Maintenance
The early morning rain woke Jiro a few minutes before his alarm. It trickled in little rivers down the large, single pane window of his nineteenth story apartment. Jiro watched contentedly from his bed.
Across the room, the little coffee maker next to the fish tank was just beginning to burble its way to life.
Jiro sighed. It was going to be a good day.
At precisely six thirty, he silenced his alarm, rose, stretched, and crossed the room.
His tiny red and blue dwarf gourami, Henry, swam up to greet him. Jiro nodded pleasantly to the little fish. He carefully measured out Henry’s breakfast, a combination of algae-based pellets and brine shrimp.
Animals were good companions.
Not like people.
People were messy. They could embarrass you.
In fact, that was why Jiro chose Arigato Towers. It had all the amenities, including delivery of anything you could ever need. Jiro hadn’t needed to speak to another human in nearly eleven months.
For that long, life had been peaceful.
The coffee was almost done. Jiro went to the bathroom to freshen up. He flipped on the light and glanced at his reflection in the mirror.
Then something brushed his leg.
Jiro jumped.
His eyes shot down, searching for a rodent or insect. But it wasn’t a pest. It was water. A tiny jet sprinkling onto the floor.
Jiro frowned and dropped down, squatting so he could see under the sink. Sure enough; there was a leak.
Reflexively, Jiro grabbed for the knob to close the shutoff valve. But he realized that wouldn’t work. The leak was on the wrong side of the valve.
Not good.
Jiro stood back up, scratching his head. What to do? A small puddle was forming on the tiles.
He grabbed his bath towel off the hook and threw it on the floor. That would help for a minute.
He retreated, closed the door behind him, leaned back against it.
Okay. Think.
The coffee was ready. Retreating to familiar routine for a moment, Jiro poured himself a cup, sat down, and considered what to do.
Could he patch the leak himself? He’d watched enough home repair videos to give it a decent attempt. First, he’d need to turn off his apartment’s water supply . . .
Jiro grabbed his tablet. For a few minutes, he poked around the web searching for Arigato Towers’ building plans. There was a diagram identifying the main shutoff for the whole building, but Jiro was pretty sure that accessing that would involve people.
Or was the leak small enough it didn’t need to be fixed? Could he just keep putting new towels under it? Toss the old ones in his little laundry unit’s clothing dryer?
As if in answer, a bead of water appeared under the bathroom door and trickled into the room.
Jiro made a face. He seemed to be out of options.
He navigated to the Arigato Towers maintenance portal and found the form to submit a ticket. But beside it was a message: “If this is a plumbing or electrical emergency, do NOT file a ticket. Instead, please call the emergency maintenance line.”
Jiro glanced at his phone.
Suddenly, his heart was pounding.
He looked at the number on the webpage, gulped. Why was it so hard to breathe?
Hands shaking, Jiro picked up the phone. His fingers fumbled on the digits. He had to try three times before he typed in the number correctly.
For a long moment, he sat motionless, staring at the screen.
Then before he could think better of it, he tapped the call button.
On the other end, the phone picked up immediately.
Jiro froze.
But it was just an automated system. Leave a message. Jiro closed his eyes in relief.
When the beep came, Jiro’s brain refused to work. His words came out hurried and tangled. He tried to go back and clarify, but that only made things worse. Then the phone beeped. He’d run out of recording.
He sat for a moment, mortified, uncertain about what to do.
Should he call again, apologize for the earlier message, somehow repair the embarrassment?
The phone buzzed. Text message. “Repair tech on the way.”
Jiro gulped. He stood, paced, sat back down. He bounced his knee restlessly.
He took a sip of coffee and made a face. It was cold.
He glared at the pool still slowly stretching like a greedy hand across the floor.
He hated water.
Then came the noise he’d feared and avoided for nearly a year. A knock. A voice. A human.
“Maintenance.”
Story notes
This story originally apeared on the Flash Fiction Force podcast on acpnate.com.
Credits
- Artwork by Levi Nunnink.
- Flash Fiction Force created and coordinated by ACP_Nate.