The other day, I was about to step into the shower when I realized that there was no water. There was no water in the line of my bathroom, nor that of Kathleen’s; neither was there running water in the laundry room across the hall. It took more than an hour for the senior doorman to nail down an explanation: the pump was broken.( In any Manhattan building over a certain height — six or seven floors, roughly — city water has to be pumped into the rooftop tanks that are such a distinctive feature of the neighborhood skyline.) At the same time that José learned about the pump he was told that an electrician was working on the problem. But by this time a rumor had taken hold: that the Second Avenue subway excavators had hit a water main. I heard it myself from the check-out ladies at Food Emporium, when I went back for a second hoard of Deer Park 2.5 gallon jugs. (The first three jugs I’d carried up myself — not a good idea; I had the second batch delivered.) I didn’t correct them; I wasn’t entirely sure that I knew better, notwithstanding José’s assurances. 

Back upstairs, I read the last pages of the book by Eduardo Porter that I would write up later in the day — not very well, I’m afraid. Although I never quite freaked out on Tuesday, I was subject to agitated aftershocks long after the water came back on. Panne d’eau is the worst thing that can happen in the house without actually damaging it. (There’s no reason to compare the drawbacks of losing power, because “no electricity” means “no pump” means — “no water.”) At least it is at my house. The only way that I could be less of a desert person would be to move into a houseboat. I am wretched without two short showers a day, and I am always giving my hands a light wash. If I believed in divine intervention, then Thomas Crapper would be my god. (Correction: he would constitute, together with John Harington and Joseph Bramah, my holy trinity.) I regard the loss of running water as something much worse, and more frightening, than an inconvenience.

But I soldiered on with Porter’s final chapter, which deals with the environmental apocalypse that already seemed to have begun chez moi. I had fifteen gallons of water and a promise from Kathleen that we would stay at a hotel if the water didn’t come back on. Also, I had arranged to run down to a friend’s flat at about one, if I couldn’t take a shower at home;  and, if it came to that, I would take him out to lunch afterward. So I was set. I was almost at the end when I heard a strange roiling noise, such as might be made by a very large but very muffled washing machine. It came primarily from the direction of my bathroom, which is right next to the room where I work, but it really came from everywhere. I got up to investigate (hope springs eternal), and indeed as I neared the bathroom the sound became more distinct, taking on bubbling, gurgling notes. This went on for about ten ten minutes. Every now and then it would taper off, and my heart would sink, but the intermissions were never long, and at long last a filthy brown liquid streamed from the tap. What must have happened is that the pump stopped working hours before anyone noticed, and the water ran out when the tank was empty. The fresh water pouring into it, now that the pump was working again, was stirring up all the sediment that accumulates naturally over time and that periodically has to be cleaned out (meaning “no water” for several hours — but with plenty of advance notice). The water came back on at about a quarter past twelve; it was well past one before the water was clear enough to think of using to wash out a teapot, much less fill it.

Now I have five jugs of bottled water, and what am I going to do with them? Rather, where can I store them? The balcony is tempting, but experience teaches that it’s a bad idea. The jugs will get dirty, and the highly variable temperature will — well, I don’t know what it will do to the water, but it will make me not want to drink anything that has been sitting through sun and chill. Eventually, the jugs will develop very slow leaks. No, if I’m going to put the jugs out on the balcony, I might just as pour them down the drain, or take them to the service elevator room, for scavenging by the handymen and the porters. (Who aren’t needy enough, however, to lug jugs of bottled water to their homes in the outer boroughs.) I really would like to have the water on hand, Just In Case. And there you have it: I’m so perplexed by this pressing domestic difficulty — the jugs are sitting quite impossibly on the foyer floor, very much in the way — I can’t think of anything more interesting to write about. I was going to muse on Alan Riding’s book about the arts in Occupied France, but, frankly, the water problem is less depressing, at least now that it’s over.  

Drop me a line at rjk@dailyblague.com
This entry was posted on Thursday, March 3rd, 2011 at 6:00 pm.