When I came home from school on Wednesday, the toilet in our house wouldn’t flush. I made the usual calls to Ira, the head maintenance man, and Adam, the assistant maintenance man, only to leave messages on their voicemails. I tested the faucets to make sure the pipes hadn’t frozen – the high that day was 10 below zero with windchills of 30 below zero. Then, the toilet just magically started working again so I called back and left a voicemail for Ira but when I called Adam’s house, a man answered and took a message to pass along to Adam. The man on the other end of the phone spoke broken English and I had a feeling that he didn’t understand me when I told him that the toilet was now working and Adam didn’t need to come by. This was at about 6pm.
At 10:30pm, Sarah and I were in pajamas, watching a Weeds DVD when it sounded like a snowmachine pulled up outside. We looked at the clock and looked at eachother and Sarah suggested that I go look out the window to see what was going on. Before I could get out of my recliner, I heard the front door open and then Adam was standing in the middle of our living room, seal skin hat tied snug under his chin, wearing a black parka and snowpants. The door had been locked but Adam has a key since he’s a maintenance man. He had just let himself in and was in our house before we even knew what happened.
“It’s working now. Uh… the toilet’s working now. I left a message at your house. I’m sorry you didn’t get it, but everything’s fine now, “ I spilled out, flustered, as I pulled the blanket up around my neck in an attempt at modesty.
“I’ll just go check anyway,” he answered as he walked through the house with his snowboots on. He hurried past the bathroom to the utility room in the back of the house. We figured that he must be checking the water line to the bathroom. After a quick minute, he came tromping back through the house (remember that Sarah and I are in our pajamas and it is 10:30 at night) past the bathroom again. He stopped at the front door and leaned down to put his hand in front of the baseboard heater.
“There’s plenty of Glycol. Seems to be working now.” He smiled through the darkness of the fur hat surrounding his dark-skinned face. He has a kind face and I teach his teenage son and daughter in class every day.
“There’s nothing wrong with the heater. It was the toilet,” I told him. His confused look caused me to repeat what I’d said, more slowly this time (Adam is a native Yupik speaker and his English is sketchy).
“It – was – the – toilet – that – wasn’t – working.” I said slowly. “But – it’s – fine – now.” Another confused look from Adam. “It’s – all – good.” I gave him a dramatic double thumbs up to drive home the point I was trying to make.
He nodded, “Okay.” And, he was gone – back out the door. In a few seconds, we heard the snowmachine fire up and drive away.
Sarah and I, still sitting in the living room under blankets, looked at each other, dumbfounded. Did that really just happen? Did someone really just unlock our front door and walk into our house uninvited on a Wednesday night at 10:30?
Personal space and privacy have no place in a village. The Yupik are used to taking care of one another, spending time in each other’s houses, raising one another’s children. I’m sure they find it laughable that I even use the deadbolt on my front door.
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