Last Friday morning, I arranged with my supervisor to come in late to work, so that I could be at home when the repairman came by. The guy checks out the appliance, completely disregarding the howling noise coming out of the motor, and simply adds some freon to the reservoir (or wherever they put it). The fridge seems a bit cooler, so I head off to work, taking a $10 taxi ride for the final leg, since the business is located in butt-fuck St-Laurent.
Get back home Friday night, looking forward to finally having something to keep my beer cool. Walk in the door, and the beast in the the kitchen is screaming louder than a banshee. “Okay,” methinks, “I guess I can put up with this.” Open the fridge door and I’m blasted with a wave of heat. Not cold… heat. This time, all my food has gone bad. Smells horrible, and some of my veggies are soft and wet. Curry sauces, vegetables and, heartbreak of heartbreaks, various Belgian ale yeast strains all get thrown in the trash. Call up Elvis and give them a piece of my mind, thereby leaving myself with less brain matter. They tell me they can send someone the next morning, Saturday, but I’ve already plans to leave for the weekend. So it’s arranged to send a techie on Monday morn, so I get my upstairs’ neighbour Todd to be at my place at 9 on Monday. Needless to say, no one comes by.
More nasty phone conversations ensue, and a concession is made for Tuesday evening. I take off from work early, get home by 5, and the guy finally shows up at 6:30. He takes one look at my fridge, is shocked by the motor’s sound, and tells me that the guy from the previous Friday screwed up; I need a new motor. So, apparently, some guy is supposed to come by tonight to fix things up. I’m not exactly keeping my fingers crossed.