Even when you’re expecting it…

…the repair man screw job still hurts.

Straight up, 8AM. I’m groggy, just out of the shower. I’m wet, sloppy, unshaven and looking for a reason to call in “dead” to work. The doorbell rings and my dog goes nuts.

Mr. Former-Armed Services is at the door. He’s holding a notepad and few tools. I know he’s hiding his “screw driver” somewhere else. I expliai my problem, he nods, and we both give each other that look. It’s that look that you share with someone right before you know they are going to knee you in the groin.

In the second grade, I shared that look many times with a girl known as “Sweet Emily.” She was the most attractive of all the females in Mrs. Bennett’s second grade Hilldale Elementary class (with the possible exception of Mrs. Bennett herself. I proposed marriage to her). I loved Sweet Emily. She hit me in the nodules. Regularly.

Mr. FAS broke the look first and headed out to The Machine. The heater kicked off and on a couple of times while I idly watched Katie Couric and wondered how a woman can be paid more than any other news person in history to just sit and flirt with Gwenneth Paltrow’s boyfriend. It wasn’t long before Mr. FAS was back at the door. The dog went nuts.

I bent over a big, poofy chair in my living room and gave him a look.

“You, um, got a sticking gas regulator. Seems it’s all locked up.”

“What’s the fix for that?”

“New gas regulator.”

“How long will something like that take to fix?”

“‘Bout 15 minutes. I got a new one on my truck.”

Of course, you do. You know that I have no idea whether you’re replacing the gas regulator or the home heater’s little clown that dances around inside the unit until he gets all hot and bothered, thus heating my home.

“That’ll be $243.”

Of course, it will.

All in all, Mr. FAS was a nice guy. He didn’t mention anything about a selling me a new compressor or wanting to look at my wife naked. He only drank about a six pack of my beer and only went as far as to erase the hard drive on my computer. That’s generorous, I think.

As he left, he looked up at Katie Couric. She had ceased flirting and started reading some news about bin Laden.

Mr. FAS says, “You think they’ll ever get that guy?”

I told him, I thought we would, but the public would never know about it.

“That’s what I think,” he said.

Of course, it is.