Trap

“What do you mean, you give up?”

“I’m telling you, it’s not what I expected. It’s too hard.”

“When you were up for doing it,” she says, “that was kind of manly of you. But that was then. Now, you don’t strike me as very mucho macho. I’m a little embarrassed for you, Chris.”

You know how sometimes you get the idea that you can do something yourself? DIY Man. I get into that mode from time to time. This was one of those times.

With this put down, I’m speechless. Staring at this woman I love very much, I’m having trouble recognizing her right now.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I think a professional would be better for this job. Just getting that thing off is more complicated than I thought it would be.”

She scoffs. “Give me that thing. I’ll do it myself.”

I hand over the wrench and she dives under the sink. Listening to the grunting and clanking, I think of sex. On those occasions that prove less pleasurable. When you’re just going through the motions. Mechanical love-making. You’re not in the mood but you do it anyway.

The trap comes flying out and lands at my feet.

“Check that,” she says. “If it needs to be cleared out, do it. If that’s where the clog is, that would be ideal.

The response, “Aye aye, Sir,” comes to mind, but I refrain. I go to the bathroom sink and run water through the U-shaped pipe. All seems normal.

“It’s not this,” I tell her, returning to the kitchen. She’s been lying under the sink all this time, waiting for me to report.

“Hand me the snake,” she orders, her hand protruding from the cupboard.

She grabs the coil I pass to her.

Listening to the sound of the steel cable being pushed through the pipeline, I think about the first time we made love. It was exciting, exploring each other like two uncharted continents.

I can hear her pulling it out and shoving it back in.

We met in a Victorian poetry class at UH. But we didn’t date then. Just buddies with a group of other English majors. Hanging out at Hamilton or Sinclair Library. Going to Waikīkī nightclubs or picnics at Ala Moana Beach.

She mutters, “Shit. This damn thing isn’t long enough.”

When she gets like this, I know it’s better to step back and let her work off all that pent-up aggression. That temper of hers, it can be scary.

After we graduated from Mānoa, I went off to grad school in Wisconsin. She headed for law school at Georgetown. Five years later I was back in Honolulu working for Duty Free Shoppers, and she’d come back to practice personal injury law.

She was successful if money equals success. Far more than I was for sure. But I had a feeling I was happier. I still feel that way. Her work keys her up. Sometimes I think she’d rather come home to a lawyer. Someone who understands her work. Someone she can talk to about it who knows exactly what she’s saying.

“Haven’t you got anything that can go farther in?” comes from the Black Hole of Calcutta.

“Nope. That’s all I got,” I say.

“Shit.”

Sliding out from underneath, she looks up at me.

“I’m sorry I’m being such a jerk about this,” she says. “I think you might be right. Maybe we do need a pro. It was hard enough getting off that stone-age trap, but it’s going to take someone who knows this stuff to do it. Not to mention having all the right tools.”

She holds out her hand, and I give her a boost up.

“I’m filthy,” she says, and I remember how we ran into each other again at Jackass Ginger. It was pouring that day, and we were muddy and soaked. We managed to recognize each other, however.

“I love you,” she says, kissing me.”

“I know you do,” I say. “I love you too.”

Quite a tableau. Two failed plumbers embracing in a romantic moment fueled by a plugged-up sink.

Emerging on Old Pali Road, it felt as if we’d been in constant contact for five years. Like we’d never been out of touch. I asked her if she’d like to get together for a beer.

“Call me,” she’d said. That smile, kind of primal, almost drove me home to pick up the phone immediately.

“Call the plumber,” she says.

I would, but I’d have to detach myself from her. Moments like this, I never want to let her go.