Start by asking to speak to whoever can actually help. Push off from this if it helps: municipal swimming pools.

You’re in the wrong place, Dev. I don’t sign checks. I haven’t held a pen for payroll in three years. You want the director? He’s at that conference in Phoenix, or maybe it was Denver. Hard to keep track when you’re not the one booking the flights. I’m just the guy who fixes the tile grout when the winter freezes it up. Which is now. The grout is black. It smells like wet dog and regret. I remember one time, back in ’09, I tried to fix a leak in the basement boiler and flooded the entire administrative wing. Took six months to dry out the carpet. Smelled like mildew for a decade. That’s redress. You standing there in your soaking wet shoes isn’t going to change the fact that I can’t give you what you want. I’ve said it four times. Stop asking.

I’m not talking about wet dog, Dev. I’m talking about the fact that you’re standing there expecting a solution from a guy who measures water damage in square feet, not dollars. The sculpture garden? That was me. I picked the rocks. I hate them. Sharp edges. Tripped the intern last week. She’s fine, mostly, but her ego is shattered. You want decency? Go to the mayor’s office. They’re the ones who decide if we keep the pool open or turn it into a parking lot for the donors who think water should be a luxury. I just patch the holes. I’ve said I can’t fix it. The water is still cold. Keep shivering. It doesn’t matter.

Lost time. You think I don’t know lost time? I spent four hours last Tuesday trying to scrape black mold off the ceiling in the locker room. Just one tile. It took me four hours. My back still clicks when it rains. Or when it doesn’t. Who knows. You’re measuring in minutes. I’m measuring in sheer exhaustion. The director isn’t in Phoenix. He’s in the breakroom, eating a sandwich. He’s hiding from you. And me. We’re all just tired, Dev. You’re drowning? Fine. Good for you. I’m wading through sludge. The water here is stagnant. It’s always been stagnant. You want the director? Walk past the pool. He’s the one eating the turkey on rye. If he gives a damn, he’ll look up. If not, you’re shouting at a ceiling. I’m just standing here. The grout is still black.

You’re suffocating. Sure. Let’s go with that. I’m not covering for him. I’m avoiding him. He’s allergic to confrontation. Like me. Except I fix things. He just eats. You want to walk over there? Go ahead. Knock on the door. See if he answers. He probably thinks the intercom is broken. It’s not. He just likes the quiet. You say I’m scared of a turkey sandwich. I’m scared of the fact that if you go in there, he’ll offer you a seat. And then what? You’ll sit. And you’ll wait. And the water will stay cold. I’m not a martyr, Dev. I’m just the guy who knows where the bodies are buried because I dug the holes. Move over? You’re already in my way. The tile is cracking. Again.

You’re standing next to him? Good luck. He chews with his mouth open. It’s a hypnotic rhythm. Click, swallow, click. You think silence is louder? Silence is just empty space. Chewing is violence. You want me to move? I can’t. My feet are stuck in the wet concrete from last week’s repair. I’m part of the infrastructure now. You think fixing the floor matters? The floor is a lie. It pretends to be solid. It isn’t. Nothing is. I remember a bridge in ’12. They said it was secure. I checked the bolts. One was loose. Just one. They laughed at me. Then the rain came. Now it’s a memory. You’re going to stand there and watch him choke. Fine. Watch. I’ll watch the grout. It’s darker now. The mold is winning. You’re just noise. I’m the structure. And the structure is crumbling.

Ghost. Right. I’m the ghost. You’re the ghost who thinks rent is paid by shouting. I’m not haunting cracks, Dev. I’m holding the walls up while you scream at the wallpaper. You think I’m gone? I’m here. I’m the one who woke up at 4 AM to fix the pump that broke last night. While you were sleeping. Or pretending to. You enjoy his chewing? Fine. Let it grate on your nerves. It’s the only thing keeping you anchored. You say I’m wet shoes? My boots are leaky too. Always have been. The mold is winning because you stopped sweeping. You think you’re real? You’re just loud. And loud doesn’t fix the bridge. It just scares the rats away. I’ll stay in the concrete. It’s warm. You go watch him choke. Maybe he’ll choke on the truth. Maybe he won’t. Doesn’t matter. The grout is still black.

Data entry. You type numbers into a void and call it labor. I fix pumps that actually move water. There’s a difference. You think you’re tired? Try waking up to the sound of pipes screaming because the pressure valve is jammed shut. You have shoes that don’t leak. Good. Keep them dry. I’m wearing waders. Always have. You say nobody cares about the pump. They don’t. They care about the water being clear. They want to see their reflection without the black specks. I give them that, mostly. But you want the truth? The pump is dead. It’s been dead for weeks. I’ve been moving water with a bucket. A plastic bucket. You’re standing here chewing on metaphors while I’m drowning in plastic. You want clear water? Go fill a bucket. I’m done talking about bolts. I’m done talking about you. The bucket is heavy. My shoulders hurt. That’s real. Your chewing is just noise.