Be Careful; That's Electric!

     My cousin David has an unusual profession; he is a lawyer/handyman. His clientele is mostly the local people in his Brooklyn neighborhood, where he makes his rounds revising wills, consulting on petty disputes, and fixing broken lamps.
     I was privileged one evening to accompany Dave on one of his professional visits, as an assistant handyman. We brought David's legal briefcase, and a big box of tools. When we arrived at the first house, Dave sat at the table and opened his briefcase, while I was provided with a list of the various mechanical problems that needed attention, mostly minor repairs to furniture. But the first item was different, it was high priority.
     The lady of the house showed me to the spot; standing at a safe distance, she pointed to a faulty electrical outlet. No one knew what was wrong with it, just that there was something wrong, but she couldn't tell me anything specific. It was as if a myth had grown up in the house that surrounded that spot with danger; no one ever dared to go near it.
     I walked over to look at the outlet, the lady waiting a few paces behind me, obviously quite nervous. The first thing I found was that the cover plate on the outlet was loose, and was hanging askew. I reached for an insulated screwdriver to remove the plate. As I was about to apply the screwdriver to the little screw, a small sound from the lady drew my attention. "Be careful," she choked out. "That's electric!" Her face was literally white with fear.
     I've heard of that happening, but I had never actually seen it before. I put down the screwdriver, and in my best professional manner I assured the woman that I had experience with this sort of thing. My calm manner didn't impress her much; I think she interpreted it as a sort of insane recklessness.
     But having done my best, I just went back to work, and let the lady take care of herself. I removed the plate, and visually inspected the wiring inside. I shined my flashlight in; all seemed intact. I wiggled the socket, I probed the connections with a well insulated tool; everything was solidly screwed down; there were no burn marks, no short circuits. I brought over a lamp and plugged it in, to see if the socket was live; the lamp lit. Apparently there was nothing wrong; the only thing was that the cover plate had been loose, and was hanging crooked. So, after a final look around inside, I unplugged the lamp and put back the cover plate. I made sure the screw on the cover was firmly snugged down, because I am nothing, if not professional! "It's all set," I told the woman. "It shouldn't be a problem now."
     The woman's relief and gratitude were palpable. Her whole attitude toward me changed. She didn't know how I knew what I knew, but now she believed in me: The Man is Here, and he Knows What He's Doing.
     In a much calmer frame of mind now, the woman showed me to the rest of the things on the list. It was all pretty routine, like the electric socket, just without that element of danger. Item: the bureau in the bedroom had a loose piece of molding. I smeared a little glue into the seam with a pallet knife, and tapped the nails tight again. Item: a corner of wallpaper in the kitchen was peeling off; I glued it down. Everything was like that. I had never seen a whole houseful of people so deep in the grip of cluelessness about mechanical things. Who can't tap in a nail? But it was wonderful how grateful they were.
     Meanwhile, Dave had finished up with his paperwork (I could only imagine what sort of fantastic legal problems these people were having), and together we finished off the last few items, handing each other tools and working together in an easy camaraderie. In no time at all, it was job done. Sometimes, it's not what you do specifically, it's just the feeling of being useful to someone, that really matters.