D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
July 2009
Pecans
Page: 2The following week I went to one of our local home-improvement centers to pick up the items I would need to install a drip system. I parked in front of the Lawn and Garden section that these places open seasonally, thinking I would surely find everything I needed in that one department.
A young man who was sweeping up asked me if I was finding things all right. When I asked him where I could find root stimulator, he went to a phone installed at the end of the row and paged someone from on high. The voice that called back suggested aisle 32, inside the store. The fact that this youth had to call from a land-line for information marked him as a flunky. The real players at these do-it-yourself chains wear a cell phone on the hip, which they whip out at a moment's notice if they have to call for backup. The more times an employee's phone rings or buzzes, the more sought-after he or she is, and the more power the person wields in the home-improvement hierarchy. This mere foot soldier had nothing but a broom.
I went inside and found the root stimulator, but still saw nothing that looked like a drip system. Another young foot soldier I found among the air conditioners appealed once more to the heavens, then directed me to Plumbing, where I was to speak to "Pat." I began to feel as if I were on a mission: "Go to aisle 15 and ask for Pat."
A woman wearing a store vest who was sorting something on aisle 15 answered to Pat, and I began explaining the situation to her. My yard man had suggested a somewhat convoluted plan to run the drip system off of a frost-free spigot next to the carport. I hadn't gotten very far in describing the plan to Pat when she backed away a couple of paces, hand on cell phone, and with a completely straight face said, "I think we'd better call Plumber Dude on this one. I'm just Toilet Girl."
Plumber Dude! Toilet Girl!? Were these the superheroes of DIY World? Toilet Girl rang up Plumber Dude and in a jiffy an older man missing several teeth and wearing a beat-up ballcap came shambling down aisle 15 toward us. My mental image of a "Saturday Night Live" butt-crack-baring Plumber Dude was quickly replaced by a Yoda-like wise warrior with a gurgle in his voice. As Toilet Girl relayed my request to him, Plumber Dude's phone immediately began to ring and he quickly checked the number, mumbling about someone he had promised to call back, before replacing the phone in his hip holster. No doubt he thought he would straighten out Toilet Girl and me with a couple of pointers and then be on his way to bigger plumbing predicaments.
He started off by grabbing a few staples of drip-system installation — half-inch hose, 360-degree bubblers — as he asked questions about the pecan tree placement, absent-mindedly tidying merchandise that was out of place. He picked up a box that he was rearranging and drew a diagram of the trees on the side of the box with a black Sharpie. Wait a minute, Plumber Dude was a veteran — shouldn't he work without a net?
"May I?" I took the Sharpie from him and crossed out his diagram, replacing it with my own. The diagrams looked a bit like football plays, as we circled trees and drew arrows from the spigot to the line of scrimmage. Plumber Dude's interest in my project picked up a little, and what had seemed like a tendency toward OCD now became multi-tasking prowess. He made notes to replace merchandise that was out of stock, while calculating how many end caps and compression tees it would take to complete the drip system and simultaneously trying to sell me a $13 gadget to punch holes in the drip hose.
"For $13, I think I'll use a screwdriver," I said.
"Number-two Phillips head fits perfectly," Plumber Dude said with a smile as he silenced another call on his cell. "Just be sure not to push too hard, or you'll go all the way through the hose."
When I mentioned the frost-free spigot plan, Plumber Dude shed the last vestiges of his shuffling-old-man disguise and sprang into superhero action. He crossed nimbly to the next aisle to rip a new frost-free spigot (which he pronounced "spicket" in the Western fashion) from its packaging to assess the possibilities. Toilet Girl had wandered away to help another customer, but she came zipping back to check our progress at the sight of Plumber Dude wrestling with the frost-free spigot. She was apparently taking her apprenticeship seriously.
Plumber Dude dismissed the plan to bypass the frost-free spigot underground as too labor-intensive. He decided instead on a "Y" connector, a pressure regulator, and an adapter for the half-inch drip hose. The only adapter in stock was in a torn package, which was NOT acceptable by his standards, so after Plumber Dude spotted the boxes of new merchandise he wanted on shelves high overhead, he flew away to get a ladder, answering his phone as he left.
He came back maneuvering a monstrous ladder and quickly ascended, handing the boxes down to me. He methodically went over everything I needed as he ticked it off his mental list and placed all of it in a now-empty box, before sending me back to aisle 32 for the "Y" connector. Plumber Dude seemed well-pleased with our new plan, and swatted away another incoming call on his phone as he subtly morphed back into his good ol' boy disguise.
He smiled shyly when I thanked him and briefly took off his cap to scratch his head, or was he tipping his hat to me? Toilet Girl, who had turned back into Pat, called out, "Good luck!" as I passed her on the way to aisle 32.
Eighty-five dollars' worth of materials and two days later, I stood in my pecan grove and drew a diagram of the new plan in the dirt with the toe of my shoe for Yard Man — handing off the mission from one superhero to another. Then, my task as superhero liaison complete, I went inside as Yard Man starting digging the trench for the hose.
After all, that's not my area of expertise — I'm just Computer Chick.
Epilogue: Five of the six trees are doing well; the sixth one doesn't seem to be taking, despite applications of root stimulator and fertilizer. Beto, Yard Man and I are all stumped, but it may lead to my branching out and planting a fruit tree in its stead.
Susan Baker is a bilingual native of the Southwest who grew up in the Rio Grande valley, very near the point where New Mexico, Texas and Mexico come together. She loves travel, writing, language and cats.