What a Beautiful Mornin'

Dewey is always dirty and sweaty, his butt crack is always showing, and I can always tell when he's been in a room based on its odor. But at least he's always polite.

Standing in my apartment in worn jeans and a hole-covered T-shirt, he tries to make conversation while waiting for his fellow maintenance man to stop by and have a look at my hall toilet -- The Toilet That Won't Stop Leaking.

"It's a beautiful day today," he says, left arm raised above his head and supporting his body's weight against the door frame while his right hand sits on his hip. His left arm isn't too high, thankfully, otherwise I'd get to see his crack again.

It's about 8:45 a.m. and raining. He apparently thinks it's OK to have my front door standing wide open, letting the Southern air and its threat of storms in.

"I think we're supposed to have bad weather today," I say, and Dewey just grins. "Oh, it's already here. They've already been hit in Tupelo."

"That's not good."

"Ah, you'll be a'right," he said as he pounded the door frame with his fists. "Brick building. Me, I'm in a trailer."

I'm standing in my pj's, having been ripped from sleep by Dewey's loud "Hello?" a few minutes earlier as he let himself in my apartment. He had first checked on my bathtub's sliding door and a drawer in my bathroom, both of which I swore were broken. About four seconds after he got to them, they weren't. Something about not being on their tracks.

I'm crossing my arms and wondering if I should start sleeping in a bra to be prepared for times like this one when Dewey's friend, Chris, pulls up. At least he looks like a Chris, just like Dewey looks like a Dewey.

"Is the toilet still running? That just don't make no sense," Chris exclaims to Dewey as he wipes his workboots off on my rug. "That just don't make no sense," he exclaims to me as he follows Dewey down the hall. I'm still standing, bleary-eyed, in my living room, debating whether to make coffee or wait and see if they leave early enough for me to go back to bed.

I decide to at least pull my hair back, put on a sweatshirt and hide in my office to read e-mail. Chris and Dewey get to work diagnosing the problem of The Toilet, which was already new but always had water leaking out from under its base. They pull it open, remark about the quality of the wax ring, do something else to it, blah blah I haven't had coffee and am hiding, they bring in a new one.

Chris leaves to take care of another job ("It should be OK now. That just don't make no sense!"), leaving me with Dewey and Dewey's crack in all its hair glory in my hall bathroom. He finishes installing the toilet quickly, though, and offers a few more "Yes Ma'ams" before he's gone as well.

I light a scented candle, watch TV, drink my coffee, then go back to sleep. I shouldn't have bothered to set my alarm, though.

A much louder one goes off to wake me up: a tornado siren.