Perhaps it’s the icy water hitting my face, or maybe it’s even the fact that I’m a naturally bright person with good reflexes, but it hits me all of a sudden that I’ve got a burst pipe and I need to shut off the water.
I immediately drop to my knees as water continues to shoot upward before raining down on my back as I pull open the cupboard doors below the sink and start pulling out the barrage of cleaning supplies I’ve got under there, frantically trying to clear a path to the shut-off valve. As I pull away a half-empty bottle of Lysol that I throw over my shoulder, my eyes go to the pipes and the shut-off valve that… is fucking missing the actual knob to turn it. All I can see is the end of a bolt-looking thing. I quickly process I’m not turning off the water this way.
But again, I’m a quick thinker. With a muttered curse, I surge upward, only to slip and slide my way across the wet linoleum as water continues to spew out of my sink. I turn into the hallway, using my hand on the casing around the kitchen door to keep my balance, and sprint to the back door. I burst through it, turning to my immediate left to a door that leads into an outside utility room. I open the door and immediately look to the red handle of the shut-off valve for the entire house. It’s up high, but I also have an eight-foot ladder leaned against the far wall. I grab it, pull the legs open, and scramble up it. Grabbing onto the red handle, I pull downward with an expectant surge of relief that I’ve found a way to solve this problem in what was really only a few seconds. Less than a minute definitely.
Unfortunately, the handle doesn’t budge. I try pushing it upward, but I know that’s not right. It has to come down, and I dubiously eye the rust around the bolt that holds it in place.
“Fuck,” I mutter, which is uncharacteristic language from me, but it’s warranted in this case.
I grab the handle again, lay my other hand on top for extra leverage, and literally start to pull with my entire body weight as I let my knees bend so I start to sink downward from my perch on the ladder.
I hear a creak, and this bolsters me.
I pull harder, giving an unladylike grunt with my effort.
With a scream of rust and metal, the handle moves so swiftly I almost fall off the ladder, but I manage to gain my balance. It takes me several dumb blinks of my eyes as I stare at the handle that broke off and is now sitting in my hands to register what happened. I lift my head slowly and gaze up at the valve, still wide open and now with no clear way on how to shut it off. I can still vaguely hear the hiss of water spraying from the kitchen that’s filtering through the open doors, and I feel my mind completely shut down.
In an instant, I become a totally helpless female, and there’s only one man close enough who could potentially salvage my house.
Without a thought to the fact I’m barefoot, soaked through to the bone, and looking like a drowned rat, I scramble off the ladder and jet out of the utility room. I run gingerly along the side of the house, the lawn starting to soften with new grass but also still having prickly winter blades beneath, and slow a bit further as I cross over the dirt lane that, while mostly dirt, also has rocks and some gravel mixed within. It’s back to a cautious run across his yard and up his three porch steps.
I’m not surprised to see Kyle’s old truck sitting outside his cottage because where else would he be at 6:45 in the morning? Neither am I reluctant in the slightest to start banging on his front door, frantic with the thought that every passing minute probably means another inch of water in my kitchen.
It’s probably after only about seven bangs on the door, which are hard enough to rattle the small square panes of glass within, that I hear a very grumpy voice yell out, “I’m coming, for fuck’s sake.”
My hand falls away from the door. I bounce from foot to foot with anxiety as I wait for him to open it. I’m practically hopping with eagerness to get help at last when I hear the lock turning.
Kyle pulls the door open. His eyebrows shoot high when he sees me there. He holds my gaze impassively for a second before he looks slowly down my body, taking in my wet hair, soaked nightgown and dirty feet.
“Pipe,” I gasp out, realizing how out of breath I am not only from the adrenaline coursing through me, but also from the mad dash over here. “Burst. Water everywhere.”
His eyes snap back up to mine. “What?”
And then, complete lunacy bursts forth from my lips as I hold out the red valve for him to see. “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope. Star Wars, 1977.”
He doesn’t laugh.
He doesn’t smirk.
He doesn’t roll his eyes.
But he does offer me aid. “Let me get my tools.”