Okadey-Smokely (by Chris Dunn on Friday, December 10, 2010 at 11:44am.)

The new indoor oil tank stood empty (well, lightly filled with filtered fuel from the old, outdoor, underground tank—we didn’t want to waste the oil, but filtering it did take time and muscle—we just wanted to check that everything would work okay after the lines were switched around) until two days ago, when I awoke to find a chilly house. Claire had already gone to work. I went down the cellar steps and tried the red restart button on the furnace—nothing. I called the tank-replacement guy—no one home. I called Claire. Claire had the tank guy’s cell number. She called me back, “He’s on a job but he’ll be back around three or four and will come by then and filter some more oil from the old tank.”

I had told her I was comfortable in the bedroom with the space heater –also I have a 41” Plasma HD TV and that’s the old tech—I shoulda got me an LCD, but ‘Plasma’ sounded more hi-tech so I got one of those. Plasma is old tech, however, and puts out major BTUs of heat when switched on—it’s inconvenient in summer—but it really turbo-charges a space heater in the winter. (It’s also prone to ‘permanent imprinting’ when a static image is displayed over and over, or for long periods. But that’s not pertinent.)

Claire also said the new oil provider would make a delivery the next day—problem solved. So the tank guy comes over—but not four or five—more like seven or eight—and then it takes forever to filter the fuel—‘watched pots’ and all that…. The furnace finally gets going, but there’s only five gallons in the tank. Claire returns from night courses around nine-thirty—just as the heat has returned to the house.

We sleep, Claire goes to work, the heat goes off—I’ve run out of gas again. I hole up in the bedroom, confidently awaiting the oil truck to pull up any minute. I call Claire at work at 4PM, “There’s still no truck.” She calls the new oil provider, they tell her (who tells me) that the truck is in the area and should be there any time. They arrive at dusk, they fill the tank ($900!) and I stand outside watching and talking with them (it’s no warmer indoors).

One guy is new on the job—“First day”, he says. I said he was lucky to get a job in this economy. He goes into his employment history circa three years ago, at which time he was earning a comfortable living as an employee of a building sub-contractor. When the work dried up, he drifted. He got hooked up with an indoor job at an oil company in a different area—which had to trim salaries, and he ends up here in Northern Westchester, in his forties by the look of him, standing outdoors all day delivering heating oil for the winter. And glad to have the job! And me glad to be on disability so I don’t have to go out looking for the same kind of luck!

So they’re out at the truck a long time after they fill the tank—I realize the old salt is showing the ropes to the new guy—it makes me remember how long it took me to get anything done while I was teaching a ‘new guy’ back in my working days. Their twelve-hour delay makes sense to me now. The old guy comes in for the check—but my pen won’t write—the cold has coagulated the ink in my Bic. He’s been there, he hands me his pen, says it happens all the time.

I wait the fifteen minutes for any debris to settle in the tank and hit the red button again—it coughs a minute and dies. I wait a few seconds—try again—nothing. I call the tank guy—he says keep trying. I go back down cellar—try it three more times. On that third try the whole thing belches smoke and starts back up again—good for 330 gallons, aha! But the house is well chilled. When the air starts to lose its chill, I notice that solid objects, like my coffee mug, stay cold for quite a while longer than it takes to heat the air. The house itself is now the coldness—but not for too long.

Then Claire comes home—she’s managed to miss the whole thing (excepting my phone calls—which are more comfortable than a cold home) and had a nice day at work—a half-day followed by the office Xmas party, then snuck back to her office to study—her semester ends on December 23rd, she told me as she left for work today, with a tone in her voice hinting that these cretins had no respect for Xmas, or the need to prepare for it prior to Xmas Eve-Eve.

My joints are still creaking! Still, like being hungry for a long time and then eating—I now luxuriate in my seventy-degree paradise—at least, til the next power outage—furnace breakdown—late oil delivery!

And speaking of the mere two weeks til Xmas and preparations therefore—I gotta go now….