Why Can't We Be Friends?

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Back in the early nineties, I was a self-employed plumber with three young children. Susan was running a home daycare, and we were paying for our health insurance out of pocket, which wasn't cheap for a family of five. It was a year or two after the building boom crash, and things were starting to pick up, but hadn't returned to normal. 

I desperately needed to stay busy, even if it meant low-balling some big jobs. I got a call from a guy in Mansfield who was fed up with his electric heat, spending New England winters in a cold house, and paying through the nose for electricity. He had a free gas line run to his home and wanted to convert everything to natural gas. He asked me to give him a price to run gas piping and install a gas boiler with hot water baseboard, a 50-gallon gas water heater, a gas dryer, and rough-in gas piping for a future gas stove. It was a big job, especially for one plumber, but I figured I could do it myself and stay busy for three to four weeks in the summer when things usually slowed down. 

With the health insurance due soon and the quarterly taxes not far off, if I had to sharpen my pencil and work a little harder to feed my family, so be it. The house was a medium-sized two-story. I entered around back through the walk-out basement. The house had a chimney; one flue for the fireplace, and another one that wasn’t being used, which was perfect for a gas boiler and water heater. While I was poking around in the basement, a few chickens entered and strutted around like they owned the place. I thought that was pretty weird for a residential neighborhood in Mansfield...  

The homeowner was from Lebanon, where, as I would find out later, chickens were considered pets. When I went upstairs to measure the rooms, the chickens stayed behind.  

There was a closet on the first floor I could use to get a supply and return up to the second floor, but I’d have to remove carpeting and plywood flooring to install the pipes, which at the time were copper and needed to be soldered. I wanted the job, but I didn't want to miss anything before I submitted the quote, so I looked carefully at everything.  

The homeowner was just under six feet tall, with a round belly that didn’t look like it belonged on his thin frame, but it didn't seem to hinder him either. He moved well, like a cat. He had dark skin and eyes, with jet black hair that was thin and a little greasy, and spoke with a thick Lebanese accent. He was wearing a work uniform with a Shell patch over one of his shirt pockets, and his name over the other. He came to the United States with his family and purchased a gas station that had several bays for auto repair. He was very personable, but my first impression was to be cautious; he appeared to be a shrewd businessman and not to be taken lightly...

After I measured every room, I went home to figure out the job. I could do everything myself, but I'd need a licensed electrician to wire the boiler and cap all the wires on the panel where the electric baseboard tied in.

I figured the job using lower-than-usual profit margins on the parts, and I also tightened up the labor cost. When I was done scratchin' out the numbers, I knew my price was middle-low, just where it needed to be.

The owner and I went over the job on the phone, and he accepted my terms. Once he signed the contract and gave me a deposit, I gave him a start date.

Before I started, I got a start fee to cover materials and initial labor. I needed a paycheck, too. I set up several progress payments throughout the job.

After shutting down the electric baseboard, I removed it all from the walls and began hanging the new hot water baseboard. The second floor proved to be challenging, requiring me to peel back some carpet and cut some plywood flooring, but this wasn't my first rodeo. I actually loved doing electric to gas conversions, no matter how challenging.

In the course of hanging the board, I saw a lot of family photos hanging on the walls and placed on bureaus, and in several, the owner and his brother were pictured wielding machine guns. They had been gorillas in the Lebanese army and fought in the war against Israel. With a name like "Vinnie", the owner had no idea I was Jewish, and I wasn't about to tell him, at least not yet anyway...

After all the baseboard was installed and tested with 125 psi air, I moved into the basement to install the boiler and water heater. I left the back door open while I ran in and out to get tools and parts. That's when the chickens reappeared...

There were 4 or 5 of them, and they were nosy birds. I tried to herd 'em out, but they seemed to have a mind of their own. The owner's eight-year-old son hung around me pretty much all day, every day, and when the chickens started pecking at my feet while my back was turned, I got pissed.

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The kid thought it was funny, but I didn't. I looked at him and asked, "Do you know what we do to chickens in this country?"

He looked a little scared when he answered, "What?" 

"For starters, we chop off their heads. Then, we pluck their feathers, cut 'em into pieces, and then cook 'em and eat 'em..."

The kid was horrified. He ran out of the open basement door yelling, "Vinnie's gonna kill the chickens and eat 'em!"

A few minutes later, the owner walked into the basement, and he didn't look happy. He explained that in Lebanon, chickens are pets, and when he first moved into Mansfield, his neighbors called the town to complain about the chickens wandering into their yards.

He said a town health official came to his house and told him he couldn't keep chickens on his property without the necessary permits, and even with the necessary permits, the chickens had to be kept on his property and not allowed to wander beyond...

I told him I was only kidding around with his son, who I had unknowingly traumatized, and that I'd have a talk with him and straighten things out. I told the kid I was only jokin', that I would never kill his chickens, and I thought they were cute, and as long as they didn't peck at me while I was working, I was okay with having them around. He kept 'em away from me and we were friends again.

At one point, I was getting close to wrapping things up. I had been there for almost a month, and when I was talking to the owner, I mentioned to him that I was a Jew... His eyes went dark, and I thought he was gonna go in the other room, grab a sub-machine gun, and turn me into a human colander...

But, after a long, hard stare, one I hadn't seen on his face before, he said, "Tonight, you'll eat with us, Vinnie..."

I nodded in agreement, hoping this wasn't my last supper, and if it was, wondering if my life insurance was up to date. I wanted to at least leave something for Susan and the boys...

I was downstairs, filling and purging the boiler, when I suddenly didn't hear any movement upstairs. I crawled up the cellar stairs like a sniper, reached up, turned the doorknob, and peered around the corner into the kitchen. They were all sitting there, waiting...

I stood up, walked into the kitchen, and told 'em to start eating, I'd be right up...

I went back downstairs, and after a few minutes, there was still no movement upstairs. I removed my tool belt, set it on the floor, pulled up my pants a bit, tightened up my belt, and headed upstairs to eat supper...

There was a small table in the kitchen with four chairs. The owner was in one, his father in another, and his brother in the third. The chair closest to the middle of the kitchen was empty. They were holding that one for me.

I sat down, and immediately the women started serving the food. There were already large, round pieces of pita bread beside every plate before the first course was served. The women served the men in silence and ate afterwards. I was told it was Lebanese culture...

There were five courses in total, and each one was more delicious than the one before it. I asked the owner if he ate like this all the time, and he said, "We don't eat a lot during the day, Vinnie; supper is our big meal."

When we were done, I was stuffed. Then the owner brought out a small, flat white box, and as he opened it, he said, "Have a piece of candy, Vinnie..."

I replied, "I'm stuffed. I couldn't eat another thing..."

He held the box in front of me and said, "After every meal we eat candy, Vinnie, to celebrate the sweetness of life..." He wasn't about to close the box until I took a piece of candy, which I did. And boy was it sweet!

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I thanked the men at the table for inviting me to eat with them. While the women were busy cleaning up, I thanked them for preparing such a delicious meal. Then I went back downstairs to finish purging the boiler.

A few minutes later, I was upstairs, adjusting the heat anticipator on one of the Honeywell T87 thermostats, which was close to one of the photos of the two brothers holding machine guns, when suddenly, I felt a strange presence behind me...

I turned around quickly, hoping there wasn't anybody standing there with a dagger between their teeth and a machine gun in their hands, and thank God there wasn't. It was the owner's sister. An attractive girl in her mid-twenties, with dark skin, dark eyes, and dark hair. She was holding a bowl of fresh fruit, and she just stared into my eyes, not saying a word, which was awkwardly mesmerizing. 

I knew there was probably an explanation, something about how eating fresh fruit after a big meal helps with digestion. So I just took a piece and said, "Thank you..."

The following day, I met with the owner at his gas station. He popped the hood of a car in one of the bays, and we stood behind it out of sight. Then, he gave me the balance in cash, with a substantial discount, of course...