The sweet tingling of the ice cream truck bell sounds from down the block. I am ten years old with two quarters in my pocket and my mouth is already watering for the starched uniformed Good Humor Man to turn over my treat. My biggest dilemma is choosing whether I should get a Strawberry Shortcake or the brand new ice cream that has actual hard chocolate attached to the stick in the center.
The ring ring ring gets louder and conscious seeps slowly in. My crusted eyes peer at the red numbers of the clock radio. 5:45am.
“Someone better be fucking dead,” I said as I picked up the phone.
“Well if it isn’t, some wrong number is really pissed at you right now. Who the hell is this?”
“It’s Joe, I just game into the office before heading over to the hospital and the office is flooded.”
“What exactly do you mean by flooded?” I asked wide awake now.
“Flooded as in a blanket of water covering the floors and pouring out of the ceiling onto the counters which in case you’ve forgotten, is where you keep all the computers,” Joe offered.
Always the wit, even in crisis.
“Fine, I’ll page the building manager and be right down.”
He was there when I arrived explaining that a pipe had burst two floors above us and weren’t we fortunate that we weren’t as bad as them?
Yeah, real lucky.
So this has been a week full of water removal, floor fans, insurance agents and not knowing if sparks will fly anytime something is plugged into an electric outlet.