The Callout Fee

The faucet drips. That's where it begins — a single, unhurried, completely fixable drip beneath the kitchen tap. You call a plumber. The plumber's name is Gary.

Act I opens with just that: the drip, the phone call, the quiet arrival on an unremarkable Tuesday afternoon. The soprano enters in near-speech, her voice still calm, tracing the sequence of events with the measured cadence of someone who has rehearsed this story in their head many times since. Plucked strings pulse like a metronome. A lone oboe threads above them, bending in a shape that rhymes, suspiciously, with water falling.

Then Gary opens his clipboard.

Act II belongs to him. The baritone takes the floor with the easy confidence of a man who has done this before — each line item delivered with the smooth charm of someone who genuinely cannot fathom why you'd find any of this surprising. The callout fee is simply for arriving, you see. The assessment surcharge covers the visual evaluation, by and large. The parts sourcing coordination fee accounts for the process of determining that no parts were, in fact, needed. The after-hours surcharge kicks in at noon (on certain days, under certain scheduling conditions, per certain definitions of "afternoon" that Gary is not presently at liberty to elaborate on). The soprano interrupts, reinterrupts, escalates through fury into something approaching operatic disbelief. The orchestra swells behind them — brass stabs land on each new line item like a gavel. By the time the invoice-processing fee arrives, she is screaming. He is smiling. He hands her a business card.

The finale does not waste time on subtlety. The SATB choir erupts at full fortissimo, the orchestra crashes in from every corner of the pit, and the soprano belts above all of it with the voice of a woman who has been cheated out of three hundred seventy-eight dollars and intends for the back row to know it. Gary is gone. The drip motif returns in the oboe, just for a moment, before the brass swallows everything. The final lyric lands on three words, one beat each, loud enough to rattle the window:

She still has the business card. It is being kept as evidence.

[Verse 1] One hundred twenty-five, the callout fee. I said, "Alright, one twenty-five. That seems clear to me." He walked in, he set his bag down on the floor, He looked at the tap for thirty seconds, maybe forty, maybe more.

And then he opened up his clipboard. And I heard the sound of a pen. And I knew, in my bones, something was beginning. I would never be the same again.

[Act II — Gary's Number] One hundred twenty-five, the callout fee — That's simply for arriving, you see. Seventy-five, assessment surcharge — A comprehensive visual evaluation, by and large.

What does that even mean?!

Ninety-five, parts sourcing coordination — We sourced, and then determined: no parts needed for this station. Forty-eight, the after-hours rate —

It was two-seventeen PM!

Our after-hours period begins at noon on days when the scheduler has flagged a... premium-service phase.

That's not a thing! That's not a THING!

And thirty-five, the invoice-processing fee, which covers the paper, the ink, and the administrative artistry of bringing this beautifully itemized document to thee — Have you considered our platinum service plan? It's quite free—

FREE?!

[Bridge] One hundred twenty-five! Seventy-five! Ninety-five! Forty-eight! Thirty-five! THREE HUNDRED SEVENTY-EIGHT!

AND THE FAUCET—

[Finale — SATB Choir] AND THE FAUCET! AND THE FAUCET! AND THE FAUCET!

He left a business card. A BUSINESS CARD. I have it here. I have kept it. As evidence.

THREE HUNDRED SEVENTY-EIGHT DOLLARS! AND NO PARTS WERE ORDERED! AND NO PARTS WERE ORDERED!

THE FAUCET. STILL. DRIPS.

THE FAUCET. STILL. DRIPS. THE FAUCET. STILL. DRIPS. THE FAUCET — STILL — DRIPS!