“I fail to see how the trajectory of your life intersects with a broken fan motor in a basement.”
“The house cannot feel like a meat locker when Declan arrives!”
“I agree completely. It makes for terrible ambiance. So, call a mechanic and pay them to fix it.”
“I am not an HVAC technician, Rupert! You know people in the trades!”
“And you are deeply connected to the entertainment complex,” I fired back. “Call Lady Gaga. See if she knows how to bypass a faulty flame sensor.”
Click. She hung up on me.
Exactly twelve seconds later, Mom called back.
“Rupert, I am begging you,” Mom pleaded.
“Mom, you need to call a twenty-four-hour emergency HVAC dispatch. Tonight.”
“Do you have any idea what they charge just to pull into the driveway at this hour?”
“Yes. It’s a standard two hundred and forty-nine dollar dispatch fee.”
“Before they even turn a wrench!” she cried, aghast.
