find the turn off valves.’

I play ‘hot butter beans’ just to ease the tension. ‘You’re getting warmer. Colder. Go back to warmer. Look for pipes, one with a bright red valve.’ I fake my praise. She is silent except for her sobs.

 

I had left the mop and bucket at the bedroom door. Melanie hands me both. Roughly I hand them back to her. ‘Mop, Melanie, mop now. Wring it out in the bucket, in the tub, just get the water up. I have to get out of here and get ready for work. Don’t turn off the red main water line. If you do, you won’t use any of the other toilets, make a pot of coffee, wash your hands. I only showed you where it is in case you need it some other time.

 

As soon as I leave, call your plumber.’ ‘I don’t have a plumber.’ ‘You must have a phone book with yellow pages. It’s spelled  p l u m b e r . There will be pages of them. Find one or two in your area that list emergency numbers. Call both and be sure to leave your name, phone and what the emergency is. So long.’ I don’t get a smile or even a thank you and I am disgusted, angry, amazed that a grown woman can be so helpless.

 

My answering machine winks to me as I pass the kitchen. There are two calls that weren’t there when I went to bed last night. Figuring they have to be from Melanie I want to ignore them, but don’t.

 

Message one: ‘I’m sorry, Sally. You are my dearest friend and I’m sorry I woke you so early. Let’s do lunch Saturday.’

Message two: ‘Now I know where the water valve is. Thanks. Lunch will be on me.’ I delete both messages.

 

Fool I am. Friend I am. We have our Saturday get-together. Melanie seems to have forgotten her trauma, my anger. Our waitress lays the lunch check in front of me. I am not at all embarrassed to move it in front of Melanie.

 

We leave, arm in arm. She tells me a new joke. She laughs. I don’t even smile. The farce is etched in my memory bank. It is going to take more than a cocktail, a fake hot bouillabaisse that is missing at least three kinds of fish, tea and strawberry shortcake for me to return to normal and stay Melanie’s friend.