Our phone line was out. I picked it up one morning to make a call and was met with silence in my ear. Over at the house that we are the caretakers for, their phone line had been out for a couple of months. So I put in work orders for both our lines and awaited the arrival of the phone repair guy. Somehow, our phone miraculously heals itself just hours before he shows up, but we go over to the other house so he can so what’s up over there. (What’s this got to do with pesto? Be patient.)
Turns out he’s already replaced the outside box here, it got struck by lightning he says and all should be well now. But the phone is still not working. Trouble is, he says, these people have no service contract, but because I’m a nice guy I’ll go inside and take a look. He does, and the lightning has fried the jack too. So I have two options, he says. One, put in another work order and in another eight days or so, I come back out and fix it and you pay me. Two, I fix it now, no charge, and we say nothing about it. I’ll take Door Number Two, I say. (Seriously, there’s pesto involved. Chill.)
I offer him some money anyway. No, m’am, he says, couldn’t do that, that would really be wrong. Okay, I say, how about some pesto? (Told ya.) He whirls to look at me. Pesto? he says. His eyes are lit up like Times Square. Where’d you get pesto? I made it, I said, with basil from our garden and garlic and pine nuts and Parmesan cheese. Yes, m’am, he says, I’ll take pesto. I haven’t had good, homemade pesto since my Italian grandmother died. I give him a jar of it. He replaces the jack and the phone now works. Bella.
He gives me his name and personal phone number. Anything goes wrong with these phones again, I’m to call him directly. The next week, our phone dies again. I call him early that morning, from work, and within two hours he’s called back to say it’s fixed. No charge. I tell him stop by sometime for more pesto. Yes, m’am, he says.