I'm leaving on vacation tomorrow, so we all know what that means. Something went horribly wrong yesterday.

The furnace died. It made an odd buzzing sound every couple of seconds, but it would not produce anything resembling warmth. A friend of mine says the same thing about his ex-wife.

The pilot light was lit, which was a relief. It's not that I am afraid to light it. It's just that it sends my wife into full blown panic mode whenever she has to think about fire and gas at the same time. She experienced a rather dramatic multiple house-leveling gas explosion just before we were married. If the only thing standing between her and starvation was the need to light a gas barbecue, she would go on a hunger strike.

I knew that this was a job that was going to require that I mobilize my full array of handyman skills.

I flicked the switch off and on a couple of times. Then I banged on the side of it twice. I even tried reasoning with it saying, "Come on. You can't do this today. I've got hotel bills and car rental fees to pay this week."

You just can't reason with a furnace that's gone cold. (My friend says that about his ex-wife, too.)

When none of those things worked, I knew it was time to bring out the power tools, so I picked up my trusty six-inch reciprocating telephone receiver and called someone who actually possessed some potentially useful furnace repair skills.

While we waited for him to arrive, Diane and I wondered whether it was going to be an inexpensive quick fix, or if the furnace had gone where faulty furnaces go when they die. If it was the latter, we decided that we'd use the fireplace to heat the house for the remainder of the year.

When you see a repairman pull into your driveway in a Lincoln Navigator, you can quickly determine that the word inexpensive will not be part of your discussion, no matter how quick a fix is required.

After a few minutes the repairman came into the living room, where I was curled up in the fetal position anticipating the size of the bill. He had a small plastic box in his hand.

"It's the most expensive piece in the unit that's shot," he said.

Now, how did I know he was going to say that? It had nothing to do with ESP. I just knew that, even if he had come into the room carrying a small rubber washer, he'd say, "It's the most expensive piece in the unit that's shot."

Repairmen seem to have a mantra. "It's the computer."

When my car died a couple years ago, I was told, "It's the computer." When my dishwasher stopped, I heard, "It's the computer." I'm surprised that a doctor hasn't held a stethoscope up to my chest and said, "It's the computer."

On the other hand, when my computer died the repairman said something along the lines of, "It's the central core doofangle processing thingy on the heat dissipating mother whatsit."

Actually, he didn't use words like doofangle or thingy. I just zoned out during his explanation because I had no idea what he was talking about, and I knew what was coming next.

"It's the most expensive piece in the unit that's shot."

I'm not even sure if I believe that my furnace has a computer. I think the manufacturers attach a small plastic box that the repairmen can pull off and show to the customers when they say, "It's the most expensive piece in the unit that's shot."

In my case the replacement plastic box cost over $400.00. Even with my math skills, I was able to figure that he'd only need to replace a couple of those a month to pay the lease on the Navigator.

It wasn't enough to spoil the vacation. I'll still be heading out tomorrow. I can still pay for a rental car, but you can be sure it won't be a Lincoln Navigator.

After all, I'm just not in the same income bracket as a furnace repairman.

©2007, Gordon Kirkland