One month into the new little home and there’s a major back up somewhere, toilet bubbling, shower gargling with extreme prejudice, and the washing machine backing up all over the laundry room.

After waiting all.damn.day for the plumber to arrive, he shows up at 4:45 and well, let’s just say that I knew within 20 seconds I wasn’t working with your everyday plumber. Nonstop patter, a bit pushy, okay–assholey– and a rapid succession of downright nosy questions from this delightful bit of a prick. After we traded initial insults I think we fell into an immediate sense of mutual, “you’re not from around here” curiosity.

He was bringing the questions, wanting to know where I was born and raised. He said he was from New York. Further comments made me call bullshit on his NY roots. “Tell the truth, you’re from New Jersey aren’t you?” Yeah, I had him dead to rights. “And plumbing’s not your original profession, is it?” Ha! Engineer. Dweeb. New Jersey Irish Geek. I knew it.

Under the house he is discovering the new shower has no p-trap, which can be kinda really serious, but all the while he is chattering away to himself in snappy phrases. I call to him, “Do you talk to yourself because it’s an argument you can win, or is it something else?”

He assured me it was simply psychosis.

“I talk to myself because I enjoy stimulating conversation,” I offered. “What should we do about the backup that no longer exists?”

“Use a community washcloth to keep it from happening again,” he shot back.

“No Luddites here! I worked too hard to evolve into a Charmin cult member.”

He crawls out and sits on the deck. Pepper immediately sits on his feet. We continue talking and he says he’d go back North if he got a job offer. I offered an open prayer of such a beautiful idea: one more New Jerseyite outta the South. We cast about the serious nature of p-trap situation when all of a sudden, Plumber cries, “Squirrel!!!” And indeed, Pepper was on Def-Com 3, watching squirrels cavort.

“That was such a great, great movie,” I said.

“I cried during the first 15 minutes,” he replied. (btw, Have you seen, “Up” yet?)

“Yep. It was completely awesome.”

“It should arrive tomorrow in the mail,” he continued.

“Already got it two days ago,” I countered.

“In Hi-Def Blu-Ray? Ha! Got you there.” And by now the vocal timbre, the inflections, the very mannerisms of the guy are reminding me of someone. . .

Back to his truck, I follow him only to see an outlandish contraption in the front passenger seat as he opens the door. “What the hell?” I exclaim.

“Oh, it’s a Bosch Box! I LOVE this thing!” And he proceeds to drag it out, turn it six ways and give a complete product demo.

“Dear gawd, but you’re a geek. Wait, where’s the plugin for the microphone for Karaoke?”

As he’s leaving, he recaps, “I’ll be sure to tell them about the shower situation.”

I replied, “And I’ll be sure to tell the Hub that Richard Dreyfus works for PlumbrRooter. “

“Oh! Ha! Wait! Hold, please! Ha! Funny you should say that! Just wait!” he shouts with boyish glee as he rummages in the truck for his iPhone and thumbs through to pics from last week in NJ. I guess what’s coming. “I’m p-sychic, ” I tell him.

“You certainly are! Hold please! Who is that?” he asks.

“Richard Dreyfus,” I reply.

“And who is that with him?”

“Looks like his younger brother”

“The first thing Dreyfus said to me when he saw me was, ‘Did my father know your mother?’”

So I said, “Damn, you’re his doppleganger!” He looked at me all shocked, “That’s exactly what Dreyfus said to me!”

I reminded him that I was psychic.

It really was an uncanny, surreal moment in the history and mystery of all things that go blurp, bloop, and foosh in a house, to have a plumber who, being the spit-and-image of Richard Dreyfus should come by and crawl under the house and wax poetic about a worksite radio and quote great movies and lie about being from NJ (don’t blame him), and just generally be Richard Dreyfus. . . but without all the warmth and charm.

How was your day?