The thing in the basement

The thing in the basement enjoys the dark. It spends most of the time sleeping, but wakes once in a while to see the figure of a man outlined against a rectangle of light. Clutching a pipe, the man heaves it over his head, standing like Thor among the giants.

"What have you done now, you sonovabitch?"

We are engaged in a battle of wills with an ancient boiler. As our Korean War-era building continues its lumbering march toward an Usher-esque ending, the thing in the basement exerts a malevolent power. Weekly, our Maintenance Man (MM) ambles in with a new set of challenges. Oddly enough, he's usually cheerful.

"Job security," he whistles as he struggles to cool the library below us while simultaneously re-routing the arctic blast in the offices above to an empty room.

"Interesting," he notes, removing tennis shoe laces, a partial toupee, and the head of a doll from the plumbing pipes.

"Freaky," he observes, rewiring the computer terminal that somehow was locked into the power grid downstairs. MM is amiable enough when it comes to handling these minor peculiarities, white mustache gleaming with the perspiration of his efforts, but the boiler is starting to drive him mad.

Last week it burned out a heat coil. Apparently, this particular heating system is so outdated, replacement parts are no longer available. Each time this thing malfunctions, pieces have to be special ordered and hand crafted by the cranky artisans of an unnamed company operating out of a garage in some unspecified location. Weeks go by without any word. We're afraid to ask MM when the part will arrive because he doesn't have an answer and his usually pleasant face will darken to a bright vermillion, mustache bristling like a gray caterpillar.

Meanwhile, we wait. If it's the middle of summer, temperatures inside the building can soar into the high 90s. Fans are plugged in, washcloths dampened and placed around necks, glasses of ice water quickly consumed, sweat stains ruin cotton shirts, tempers flair, friendships are damaged and later repaired.

If it's the middle of winter, like our latest incident, temps can hover around the low to mid 50s. Several layers of clothing are worn, hats and glovelets appear, hot chocolate is made and carefully sipped, the break room is abandoned for warmer environs, sniffles and coughs develop, conversation ceases and is replaced by shivering.

Long ago, we were told that personal heaters were not allowed. However, there's been a certain lack of leadership in the office over the last couple of years, and one woman dared to bring her heat fan to work. When the boiler broke, we watched with envy as she pulled out her fan and plugged it in, flooding the small space around her desk with heat.

Today there was an outright rebellion. With an outside temp of 25 and an indoor one of 50, the grunts had had enough. Several of us made surreptitious trips to a nearby Target, returning with heat fans. Plugging them in, we had a few luxurious moments of warmth.

Then, the circuits blew.

Defeated, we returned the heaters to their boxes. Below us, I could swear I heard the boiler give a triumphant guffaw.