Don’t Say I Didn’t Warn You

Don’t Say I Didn’t Warn You

My friend, Jan, who you’ve read about in the coma-awakening story (and she’s the person I brought to love Elvis) lives in a verysmall  apartment in Los Angeles. Through daily calls I’ve shared her three month-long saga of trying to save her bathroom from crumbling away.

It should be noted she does not own this building. She could have left the damn thing to rot and mold and turn to wet muck.

But, good citizen that she is, she notified the management of a damp wall, now crumbling. This, she noted, could be a bad thing.

Setting the stage here – the apartment is very small. No doubt there are campers with bigger bathrooms. It is the smallest possible bathroom that can accommodate a small bathtub. A person of good stature could probably touch all four walls (two at a time, of course) without much effort. Now crumbling.

The discussion began. Apparently, this situation was worthy of very careful consideration. It was studied by workers who said “hmmm” in several languages. At last, it was determined that Something Needs To Be Done. (A note from me here. Things that are obvious need no contemplation.)

Early in the process, someone painted the wall to cover the wet spot and crumbles. Ah, if only paint would get rid of the ravages of age!

But, our men of the tools finally discovered what women already know. Paint will not cover structural problems. And so, six weeks ago, men of questionable skill came in fix this mess. First, they made a mess tearing out the wet wall. They found a leaky pipe. (We are not surprised. I diagnosed this from Texas.)

After the diagnosis, time passed. When dealing with construction, it seems necessary for everyone to take a day or two to decompress from actually doing some work. An unsatisfactory plumber eventually fixed the pipe, which had to be fixed again. The wall needed to dry. (Another note from me. If one is following the trade of being a plumber, it seems to me that repairing a pipe is a fairly straightforward bit of business. No moving parts. You see what leaks. You cut it out, put in a new piece, seal it up and then rest from your labors. You have not been asked to assemble a jet engine or take four toddlers to the zoo.)

Someone else came in to deal with mold. Then everything had to dry. No doubt everyone needed a good, long rest.

Two weeks passed, and some fellows arrived to rebuild the wall and plaster. The toilet goes into the bathtub again. Noisy. Messy. Much head and ass scratching as everyone thinks about the situation. Something needs to dry.

It was time to sand and paint. Scheduling seems to be more difficult than wall repair. Tomorrow, not tomorrow becomes two weeks.  

But it finally commences. Two workers – one very tall, broad, and muscular man and his colleague, short and very round. They work together in the teeny, tiny bathroom with the door shut. (Another thought from me. The door opens in. That means these two large men, and their accouterment had to get in far enough to close the door.) It has been very hot in LA, and the apartment has no air conditioning. They will need to dry.

Now my dear friend hears the scritch-scritch-scritch of sanding. They eventually paint the base coat. Now it has to dry.

Today they came back to do the final coat. One would think it’s finished. One would be wrong. My friend just texted me…this is the actual text: “Mother of God. They won’t be back until Monday to put the towel rails up because the walls…have…to dry.”

I think she’s crying. She will need time to dry.