It started out as a nice, normal Friday afternoon. Nick and I were preparing drinks for Happy Hour, debating what to do for dinner. We’d been told the “sprinkler guys†would be coming between 4 and 5 to test the fire sprinklers. We didn’t really know what that entailed, other than that we were supposed to let them in, presumably to inspect the sprinklers. I’m sure it sounds odd that someone was coming to do work on our apartment and we had no idea what, exactly, they were going to be doing, but honestly, incomplete information is one of the things you learn to roll with in foreign service life or you’d drive yourself crazy. Funnily enough, ambiguity is one of the few constants you can count on in this crazy life of ours.
A little background info on our housing situation. When posted overseas, the government puts us up in leased apartments or houses. When something goes wrong, we work through the team at the embassy (or consulate in Mumbai). They then determine if the problem should be handled by the Consulate’s maintenance staff, the landlord’s contractor, or the apartment building and communicate back to us who is coming and when to expect them (usually within 24-48 hours, except for emergencies—those are attended to ASAP). For the sprinklers, we were told the building would be sending someone (likely some combination of building staff and a sprinkler contractor) to test that they were working. I assumed they’d know what they were doing and this would be an in-and-out thing. I should have known better.
Back to the story. Around 4:30 I answered a knock at the door. It was the sprinkler guys—three, to be exact. “Come in,†I said. “We don’t need to,†the lead guy replied. “We’re just going to turn on the water and test the sprinklers. If you notice any leaking, call the Consulate, okay?†The way he said this made me think it was no big deal, like they’d just turn on the water, nothing noticeable would happen and we’d continue on with our Friday night plans. I decided NOT to question him about what it meant that they were only turning on the water in the sprinklers now, because that would mean that we hadn’t had working sprinklers for three years. I chose to believe that water was already in the line and they were simply pushing in some fresh, new water. That made me feel better for the moment.
As I closed the door, I heard a loud whoosh of air followed by the sound of water surging overhead. “Oh good, something’s happening,†I thought to myself as I re-entered the kitchen to brief Nick on what they said. No sooner had I opened my mouth to start telling him, when we noticed that the kitchen sprinkler had started to steadily drip. Not spray, thankfully, like a normal sprinkler would do, but a rapid drip, similar to what happens after you’ve turned off a garden hose. I poked my head out into the living room/dining room area. “Sh*t honey. They’re all dripping. Get some towels, NOW!†I ran back down the hall to the front door, flung it open and screamed, “Turn the water off. Every sprinkler is leaking and it’s getting all over our stuff.†I ran back down the hall to start damage control, motioning for the sprinkler guys to follow.
I was so annoyed. Did they know this was going to happen? Were we honestly the first ones they’d done this for? Why didn’t they tell us to put buckets down if there was a good chance it would leak???
I ran frantically from room to room, trying to assess the damage. In total, there were eight sprinklers spewing dirty water all over our stuff. Two in the living room, one in the dining room, one in the kitchen, and one each in the four bedrooms. I ran into the bedroom closest to the front door, which we used as an office. Water was streaming down onto Nia’s most recent paper art project that was situated on a plastic folding table. Lost cause. On to the next room. As I reached the hallway, I doubled back to the office to grab every towel I could find in our linen dresser. Eeek – only five. That won’t go very far in this mess. Oh well, it will have to do.
I already knew the kitchen sprinkler was spraying down on the refrigerator, so that’d be fine. Thankfully, Nick had grabbed buckets to catch the water falling onto the dining room table, the living room chair and the area rug, so that area seemed addressed for the moment.
Meanwhile, the three “sprinkler guys†were moving from room-to-room taking photos of the leaking water and staring thoughtfully at the ceiling as water poured out. Actually, one guy was giving orders to another to take pictures and the third was apparently there as a backup in case the picture guy was unable to fulfill his duties. None of them made a move to help or offer any advice or suggestions.
I bee-lined it to the back of the house where the remaining three bedrooms were. I turned left into our bedroom while Nick went straight into the TV room/den. The sprinkler in our bedroom was in the worst possible place—positioned directly above a waist-high clothes bureau. A two-foot puddle had formed atop the bureau and was leaking down the front into drawers that had been left open a crack. But most concerningly, water was covering our wedding painting that we’d had commissioned for our big day and is really one of the only truly irreplaceable things we own. I reached for that first, yanking it off the wall before any more damage could be done. What a mess!
Once I had gotten the painting to safety and gingerly patted it dry—thank God it was an acrylic on canvas—I returned to attack the dresser. Just as I was starting to wipe it down, I heard Nick losing his sh*t with the contractors in the hallway. “What the hell are you doing? Don’t just stand there taking pictures of the dripping water! Help us wipe it up!†It was obvious that he was absolutely enraged at the situation unfolding. “Honey, I’ve got this. Why don’t you go check on Nia and wait for me in the kitchen? I’ll get the back cleaned up.†Thankfully, he recognized that his anger was getting the best of him, and retired to the kitchen to cool off. The contractors continued to be their unhelpful selves, taking pictures while I frantically wiped down the bureau and placed a bucket on top to catch further drips. Ughhh. Water had seeped into five of the seven drawers. All these clothes would have to be washed. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.
Time to assess the last two rooms. I walked into Nia’s bedroom assuming the worst and was pleasantly surprised that it was better than expected. The sprinkler was about a foot to the right of her bed, so most of the water had missed it and gone straight to the marble floor. Excellent. Moving on.
The TV room was a different story. This must have been what set Nick off. The sprinkler in here was directly over a couch and another expensive piece of art. There was a sizeable wet spot covering two of the cushions and a throw pillow that had taken a good hit. Nick had already tossed the couch cushions to the floor and put a towel under the drip, so that was about as good as we could do for now. I scanned the painting, patting it dry as I went. Didn’t seem to be any damage. Good.
At this point I just wanted the “sprinkler guys†gone. They were more hindrance than helpful and clearly clueless as to why this had happened. I escorted them to the exit, told them the consulate would be in touch and forcefully closed the door. Good riddance. With the immediate issue resolved and the water no longer coming down, my mind wandered to bigger concerns—would we be able to stay in our place if the sprinklers weren’t working, would they need to be replaced, would this wreck our Christmas holiday?? Knowing that I didn’t have any answers at the moment, I returned to the dining room to soothe my daughter and let her know that everything was going to be okay (or so I hoped). What a terrible start to a weekend.
After a few phone calls to the underappreciated team at the consulate that coordinates these issues, and some back-and-forth with the apartment owners, we were told all eight sprinkler heads needed to be replaced and could they come back on Wednesday to do that? And by the way, they’re going to have to cut holes in the ceiling around all eight, but it should take only three or four days. Never mind that last time we had a hole cut in the ceiling it took six months to get it fixed, so I’m sure that estimate is reasonable, right? Especially given that there eight holes being cut instead of one? But really, do we have any option other than to say yes? Fire risk is a very real danger here, so proceed we must. And all I can do is cross my fingers and hope this is a quick(ish) fix that doesn’t tear apart our apartment and wreck Christmas.
