The Plumber

I got two alarming letters in the mail the other day. The first was from the Lebanese Embassy, inviting me to attend a reception in DC. The other was from a Muslim charitable group. Normally, neither of these letters would have bothered me. They probably wouldn’t have interested me very much, either: I was born in Lebanon, but grew up during the civil war there, so never really got much of a sense of the country, beyond a general feeling of malaise, decay and violence. And I don’t subscribe to any religions, and tend to ignore the junk mail I get from their adherents.

But ever since the Bush Administration enacted Operation Incarcerate Arab People in the wake of September 11th, I’ve been expecting the secret service to show up on my doorstep, inform me that I’m a “material witness”, then haul me off to some maximum security prison in New Jersey, where I’ll spend the better part of my six-month pre-deportation period in a dim six-by-six cell with a hole in the ground for a privy and a single drop of water plink-plinking down on my head 24 hours a day.

It hasn’t happened yet, but getting mail like this isn’t going to help matters. You may find this attitude somewhat paranoiac, but, given that my house is bugged and the FBI is reading my mail, I really think my fears are more than justified. Let me explain.

A plumber arrived at my door a couple of months ago. I could tell he was a plumber because he wore a spotless grey jumpsuit with the word PLUMBER stenciled on its breast. But it was partially unzipped, and I could see that he was wearing a black suit, white shirt, black tie ensemble underneath. That got me feeling a little suspicious. Also, the guy didn’t really look like a plumber, with his black shades, his close-cropped hair, and his square-jawed, military, no-bullshit demeanor. And, most worrisome at all, I hadn’t called a plumber.

“I am your plumber,” he said. “I have come to fix your plumbing.”

“Ok,” I said. “I don’t need a plumber, though. Thanks”

He paused. “I was told that this residence had requested the services of a plumber.”

“Nope,” I said, smiling, my eyes lingering on the suspiciously firearm-shaped bulge under his jumpsuit. “Not by me.”

He paused, then lifted a finger to his ear, which, I saw, had a little earpiece in it, with a cord corkscrewing out of it and disappearing into his collar. He nodded, and said: “Perhaps the lady of the house.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t think so.” I glanced over his shoulder, and saw two other men in plumber outfits across the street, nonchalantly leaning against streetlamps and reading newspapers.

He lifted a finger to his ear again, then said. “I must fix your plumbing. It’s a matter of national security.”

“Oh. Well, in that case.” I opened the door all the way and stepped aside.

He walked into the foyer and came to an abrupt halt, clicking his heels together and putting down his briefcase in the same crisp motion. He surveyed the house. “I must first establish the source of your plumbing issues. Where do you and your wife conduct your private conversations?”

“Excuse me?”

“Where do you discuss matters that you would not want your government to know about?”

“How will knowing that help you figure out my plumbing problem?”

“My agency is very thorough.”

“Agency?”

“My plumbing agency.”

“Who do your work for?”

He paused. “The Federal Bureau of Plumbing.”

“Oh. So you’re a government plumber. I didn’t know they had those.”

“They do. Please direct me to your inner sanctum.”

“Ok.” I led him up the stairs to the kitchen. “This is our kitchen cum cabal chamber. My wife and I like to hatch conspiracies here over breakfast.”

I said this with a big grin on my face, but the plumber guy didn’t even crack a smile. He put down his suitcase and walked right up to me, then leaned in very close and said: “Please repeat your last statement, as loudly and clearly as you can.”

“Um.” I hesitated. “No?”

“I see.” He waited for a moment, then said: “Perhaps you could paraphrase, then.”

“Ok.” I hesitated again. “I like breakfast.”

He waited, gave me a curt nod, then went back to his briefcase and opened it. “I will require some privacy.”

“Why?”

“It’s a matter of national security.”

“Right.” I’d forgotten. “And why are my pipes a matter of national security?”

“That’s classified. Rest assured, the Federal Bureau of Plumbing takes your safety and security very seriously. Please leave the building, immediately. I will alert you when it is safe to return.”

So I went outside and sat on my stoop and watched the other plumbers trying to pretend they weren’t watching me. I heard drilling noises from inside the house, and banging, and loud electronic beepings, and occasional static-washed conversations with people on the other end of a walky-talky.

Finally, the door opened behind me. “Your plumbing has been repaired,” said the plumber guy.

I got up. “Thanks.”

“That will be one million dollars.”

I waited for the punchline. It didn’t come.

“One million? The number with the six zeroes?”

“Yes.”

“The six zeroes before the decimal point?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“Those are standard Federal Bureau of Plumbing procurement rates.”

“Yeah. Well, I don’t have one million dollars.”

“I see. How much do you have?”

I reached into my pocket, found some loose change, counted it. “Forty-seven cents. No, wait.” I reached into the other pocket. “Forty-eight cents.”

“That will be sufficient.” He took the change and dropped it into an inner pocket. I heard it clink against his gun. “Have a pleasant day. God bless the President.”

“Ok,” I said. I watched him stalk across the street to a white unmarked van and get in. Presently, the two other plumbers followed him. They drove off.

I went back upstairs. My fire alarm had been replaced by a large video camera with a blinking red light beneath the lens. It was rotating in its bracket, tracking back and forth across the kitchen with a small mechanical whir. It was painted white, presumably to help it blend in better with the ceiling. A large boom microphone emerged from the lamp over our kitchen table, hanging just inches above its surface. It was painted yellow, and had the word “lightbulb” stenciled on its side.

So this is the environment in which I found myself opening my two letters. In the pre-Bush world, I would probably have just thrown them away, along with all the Safeway circulars and the mobile phone offers. But I find that I’m loathe to get rid of them, now: not because I’ve discovered a newfound interest in my past, or a sudden attraction to Islam, but because I don’t like being wary of my mail. And the impulse to dispose of this stuff feels, suddenly, like capitulation; like a repudiation of my heritage; and, most of all, like fear.