Ode to OSHA

Today the electricity for my oven was connected by a man who is not only an electrician, but also a plumber, a guard for my building, my best source for sex vocabulary, a father to several of my local friends, and an inspirational drinker. You can see him from half a kilometer away because he's about 6-foot-5 and always wears anime-print club shirts.

After the connections were done, I helped him lift the oven back into its spot. Then he began to demonstrate how to use it.

"This knob is the timer."

"Mmmm-hmmm," I responded flatly (the clock icon gave it away).

"This knob is the gas if you turn it this way. 155 degrees here. If you turn it the other way, it's the grill." He did, in fact, turn the knob, and the oven light came on. He opened the door to point at the electric element. I put my hand under it, waiting for the heat to radiate. "Let me show you," he said as he, too, reached inside the oven.

I retracted my hand to get out of his way, but he motioned for me to put it back in. "Let me show you," he repeated. I think I also heard him say the word kema.

At this point my brain chimed in, saying Look, you idiot, he's about to burn your hand on that thing! Despite all the immediate evidence that this was true, a deep-seated rational part of me maintained that he must be joking, and that I should play along.

So I put my hand back in. With the utmost grace and gentleness, his fingers clapsed my wrist and guided my pinky straight upward, where — yes — it touched the element.

My oh-shit-I'm-on-fire reflex kicked in, and I jumped back from the oven. "You just burned my pinky!" I shouted. Communication is the foundation of any good relationship. I wanted to keep him in the loop.

"Hahahaha," his smile said.

"That's gonna leave a mark," I added, gawking at my finger and its band of rapidly congealing skin cells.

"Ah, yes, you're white," he agreed, "you burn differently than we do."

Before he left, we reviewed the day's new vocabulary.