Repairman Bites Back

NEAL C. FAREWELL, who lives in Buffalo, New York, sends us this rejoinder to a recent complaint in these pages about the behavior of household repairmen.

I am just an average appliance repairman. I do my work during the day, and when I come home at night all I want is a little peace and quiet. Do I ever get it? No! Like last week, my wife greets me at the door with the news that we received a letter from my sister in Seattle and it is my job to reply. I once wrote a note to a record club to cancel our subscription and ended up with their Golden Jubilee Album of LittleKnown Operettas. At the typewriter I am all thumbs.

So what does an intelligent person do? He calls in an expert. I picked up the classified directory and tried letter writer, writing general, writing commercial, writing residential, and only after a half hour of concentrated searching did I find the listing under Composition, General.

I was surprised at the number of people in the business. One ad read Vets Writing Service, and I was inclined to call just out of patriotism, but my eye was caught by the one just below it. It advertised “House Calls $2.50, absolutely no hidden charges.” They called themselves Integrity Pen and Inc.

My call was answered by a man’s voice. If he had not been awakened from a nap, his voice gave that impression.

“I would like someone to write a letter to my sister in Seattle,” I said.

“I’m tied up till after Easter.”

“Well, it’s only a small job,” I pleaded.

“Best I could possibly do is three weeks, and only if I get a cancellation. I got extra men on now.”

“I really wouldn’t want to wait that long,” I explained. “My sister is moving to Alaska, and I promised my wife —”

“You’re all alike,” he grumbled, “ - wait until the last minute, and then it’s a matter of life and death.”

He read me out pretty hard, but the conversation ended with his “I’ll see what I can do.” For some reason I felt strangely triumphant.

One evening, about three days later, I was lounging about the house in a robe trying to work up the ambition to go to bed, when the bell rang. It was nine forty-five.

“Integrity Pen and Inc.,” the surly young man said as he pushed by me into the living room. “Bring it in here, Joe.” Another man, younger and surlier, came in loaded down with a portable typewriter, a ream of paper, and miscellaneous tools of the trade.

The older of the two, who sported a tiny untrimmed goatee, hoisted the typewriter and sent it scratching across the coffee table.

“OK, let’s get started,” he said.

“What can I do to help?” I asked pleasantly.

“For a starter, let’s see the letter from your sister,” he said.

I handed him the folded pieces of pink stationery, and he read. After a time he looked up at me with a sarcastic sneer on his face. “Are you kidding, Buster?” he asked. “This thing calls for a trilogy. She wants to know about the kids, some stocks you’re holding for her, Uncle Al’s address, did you get the Christinas presents. This is no house call, Mac. I’ll have to take it into the shop.”He rose to leave and signaled to Joe to pick up the equipment.

“Look,”I said, “all I want to do is say hello and tell her we’re fine.” He paused. “Just fix it up as best you can.” I continued. “I don’t expect miracles.”

He stood for a moment, thoughtfully. “Usually we insist on doing these things right, Mac. But it’s your letter, and if you want to send it out that way— It’s just that I ain’t taking the responsibility.”

When I had signed the release, he returned to the typewriter. It was a joy to watch his hands move over the keys and to watch the sentences take form on the paper. Joe stood by, smiling in obvious pleasure at the talent of his master.

In about ten minutes he sat back. “ There you are Mac,” he said. I read the letter quickly. It was certainly a work of art. He told my sister we were all “wonderfully well.”The beauty of the phrase brought a lump to my throat. “A beautiful job,” I said, “but there is one thing. Couldn’t we fit something in about the Christmas gifts?”

I could see his face flush with anger. “Look, Buddy! You called me to write this letter, right? I told you it should be taken to the shop, right? Now, if you want to write this letter, write it. But don’t tell me my business!”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to interfere.”

“That’s all right, Mac. But you understand we got a little pride too. You want I should throw on a P.S. about the presents?”

“That would be fine,” I said.

He dashed off a P.S. in less than a minute. While he made out the bill, Joe packed the equipment.

“Here you are Mac,” he said, handing me the bill. It totaled six dollars and fifty cents.

“I beg your pardon,” I said. “I thought house calls were two fifty.”

“That’s right, Mac. Two fifty in the call area. You’re out of the area — that’s four bucks. You wanted a P.S., right? That’s a buck fifty. Materials, a buck. No charge for the envelope. I had one left from the last call.”

I paid, content that the job was done. I walked to the kitchen to show the letter to my wife.

“There it is,” I said, “all signed, sealed, and enveloped.” She examined it for a moment, then began moving her head slowly, up and down, a move I have learned indicates extreme superiority.

“It’s fine,” she said, “except for one thing.”

“What?” I asked.

“It’s addressed to Uncle Al.”

“Damned incompetents,” I shouted, hurling the letter to the floor. “I’ll get some tools and do my own work from now on.”