Lightbulbs

The first three times lights went out on me, with almost a poof of magnesium, I asked where the spare bulbs were kept. As soon as I did this, instead of telling me Maria or Laurentiu would sweep off to wherever they were hidden, return with one in hand, and sweep right past me again. They'd go into my room, hop up on my bed, have a time unscrewing the bust one, shake it in their ear, shake it at me: “yep! You're right, it is broken!” Indeed.

Then toss this broken one on my bed, take the new one out of their pocket, screw it in and say, See? Easy. I'll have to buy a new one at the piata. In a year, in the same room, where the light is on for a good 6 hours a day in December and 2 hours a day in June, this was the fourth bulb to explode on me. Emboldened by my earlier statement of “No, I can heat up my own leftover coltunasi.” I went in search of the spare bulbs. They had to be near. They never went to the betch for them. They were in the kitchen. In one of the drawers or cupboards. I found a bag full of used shampoo bottles. A ratty hairbrush. Halves of onions. Meat cleavers. Wires. Bags. Straight razors. Jar lids. Thermometers. Stuff, but no bulbs.

I looked in the hallway lights – we never use the hallway lights. They were taken already. I went to the spare room and took that one. Brought it back. Unscrewed the old one. The glass came out, but the spiral metal base stayed. Stuck my phone with its flashlight in my mouth, stuck my nail clippers (air ports confiscate only truly useful things like pliers with wire cutters in their crotch) on the rim of the cup of pressed metal, twisted, pulled, twisted, twisted. Got it out. Wires everywhere. Cool. Screwed in the new bulb. Flipped the switch. Nada. Damn.

And, went in search of Maria, defeated. She screwed it in just perfect. Nothing. “Maybe it's the switch,” she said. Not seeing how that was possible, I asked, “Really?”

“Yea, but if it is, it is complicated.”

“Clearly.”

She took the whole thing apart, shook some parts, cylinders of metal, and screwed them all back in like a concentric maze. Screwed in the bulb. I flipped the switch. It went on. I'd held my phone flashlight for her this whole time and she hadn't looked up once.

“There!” she said, “once I bought 9 bulbs at once, and put in one, and it burst. Put another in, immediately it burst. On the third one, it stayed.”

“That's not good quality.”

“No. Like our matches. You see what we have here to buy.”

“Have you seen the halogen bulbs? They're in a shape like this,” and I wave my finger in a whirlpool.

“Yes. They use less energy.”

“Therefore, have a much longer life.”

“If we were to use those, we'd have to change all the wires in the house.”

“How does that make sense?”

“You know, it's like the long fluorescent bulbs.” I didn't but this is where I've learned to stop talking. I take the busted bulb from her and look at the voltage.

“They have the same voltage as this.”

“That's not 220. It's just a stamp.”

“so what voltage is it?”

“Probably, 75.”

“Then, why's it say 220?”

Maria shrugs and repeats, “it's just a stamp.” She checked my fire, “it's red.” she said, and left. At 70 lei a pop, that's a quarter of my monthly pay check to put energy efficient bulbs in the whole house.