| Oil. Black Gold. Texas Tea. |
[Nov. 3rd, 2009|02:25 pm] |
We got an oil delivery yesterday.
“Of course you did”, you think. “You live in Boston, and winter is coming on. You’re going to have to heat your apartment pretty soon now.”
It’s, well, complicated.
It’s complicated by the fact that they landlords want to convert the entire house to gas heat. I have no position on this; so long as the radiators warm up when I require it of them, I’m satisfied. It’s possible that this might save us a bit of money; it’s possible that it won’t. Knowing this, though, we cancelled our account with our old oil company, and told them not to fill our new tank.
The gas company came by and sprayed cabalistic symbols on the roadway in front of the house. In order to pipe in enough gas, they need to lay wider mains; apparently the pipes that supply the stoves and used to supply the gas lights (the stubs of which still show in a couple of places) are insufficient.
The landlady called Mrs. Professor at work a couple days ago. The city is refusing the gas company permission to dig up the roadway. Apparently the macadam is less than five years old, and they’re disinclined to have it ravaged so soon. I actually sort of sympathize; there’s been much arglebargle lately about utility companies not sufficiently repairing the roads they dig up. But, while they wrangle and bicker, no gas heat.
Mrs. P asked the landlady which oil company they used (Brite Fuel), and called them to schedule a delivery of a mere sip, 100 gallons, to tide us over. This would be COD, but they took cheques. The delivery was to be on Monday, so I stayed in the house to wait.
I waited all day. I felt constrained from starting some complicated task (writing, ironing, shelving) lest I be interrupted. I realize, of course, that this doesn’t make a lot of sense, but I assumed that they’d be here any moment. One can, as you know, assume anything one would like; the universe so seldom is on the same belief frame as oneself.
Around 4:30, Mrs. P called and asked how we were proceeding. I reported a lack of process. She suggested, with some asperity, that I call the company and inquire; she had left me a phone number for this very purpose. Chastened, I did that, and was told that there was a perfectly good chance that they might get to me that day. Perhaps.
I called my ever-patient wife back and reported this. She inquired if she ought to call and express her disappointment in our lack of forward progress. I suggested that we wait, just in case the oil truck did arrive – and, wouldn’t you know it, as we were discussing this, the oil truck did arrive.
A terribly nice man hopped out, went downstairs to examine the tank (perhaps to ensure that the fill pipe actually terminated in one – I’ve heard of situations in which it was discovered, far too late, that one didn’t), pumped our hundredweight, accepted payment, and was gone.
I am left wondering how fast a furnace burns fuel oil – how many ergs per gallon, I suppose. That is, how long will 100 gallons last us? We may have a chance to find out; they might succeed in laying the new gas mains and convert us over before the question arises. In the meantime, at least for the nonce, we are shielded against the wint’ry blast. Cozy, it is, and so we shall be. |
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