When the first grey days of winter moved in, Old Meter #2’s departure was not far behind. It was not wholly surprising that #2 would go. As the oldest meter, he was the founding member of the cluster of meters, having been installed before the house was subdivided into apartments. Upon his last inspection, he was found to suffer from slow meter syndrome, resulting in lost earnings for the natural gas utility company, and his replacement came with little fanfare. But Miss Meter #1, Gumbo Ya Ya Meter #3, Junkman Meter #4 and Meter of the Pack #5 grieved.
“It’s always about the money,” muttered Meter of the Pack #5 upon hearing of Old Meter #2’s impending replacement. #5 was an awkward sort of meter who was proud of the “Meter of the Pack” nickname that he had invented for himself, suggestive of the design flaw he possessed—a flaw that made his usage dial turn unreliably. His own replacement had long been rumored, so he took #2’s decommissioning personally.
There was another cloud of melancholy that hung over the meters. The woman renting Gumbo Ya Ya Meter #3’s apartment had abruptly left her place some time ago. It stood empty, awaiting badly-needed refurbishing by the owner. Pots and pans still littered the kitchen; buckets and packing boxes and foam shipping peanuts were strewn about. The story gradually shook out. The former resident had been discovered to be cooking gumbo ya ya illegally, in an unlicensed and un-inspected kitchen, falsely labeling the containers as originating from New Orleans. Suspicion arose due to the amount of her kitchen’s gas usage, uncharacteristically high for a residence, and drawing the false conclusions that she had in fact been running a meth lab. With her gone, the gas gradually drained from Gumbo Ya Ya Meter #3’s pipes, and he gradually faded away, like the grip of early onset Alzheimer’s. One day, after the arrival of a new occupant, and with the gas flow restored, he would be back. But for now, he was forced to withdraw from the traditional social hours that the meters coveted.
Before Old Meter #2 was taken away, and while Gumbo Ya Ya Meter #3 still had all her faculties, they had all indeed enjoyed a close camaraderie. Here, on the north side of the aging house, they were protected on the hottest days. As their various renters arose to face the new day, their meter dials stirred, slowly gathering speed, the flow of gas gently tickling them awake from their nightly slumbers. Junkman Meter #4 generally napped on his own schedule, since his renter worked the graveyard shift as a night watchman at the local junkyard. When #4 awoke, he would boast to the other meters about how much gas he had passed during their sleep. It was a lame joke, but he never tired of it. Jokes don’t come easy for tightly-regulated meters.
The meters watched together as the sun began its daily arc, gently warming them from the chill of night, the early glow of the sun’s first light coloring their steel, like crab shells reddened by boiling water.
Their job was forever unchanging. At the sun’s daily arrival, the meters remained perched upon the gas lines–looking like hearts connected to fat, gray arteries, as they monitored the flow of invisible energy. Their daily routine would be interrupted only once per month by a lone technician, who, like a homecare nurse, would inspect them and note the progression of gas, displayed upon their slowly rotating dials.
Old Meter #2 had provided years of faithful service to his longtime renter, Reverend Robert, a young pastor with a sterling reputation until recently, when the rumors surfaced about his supposed dalliances with the attractive brunette who lived across the hallway, Miss Meter #1’s renter. Never mind that all the rumors were unfounded. Yes, they had become good friends, and, yes, they had engaged in conversations at the local Starbucks, but always with great intentionality to be in full view of the community so that no misunderstanding might arise. The cumulative weight of the rumor mill had taken its toll on him. He soured on the people, and eventually, the ministry itself, and his world unraveled. He felt he deserved to be loved, and that it held no contradictions to his calling. When a small emerging home group offered him open arms to become their leader, he resigned his church and took their offer; the reduced income meant nothing to him. It felt good to be free and to no longer care about perceived impropriety. He would answer for his actions, but no longer to the torturous investigations of the former congregation.
On the same day that Rev. Robert was reinventing his life, his gas meter, Old Meter #2, took its final ride to the junkyard, the same junkyard that was under the watchful eye of Junkman Meter #4’s graveyard-shift night watchman.
On this day, one final drama would play out in Meterland. The technician tightened the last nut, leaving a brand new face in Old Meter #2’s place—New Meter #2.
“Hey, everyone!” New Meter #2 shouted to the other meters, hoping for a warm welcome. “Look at me! Fresh out of the factory box! And look, no dial for me! I’m all digital! Wheeeee!”
The other meters, clearly grieving for Old #2, barely tolerated his comments. They stole a sideways glance, which is, actually, all meters can ever do. Indeed, the brash new meter did have a different look about him.
“Hey, I even have my own tattoo!” he boasted of the round yellow tag across his front. The other meters thought better of correcting him, knowing that, with time, the inspector’s number would fade and disappear, just as theirs had so many seasons ago.
With the setting sun, the day’s heat drained from the meters’ cold-blooded shells. As the renters fell asleep, their meters quieted as slumber also gently came upon them.
Rev. Robert’s dreams again turned, now freely, to Miss Meter #1’s renter in the apartment next door as a smile passed across his face.
Meter of the Pack #5, with his renter at work in the night shift, had already long been silent.
New Meter #2 emitted the cold light of new diodes. He was proud to be the first next-generation meter on the block. So far, he liked the new friends in his meter-hood.
There was something that excited New Meter #2 about discovering the intricate gas utility usage patterns of his renter, the Rev. Robert.
But from the news that he had already gathered from the other meters concerning Rev. Robert’s dreams of Miss Meter #1’s renter, New Meter #2 anticipated that all those patterns were about to dramatically change.
