I specialize in high-altitude structural maintenance. Essentially, if something breaks high enough above the concrete that a normal human looks up, feels dizzy, and says, “They need to hire a very specific, crazy person to fix that,” I am that specific person.
I do not repair residential basement furnaces. I am not an HVAC technician.
Because of this, an unspoken protocol had evolved within my family over the past decade. The protocol was simple: Call Rupert.
If the roof developed a slow leak? Call Rupert. If the garage door sprang a torsion coil? Call Rupert. Gutters detaching? Rupert. Water heater making a sinister hissing noise? Rupert. The internet router inexplicably slowing down during a Netflix binge? Inexplicably, also Rupert.
I had become the designated emergency response infrastructure for a family that refused to learn how the physical world operated.
The furnace was a sore subject. Two brutal winters ago, Mom’s heating system had required a catastrophic overhaul.
