A man of few words comes to fix our oven. I show him to the kitchen.
“Sometimes it turns on, sometimes it doesn’t,” I explain.
The man shrugs, sets down his tools.
“The problem started a few weeks ago,” I continue. “Everyday I turn it on to check. When it does turn on, it takes like five minutes.”
The quiet man considers the oven. I continue my briefing, explaining the oven’s use history and my concerns about the differential between the dial reading and the actual temperature. I wonder if it’ll need to be replaced. And then I raise the stakes.
“Thanksgiving is next week,” I say.
The quiet man and I regard each other for a moment, then he turns back to the oven and says, “ignitor.”
He opens the oven, puts on one of those miner flashlights, and starts taking things apart. Five minutes later, we have ignition.
“Wow. You’re amazing, got it one.”
He packs up.
I show him to the door.
“You saved Thanksgiving,” I declare.
“Yes,” he says before disappearing into the evening. He is a man of few words, and apparently modesty is not one of them.