The condensed version.
I found Harry sitting on a piece of concrete. Head in hands, “I knew it wouldn’t work, nothing ever works.” He was looking beaten and even though I knew better, my soft spot for old people kicked in. He had just been blaming me for the pump going out because I did a load of laundry. Like we do every week.
“Why don’t we just look at the manual and see if we can troubleshoot? “
Ha! Troubleshoot?! Nothing works! It won’t work. It’s broken. Everything is broken. I am broken. Just let me die. I’m gonna die. I knew it wouldn’t work.
This is my “Do we really have to have an existential crisis every time something breaks?” face.
After fixing half of it: Look, the pressure is back! Maybe try tightening the differential too.” Him: “I can’t see it. I can’t do it. It’s hopeless.”
“Let me try,” I offered. “You can’t. You can’t do it.”
Literally two seconds after handing me the wrench: “I knew you couldn’t do it! I knew it! You can’t do it!”
“You can’t do it! I knew you couldn’t!”
Long.
Slow.
Blink.
“Just because it is called a nut, doesn’t mean you need a penis to turn it!”
And that’s the story of why I had to call Charlie to fix the well.