Several years ago this call came in like a death sentence. My first solo gig for Huntsville Wire and Home. The mission: dead outlets in a living room. Simple, right? Wrong. I was a bundle of raw nerves, gripping the wheel and praying I wouldn’t burn someone’s castle to the ground.
I roll up to the address, tool bag rattling like a box of teeth, and walk straight into a biological anomaly.
The house didn’t just have a dog. It had a prehistoric mammal—a Great Dane the size of a Clydesdale. This thing stood waist-high and looked me in the eye like we were equals. I’m convinced to this day that the family was scammed into buying a small horse in a dog suit.
While I’m trying to process the sheer scale of the beast, the owners start their own show. The husband tries to explain the electrical failure, but the wife is having none of it. She cuts him off. He snaps back. Within thirty seconds, I’m the captive audience for a domestic war zone.
I looked at the couple, then I looked at the horse-dog. The dog was the only one in the room not radiating pure, concentrated misery. We bonded. I petted the monster; he leaned into me. We were brothers-in-arms. Big mistake.
The Invisible Snake
I finally carve out enough peace to locate the problem: an outlet behind the couch. I heave the furniture out of the way and drop into a low crouch. Eighteen inches of clearance. Tight.
I pull the faceplate. The wires are exposed, raw and waiting. I grab my meter, my heart thumping against my ribs. I’m inches away from the copper when my “best friend” decides he hasn’t had enough affection. He hits me with a “love nudge” that carries the momentum of a freight train.
Zap. Zap. Zap.
Electricity is a special kind of hell when you aren’t expecting it. This was my first time riding the lightning. I didn’t think “electrical shock.” I thought an invisible cobra had latched onto my forearm.
Pure, reptilian instinct took over. My brain short-circuited. I hurled my meter behind me like it was a live grenade. My elbow followed suit, driving backward with the force of a hydraulic piston.
Direct hit. I didn’t just hit the husband; I delivered a career-ending elbow strike directly to his groin. He was standing right behind me, hovering like a supervisor, and paid the ultimate price. He doubled over and collapsed onto the couch, making sounds that shouldn’t come out of a human being.
I’m vibrating from the voltage, the husband is contemplating a life without heirs, and the wife? She’s beaming. She watched him hit the cushions and looked at me like I’d just performed a miracle.
The Aftermath
I finished the job with shaking hands and a scorched ego. The husband didn’t say a word—partly out of spite, mostly because his soul hadn’t quite returned to his body.
As I packed my bag to flee the scene of the crime, the wife walked me to the door. She slipped me a fifty-dollar bill. My first job. My first shock. My first accidental assault.
Fifty bucks. I’ll take it.
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