Dream a Little Steam of Me

  I answered the front door. “Yes?”

  A man stood there, clipboard in hand and tool belt on waist. “I’m here to fix your water heater.”

  Hallelujah. I immediately worshipped this man and all he stood for, nearly dropping to my knees and kissing his booted feet for finally showing up. We had been without hot water for two solid days. Not the end of the world, but by no means a good time. I practically ripped the screen door off and threw it to the side. “Come in.”

  We clomped through the maze of a hallway in our house, eventually reaching the door to the water heater closet (otherwise known as That Door We Only Open About Every Five Years). The man immediately set to work, professionally fiddling with this and that, snatching implements out of his pouch as needed, and clearly not requiring my assistance at the moment.

  This is the part that unnerves about having maintenance people in my house and touching my things. Are you supposed to just stand around in case these people need you in some way? Or do you just pretend that they aren’t really there and go about your business as if a strange man didn’t have his arm shoved in your plumbing?

  So I cleared my throat and announced “I’ll just in the office, other end of the hallway, if you need anything.”

  He just grunted, intent on making a lug-nut do something it didn’t really feel like doing. I guess in Plumber-ese, a grunt can be taken as “That arrangement suits me perfectly. Thank you for your thoughtfulness and consideration. Please enjoy your time in the other room.” I wandered into the office, listening carefully during my journey in case there were sudden pleas for urgent assistance from the water heater closet, accompanied by unsettling mutterings like “why is there so much blood?”

  I sat down at my desk and checked to see what was going on in Facebook, something I do with the regularity of breathing. Not much was happening, so I did a status update, some bit about strange men in my house wearing tool belts.

  Within seconds, there were 47 comments, all of them concerning lusty things one could do with maintenance men who were already in your house, since getting them there was half the battle. Wow, I had no idea that so many people had fantasies on hand concerning plumbers. Which proves that most of my friends are perverts. And apparently none of them have jobs if they were updating Facebook at 3pm.

  But it did get me to thinking, which is usually an ill-advised and dangerous thing, leading to surprise arrests and people named Buck wanting to live in your car. How does one go about seduction these days? I’ve been in my current relationship for over a decade, and we all know how that goes. I haven’t had to be sexy for years. Done got the milk, people. But really, what was considered hawt these days? Did I still have the goods to elicit “that look”? It’s all I wanted, a look, nothing more.

  Hmmm.

  I headed back into the kitchen, home of that Door We Never Open, which was now open, and the man who usually wasn’t there, but now was. Plumber Man was still fiddling with whatever, standing inside the closet, his back to me. Well, my plan to allure was already falling apart. It’s hard to be seductive when people aren’t looking at you. It’s hard to be anything when people aren’t looking at you.

  Just then, Plumber Man backed out of the closet, turned around, noticed me standing there, briefly nodded, fished something long out of a box I hadn’t noticed before, then re-entered the closet. Okay, then. This was still doable. I just had to wait until the next time he came out of the closet, and then make sure I was staged correctly.

  I glanced around for the optimal position for highlighting my assets. For some reason, my eyes were drawn to the sink, sensing that the smooth porcelain was subliminally sensual. I approached the double-sink and took stock. Perhaps I could use the sprayer hose in a naughty manner, pretending to somehow get it caught between my legs. Nope, didn’t stretch far enough.

  Maybe run the hot water, creating clouds of billowy steam that would make me look dewy, fresh, and consumed with dripping passion? Ixnay on that as well. There wasn’t any hot water. That’s why the damn plumber was here in the first place.

  Were giant butcher knives sexy? Probably not, or at least only for a certain segment of the population that watches slasher movies for all the wrong reasons. A rolling pin? No, might come across as too demanding. A spatula might work, wanting to be “flipped over” and all that. The coffee grinder could be intriguing. But I really didn’t know which props I should use. Being sultry takes a lot of planning.

  Plumber Man stepped out of the closet again, digging in his box of goodies once more, lingering a bit longer this time and actually sustaining eye contact when he noticed me still standing there. Then he smiled. (Oh? Did I have him already? Just with my mere appearance? I still had it!)

  Then things went back in limbo when he said “Not any fun taking cold showers, is it?” (What the hell did he mean by that? Was I being too forward and he was telling me to tone it down by mentioning “cold showers”? Or was he encouraging me by saying it was a negative thing to splash cold water on the smoking heat that was building between us?)

  Love was so complicated. Lust was even worse.

  Plumber Man went back into the sacred closet, twisted something, unlatched something else, then popped off the cover of the water heater (it’s tank-less, for those keeping score), and moved  backward carrying the cover and trying to keep from gouging the 60-year-old wood on either side of the doorframe. (This was a wise decision. Lust object or not, there would have been a very frank discussion if scratching had taken place) He bent over to lean the cover against the wall (oh my!) and his booty gently bumped the kitchen table.

  And that’s when it hit me. The kitchen table! That’s where our moment of wild abandon should take place. It seemed so naughty but oh so right. I had visions of Jack Nicholson nailing Jessica Lange in the remake of The Postman Always Rings Twice, right there on that creaky table while Jessica was just trying to make a nice potato salad or whatever it was. We would grovel and flounder, with me sexily wiping flour out of my hair as eggs smashed to the floor and homemade mayonnaise splattered the linoleum. “Take me!” I would moan to Jack, as a jar of pickles rolled under the stove and livestock mooed through the open window over the sink. “Make me one of your Five Easy Pieces!”

  “Sir?”

  My eyes blinked open. Had I drifted off while sitting in front of the PC?

  “Sir? Could you come in here for a second?” It was the Plumber Man in the kitchen! Aw hell, had I let my mind wander at a critical moment, and now he was lying in a pool of blood because I hadn’t paid attention? I raced down the hallway.

  He was standing outside the heater closet, throwing things back into his mystery box. “Can you check the heat?”

  I just stood there. Why did everything sound deliciously tawdry to me?

  He glanced up. “The sink. Can you check the hot water?”

  Oh. Damn. “Okay.” I stepped over to the sink and slapped at the faucet. Water began gushing, which did nothing to alleviate my inability to turn every innocent phrase into a lust-dripping invitation to bang a gong. I shoved my hand into the stream of water, waiting for things to reach a boil.

  Plumber Man absently scratched at his chest. Underneath the shirt he was casually caressing, nipples could be found, manly hotspots that could satisfy a well-trained tongue. He picked something up off the table and took a few steps closer. His voice deep and gravelly, he queried: “Is it getting hot?”

  I think I made a yelping noise. I couldn’t help it. “Yes. It is. Very Hot. Burning.” I tried to lean seductively against the sink, lips moist, my reddened hand becoming numb as nerve endings were seared by the scalding water.

  “Great!” said Plumber Man, shoving a clipboard at me. “That’ll be 180 bucks. Sign here.”

  I shut off the faucet, the last of my libido swirling down the drain…

Backup Dancers From Hell: Evanescence - “Bring Me To Life”

We start off with a fly cam zooming through some metropolis, where the buildings are all dark and angsty, so this might be some sort of tribute to “Blade Runner” or another movie where unhappy people live bleak futuristic lives. Of course, we’re also hearing the lovely opening part of the song where a piano is playing, which should be soothing, so we’ve already set up a dichotomy of sorts. Are we going on a picnic or are we going to drown ourselves in gothic doom? Some of us face this decision every day.

As Amy, the lead singer, starts wailing, we focus in on a particular window in a particular building. All the other windows in the building are closed, but this one isn’t, with curtains billowing in the wind, meaning a free spirit lives here. Or at least somebody who hasn’t figure out how to close the window. The camera intrudes through the window (because it’s not a real rock video unless there’s voyeurism of some kind) and we see Amy lying on a bed, looking all lethargic and unsatisfied.

Suddenly, Amy is falling through the air in front of the building. She probably wasn’t expecting for this to happen, since she’s still wearing her slinky negligee and not something more helpful like a parachute. She’s not opening her eyes, which is probably good, because who wants to see a street rushing toward their ass when they unexpectedly fall out a window that they probably should have closed before they started drinking absinthe?

Oh wait, now we’re back in the bedroom, with Amy tossing and turning on her strangely-long bed. Is she dreaming? Does she have sleep apnea? So many questions. (Another shot of Falling Amy, still falling. This must be a very tall building.) Sleeping Amy appears to be singing parts of the song as she writhes in the bed. She seems to be in a lot of emotional turmoil. Maybe this wouldn’t be happening if she had bothered to remove her gothic makeup and piercings before she retired for the evening. How can you rest comfortably with a metal stud shoved through your eyelid?

Brief pause in the music, then the camera rolls up the building a bit to another apartment, where the rest of the band is performing in a nice room with padded walls. (Symbolic, much?) They rock out for a bit, which apparently causes Sleep Apnea Amy to rise from her strange bed and head toward the window of her own boudoir. (Is this really a good idea? I’m still not seeing a parachute anywhere, and something tells me you might need one.)

Montage of the band jamming and Amy unable to resist the allure of the Death Window, slowly working her way to the opening, but pausing here and there to look tragic and pale for the camera.

Amy, still not properly dressed, climbs out her window (hey, that’s a good idea) and stands on a tiny ledge. She starts working her way around the corner of the building (instead of going back to bed like a non-suicidal person would) while gale-force winds are whipping her hair and nightgown around. (Where is this severe wind coming from, anyway? Is the Republican Convention in town?) Brief sequence where Amy wanders past a window where an older couple is watching something on TV. They don’t seem to mind windblown rock stars strolling outside their window.

Amy also passes a few windows where people wearing creepy masks are dancing with balloons and wearing unfashionable attire. (I’m going to guess this is a jab at pretentious music critics. Otherwise, I’m at a loss.) More shots of the rest of the band bouncing around in that padded room, and it appears that Amy wants to join them, gazing skyward as trees and cows blow past her.

She starts climbing up the building toward the floor where her mates are rocking comfortably in a room that doesn’t have open windows. (Say, Amy, that’s a really good idea. Climb even higher so you can fall even further. Smooth move.)

Hey, is that Jack Nicholson at 2:03?

Mount Everest Amy finally clamors her way to the floor with the rest of the band, which is pretty impressive considering she’s barefoot and doesn’t have any actual superhero skills. The band doesn’t immediately notice her arrival, so she stands at the corner of the building and lets the wind whip her hair about while she writhes against the stone masonry. She finally gets bored with that, and staggers over to one of the windows, pausing to sing in a manner that indicates she might be enjoying what the wind is doing to her nether regions. Just a guess.

The other lead singer (no idea what his name is, but if memory serves he’s just a guest on this song, so it doesn’t matter that we don’t know who he is) finally notices Morticia on the tiny ledge. He shoves the window open with far too much exuberance, causing Mount Everest Amy to lose her balance. She tumbles, but manages to grab hold of the tiny ledge just below the window. (It totally sucks when you scale giant buildings in the middle of the night, so many things can go wrong.)

This other lead singer climbs out on the ledge, and tries to rescue Morticia, which is initially a good thing. But they both keep singing, which is kind of stupid, and makes the rescue attempt much more difficult than it needs to be. This goes on for a while, with Morticia dangling, unknown other lead singer weakly trying to hold on to Morticia, but really more invested in his vocals, and shots of the rest of the band rocking out and not even trying to help in any way. Inevitably, other lead singer loses his grip and Morticia Amy plummets.

Really sad. But we were expecting this, yes?

So Morticia Amy falls for a really long time, in that slo-mo way they do things when we’re supposed to pay attention. The other lead singer seems a wee bit torn up about this development, but he doesn’t stop singing, so he’s probably a little jaded about the sudden death of people he’s performing with. (The rest of the band still couldn’t care less, strutting about in the padded room.) The other lead singer does have a quick shot of him looking off to the right and appearing distraught, but he’s probably thinking “dang, if Morticia is dead, how am I going to get another gig?”

Oh, now we’ve cut back to Sleep Apnea Amy and she’s still in her bed. So, did any of this really happen, or was all of it a shifty dream, aided and abetted by the recreational use of controlled pharmaceuticals? We may never know.

The camera pulls away from the Building of Death and Falling People, leaving us all to ponder the significance of our lives and whether or not Rock and Roll might kill us at some point.

Fade to gothic black.

　

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Backup Dancers From Hell: The Motels - “Only the Lonely”

There’s a brief “opening credits” shot that we don’t really care about, especially since it doesn’t fit with the rest of the video and we could have done without it. Then we start the real business, with the camera focusing in on a ceiling fan, then dropping down into the lobby of an old-timey hotel. Here comes the lead singer (Martha?) strolling across this lobby and wearing all black, so you know she’s really sad about something. She’s headed toward a little table, but before she can get there her inner tragedy overwhelms her and she starts warbling the song.

She turns toward the camera, and we really want to listen to her woeful tale and support her in any way that we can, but we’re completely distracted by her hat. (Did a bird fall out of the sky?) I guess even Martha realizes that the dead bird thing is a bit much, so she turns and wanders out of the scene.

Cut to Martha stomping into an empty restaurant, chairs on the tables and all that so it’s either really late or really early. She hasn’t lost the hat, probably because there were too many bobby pins holding it in place, and she’s too tired to deal with that right now. She wanders through the restaurant, looking for something, but doesn’t seem to find it. Since she hasn’t bothered to let us know what the missing thing might be, we still can’t help her out. We’re not being very good friends at all, so maybe we should sing something sad as well.

Martha walks up to the bar just as the counter starts glowing and the bartender pops up from behind the bar. (Not sure that I care for this development. It looks all “Jack Nicholson finally losing his mind in the Overlook Hotel” just before he picks up an axe.) The bartender already has her drink ready, so he’ll probably get a great tip, if Martha can stop singing long enough to figure out where her purse is. (Maybe that’s what she was looking for a bit ago. Poor thing. Sad and possibly penniless. But at least there’s alcohol.)

Oh, look, the bartender just quickly served her three drinks in a row. I think I need to find this bar.

We don’t actually see Martha drink these beverages, but she must have, because when she turns around to walk away from the bar, the restaurant is now filled with patrons, all of them wearing increasingly dramatic hats, so there must be some type of pageant going on. Martha doesn’t care and just keeps walking, still not having found what she’s looking for.

Quick shots of some of the other patrons. The guys look shifty and untrustworthy, but that’s normal for guys, so we don’t really learn anything. Martha keeps walking, but suddenly a new guy walks into the place and up to her. They kiss passionately, even though Martha is magically able to keep singing the song. Unfortunately, there must have been something wrong with the lip-lock (bad breath? too much tongue? fangs?), because Martha shoves him to the side, clutching at her offended mouth as she runs along.

More shots of the other patrons. Most of them look drunk or unsure of what they’re supposed to be doing while the camera rolls. Next thing you know, Martha is finally ripping off that stupid hat, bobby pins be damned. She gets really invested in running her hands through her hair and tilting her head in ecstasy, so perhaps someone should tell her she’s not in a commercial for Head and Shoulders.

Now we have a montage of a band playing, people ordering more drinks at the bar, some dancing, possible gambling, a creepy duo dressed alike and looking at each other in an odd way, more drinking, and what might be zombies coming to life at one of the tables. (No idea what that last bit was about.)

Back to Martha, her hair still blowing about like Hurricane Zelda just hit shore. The utter self-love that Martha is expressing for her hair causes a guy sitting nearby to knock over his table and spill his drink. This is probably the most tragic thing I’ve seen happen in the entire video.

Once again with Martha sitting at the bar, chatting with the bartender who likes to hide behind things. She’s got another drink, naturally, and she’s smoking, which means she’s a total tramp. Apparently the bartender says something rude to her, because she gets up and stomps off again. (Can this woman simply not sit still and enjoy her cocktail? Relax, honey.) The bartender gives her a friendly wave as she leaves, meaning he doesn’t understand that he’s a chauvinistic pig and will never get married.

Suddenly, we have a close-up of Martha, and based on her orgiastic expression, it would probably be very helpful to learn just what the hell happened between the last scene and this one. Martha’s not saying, instead choosing to finish up the song. The camera pulls back, and we see that Martha is sprawled out on top of one of the tables, clearly in a post-coital position. (I told you. Alcohol and nicotine lead to wanton encounters on furniture.)

The camera keeps easing back from the scene while the music slowly fades, showing us that the restaurant is completely empty, meaning her lusty suitor made a beeline for the door as soon as he was done. Poor Martha. Now she’ll have to write another sad song about abandonment. Just as soon as someone can help her get off this table…

　

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