It's 60-degrees in Charleston, South Carolina. In other words, IT'S FREEZING.
I'm a wuss when it comes to cold, but compared to Charleston natives I'm Jack-freaking-Frost. When the mercury drops below 70, folks break out coats, gloves, snowshoes, propane heaters.
But real cold hurts.
Champaign, Illinois, 1994. It's -22-degrees. That's minus. My wife are sitting in our basement apartment, watching Cheers. Someone turns on the shower. In the kitchen. It takes a second... shower?
Water, blowing out of the wall.
Call the super. No answer. Look for water meter while kitchen floods. Looking, looking, looking, looking, looking, looking, looking, looking, looking...
30 minutes later, anything I find that remotely looks like a meter is getting shut off. I mean anything. I throw the wrench on the meters outside, my buddy Dave says, "I don't think--"
THERE'S 1000 GALLONS IN MY APARTMENT!
They aren't water meters.
|Winter in Charleston really sucks.|
We go door to door. Hey, hi... cold night tonight, right? By the way, something crazy happened and all the pilot lights went out and we're just here to help you light it. You know, so you and your family don't freeze to death.
We were thanked. Profusely. Even got cookies.
The next morning, my wife and I discovered she was pregnant.