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.
The gas service was a hurdle because Mom’s credit score had recently suffered a catastrophic implosion. That implosion possessed a name, a social security number, and a six-pound Pomeranian. It was Brooke.
A year prior, Mom had foolishly co-signed a massive, predatory business loan for Brooke’s inaugural entrepreneurial venture: Luxury Picnic Consulting.
