The Underground

The plumber arrived just before eight in the morning, an overweight, barrel chested and bearded bear of a man in overalls with his name - Ty - stitched on the pocket. He didn't walk, he lumbered, tool belt jangling with each heavy step and an early morning scowl on his face. He went directly to the overflow valve, evaluated it briefly, then gave it a good kick with the toe of his workboot. Kneeling in the soggy ground he began uncoiling a length of wire and attaching it to a an electric feeder. At one point, he paused long enough to pull on heavy gloves and turn his cap around. Sumbitch, he spat at the valve and gave it another kick.

He worked in silence for the better part of an hour, patiently feeding the wire into the drain, pulling it back, feeding it some more. It was a cold morning and although I could see his breath in the air, I could also see that he was sweating. He drank coffee from a cardboard mug and chained smoked while he worked, stopping every few feet to negotiate the wire when he hit a snag and repeat the curse like a litany, Sumbitch! His scowl never lessened but I had the feeling it was more habit than actual frustration, a dressed up and more colorful version of Take that!

When he was satisfied ( and nearly out of wire ), he stood and reversed the engine of the feeder and the miles of wire began rewinding with a raspy, coughing sound. He watched it carefully, rocking back and forth on his heels, hands shoved into his overalls pockets and glaring at it, nearly daring it to hang up on some underground obstacle.
Once everything had been replaced in the truck, I watched him take his empty coffee cup and meticulously gather each discarded cigarette butt then wash the leftover dirt and mud away until there was no sign that he had been there. He tucked his gloves into one pocket, re-adjusted his cap and took a final look around before nodding to himself and giving the valve a last, superficial kick and a farewell Sumbitch!

At the front door, he wordlessly handed me a bill and tipped his cap. When I asked what the trouble had been, he seemed to give his answer - and me - considerable thought, as if he was deciding how much information I was actually capable of ingesting and understanding. At long last, he adjusted his tool belt and zipped up his down vest and looked directly at me. Ruhts, he said shortly and turned to go. Ruhts? I repeated to his broad, retreating back. He paused and gave me a look that suggested he thought I'd reached the limit of my intellectual capacity.
Ruhts, he said again, from trees. Another pause, then Underground. Yet another pause, then Got it? Feeling like he might be right about my intellectual capacity, I nodded and watched him walk to the truck and drive off.

We got ruhts, I told the small brown dog, Sumbitch.