He was demonstrating the difference between middle C and high C, proving that the latter is more suitable for singing along to Hawaiian ukelele music.
“Kau mai la i luna me kou nani,” he yodeled, but started coughing, apologizing that he had a cold. All while standing in the tub.
What was he doing in our condo? (How’s the suspense holding up? Are you curious, or have you already figured it out?)
He’d caught sight of my guitar on the way in.
“How long you been playing?” he’d asked.
“Twelve years ago or so,” I’d said. “For church, mostly.”
“Nice. Wish I’d brought along my uke. We could’ve jammed.”
In the end, he settled with serenading me from the bathtub. But he did tell me about four, six, and eight-string ukeleles, and I realized I was fairly ignorant on the topic.
Who was he? (Still curious?)
Here’s what I know: His name was Mike. He was probably all of five feet tall on a good day and nearly as wide. He didn’t like the fact that our condo was on the top floor of three. He had some serious nasal congestion, and he wheezed as he explained,
“It’s like Jesus on the cross. Yeah? He’s got your bathtub in his right hand and your neighbor’s in his left hand.”
I had no response to that, and I’m pretty sure my mouth was sagging open.
“And right down the middle of the cross, that’s your common line. That’s where the clog is.”
You guessed it: Mike the Plumber. Perhaps a character for my next short story. But as far as this post is concerned, he provided more than enough material.
How was the suspense? Sadly lacking? Adequate?