All I wanted was for the light fixture that lit a framed print over my fireplace to work again. In 2004, I had asked a buddy, an Angel of Mercy who helped me update my old house into a cozy home, if he would please install a light over the picture. I’d seen a simple fixture at Home Depot for $29.95. We were nearing the end of the make-over and my budget was depleted. However, what with installation and all, I had the odd $100 left over to complete the lamp retrofit. You see, when my ex-husband moved to his dream home trailer in East Texas, I was left to enact the “big sweep.” That’s when everything left in the house gets tossed, from furniture to fixtures. The survivor gets to rebuild to suit his or her tastes. In this case it was my tastes, which began with a poster of a flamenco dancer. She looked strong and self reliant. I wanted to be strong and self reliant. She would inspire me. She was soon enveloped in a huge antiqued gold frame, carefully matted with anti-glare glass, the whole shebang. My children thoughtfully hung it on the wall over the fireplace mantle for me. They had to. You see, it was Mother’s Day and I had the flu and was too weak to do it myself. “Three millimeters to the left. Now tilt the right side down two millimeters. No, go back half an inch.” And so on until Mother was happy on Mother’s Day and her children prayed she'd get a new husband who could hang any future artwork for her. The builders who hammered my small house together in 1949 either ran out of electrical wire or opted for an atmosphere of gothic gloom because there are no ceiling or wall light fixtures in the living room. When I revamped this cave I added floor and table lamps, none of which were close enough to light up my flamenco dancer. Her face, which I’d longed to gaze upon, was lost in the darkness of the upper reaches where she hung. Another light fixture was needed. My Angel of Mercy buddy, henceforth referred to as AM, had just fallen in love with the lighting rage of the decade: halogen. He’d figured out how to convert every light in his house from incandescent to halogen lightbulbs. That meant even the table lamps were drilled out to hide a halogen transformer. In those days you couldn’t just run a wire from a wall plug to a halogen lightbulb. No. You needed a converter, a transformer. Maybe you still do. Frankly, there’s no reason why I should have to know. All I asked for was a simple, inexpensive fixture with a plug-in wire long enough to be tacked to the molding at the ceiling’s edge, run down the corner of the room, and then plugged into a socket as needed. That’s not too much to ask, is it? Yes, according to AM. Simple lamps held no interest for him whereas this posed a challenge he relished. So instead of stapled wires, I came home one day to find a gorgeous bronze light fixture mounted above the frame. Exiting the mounting plate was just the slimmest strip of painted wire, perhaps six inches, which then disappeared into the stucco wall. It reappeared through a hole drilled into the side of a shelf that flanked the mantle. At the far end of this shelf now stood a darling bronze oval-shaped box, one with a lid and a tiny little lock and key. On top of the lid was a switch: high, low, off. Nice. However, in order for the box to work, more wire was fed through holes drilled through pristine wooden shelves that had withstood all the earthquakes of the past seventy years without a single splinter. What emerged from the bottom shelf was an electric cord capped by a plug that extended to a wall socket two inches above the floor. Was I happy to see him drilling holes in the walls and shelves? Not really. Did I make a fuss at the time? Well, the holes were mostly out of sight. Unless you knew they were there, say, because you wanted to dust things, you’d never notice them. So I kept quiet. AM had stripped out the innards out of the fancy brass picture lamp and retrofitted it to support two 12-volt halogen lightbulbs. Then he welded a transformer inside the pretty little bronze box and surrounded it with red, white, and black wires that zapped electricity between the wall socket and light fixture. The inside looked like a miniaturized junction box. I know this because I had to reconnect the wires every time a function of the box stopped working. This custom-made beauty only cost $250. I paid the bill without comment. It was my fault for not mentioning my budget. Also, AM’s enthusiasm sort of intimidated me. Eventually, the lamp stopped working. It was busted for years until last year when I got around to caring. I tried replacing bulbs and fiddled with the connectors but nothing helped. It appeared the transformer had gone kaput. So I called AM and asked if he could come fix it. This is where the story begins. Up to now has just been background data. Months passed and he was too busy or too ill to come fix the transformer. Then he calls me. “Can you bring the light fixture?” “No I can’t bring the light fixture. That would mean ripping off the little bit of wire that’s stapled to the wall and I’d have to repaint the whole living room.” More weeks pass. An event is coming up where we plan to dance together after ten years of abstinence. I’m going to drive to his house and then we will go to the dance. “Can you bring the transformer box with you?” “Sure.” Comes the day of the dance and I’ve got a cold. I’m not going to his house. Further, I’m not bringing the transformer box or its contents on any other any day because it’s been sitting on the shelf for fifteen years and the wires have melted into the bronze slits and no amount of tugging on my part is going to pull them loose. The box must remain there and AM must come to my house to fix it. Months pass. I knew of a handyman who had repaired my doors and whatnot after burglars stole everything of value they could fling into one of my pillowcases. He’s a really nice handyman who can fix most everything but for some reason or other I forgot he existed as far as halogen lamps are concerned. Now I’m getting annoyed. Imagine me leaving a phone message for AM in my most depressed and frustrated tones. “Will you please come over and fix the picture lamp? I will pay you for your gas expenses to and from your house. I will pay you for your time and materials. I can’t sell the house with a light fixture that doesn’t work. Please.” As soon as I hang up I remember the handyman. Perhaps he can come and remove the old transformer box and install a new one. Of course! Why didn’t I think of that sooner? I called him, I explained, I got a date. Now imagine me leaving a message for AM but this time in much happier conciliatory tones. “Hello, AM. Please ignore my earlier message. I just called my handyman and he’s going to …” AM interrupts my message by picking up his phone and telling me “Hold on! No, that’s not going to work. You and I are the only ones in the world who have this type of installation. Very few people are going to know how to repair it.” “He’s very clever and has instilled other electrical things here. I’m sure he can figure it out. I don’t wish to put you to any trouble.” “It’s 12 volts.” “Yes, I know it’s 12 volts. I’m looking at the bulb packaging as we speak.” “It’s hard to find 12-volt transformers.” “Perhaps he will know how to order one.” “Well, I have an extra one here if he can’t find it.” This is uttered in quieter, more disinterested yet still disgusted tones. “Thank you so much. It’s so kind of you to offer but I’m sure we’ll be able to figure something out.” By the way, his “here” is at the other end of Los Angeles County, which means like between New York and Maine. Maybe not quite that far, but enough so it’s not a quick trip. Also, he hasn’t spoken to me since. I don’t mind. A week later the handyman showed up and through brute strength pulled the wires out of the cute little bronze coffin and took it home with him to see if he could replace the transformer. Before he leaves, I tell him: “I don’t care if you need to replace the box. I don’t care what kind of a box you use. Tin, wood, plastic, none of that matters. Also, it’s been broken for a year. I don’t mind if it takes you a month to fix it.” That’s the last I hear or see of the handyman for three months. Finally, I hunt him down. He subcontracts for five different companies. His time is not his own but I’m persistent. He shows up and says he doesn’t want to replace the transformer. It’s too expensive. “Fine. No problem. Just install a regular light fixture and skip the transformer. I don’t need a switch. I can turn it on by simply putting the plug in the socket. Also, while you were away I started thinking of a few other things I’d like you to fix. Here’s the list. There are only eight items so far. I may add a few.” He looks at the list; looks at the busted things I want him to fix, and leaves without taking the list with him. He’s only stopped by to show me why he can’t fix the bronze box. I insist he take it with him. There’s no telling when a handyman will need a tiny retrofitted casket. Weeks pass. I am now out of the patience I never had to begin with. I leave messages, phone calls, and at last the handyman shows up with bags of artifacts from Home Depot. It’s a miracle. He remembered everything on the list. The only problem is that I don’t like the new picture fixture he bought. It doesn’t go with my decor. No problem. He can take it back. Before he leaves, he removes the old fixture to take home and see if he can return it to its original condition. If that fails, I can shop for a lamp I like. Months pass. Christmas and New Years pass. I go to Home Depot and buy the same fixture he did but in dark bronze. Then I start leaving text messages. When those fail, I leave voice messages. In desperation to get rid of me, he dashes over between other jobs and installs the new fixture. It’s five millimeters off center but I’m trying to not see that. The picture and the mantlepiece never looked prettier. Three LED spotlights now shine brightly where before there were but two dim 12-volt halogen bulbs. Not only that, it only cost me $2,370. You see, before the handyman felt so guilty that he installed the new light during his lunch break—even before he removed the old fixture from the wall—he also installed new outdoor motion sensor lights, new door knobs and deadbolts, a shower fixture, aerators, hammered rain gutters back into place, stuccoed the bejeezus out of the underside of the kitchen faucet to keep crickets from falling into the sink, and told me to call his buddy the plumber because he didn’t know how to repair the bathtub shower faucet that was frozen in place. The plumber said he’d never seen such crummy plastic faucet parts and ended up knocking a hole through the outside of the house to the back of the bathtub so he could install good quality chrome faucets that I can turn. Now the shower works. And the next plumber can repair things via an outside access panel, one that was omitted in 1949. Also I have a brand new toilet because the aging parts inside my previously new toilet are obsolete. I loved that toilet but it’s landfill now. No one wants toilets with faulty flushers. If anyone ever comes to stay (not that they will because I got rid of my guest bed), they can shower and flush the toilet with confidence. In the evening they can admire the glow of the mantle and the picture above it. So, $2,400 if you round up to include the stucco, caulking, and wood filler I had to buy to clean up after the handyman and the plumber. There’s one teeny thing left to fix but I’m not going to call anyone to do it. I can’t afford it.