I was working the late shift at a well-known spring water company. We provided water coolers and dispensers and 5 gallon bottles of pure, sparkling spring water to health-conscious office workers and home owners who were fearful that their tap water was being poisoned by chlorine and insecticides or seepage from the local sewage plant.

We had a wonderful Christmas card-like logo of a beautiful, pristine aquifer with a moose grazing peacefully, hidden deep within the virgin woods of Maine -- so deep, as we told our customers, that it had never been fouled by man (unless of course he worked for us). People loved our spring water and business was booming. At 5pm, when the rest of my coworkers headed for home and hearth, I remained for the next 3 hours handling the toughest calls of the day. It was at 5pm that our 'route men' ended their day and customers who'd not received their deliveries, realizing that the H2O just wasn't comin', reached for their phones. It was 3 hours of pure, unmitigated hell, and I owned it.

A couple months prior, I'd been promoted to the position of 'Senior Teleservice Representative' -- my green, plastic name plate velcroed to the fabric wall of my cubicle, changed to blue -- signifying I was now the resident badass. My colleagues looked upon me with awe and admiration. I was the guy from that mythical place they'd all heard and read about -- New York City. I carried myself with a swagger and confidence that men feared and women loved -- and I handled all the hot ones. Oh, not just your run-of-the-mill irate customers, but 'escalated situations': customers threatening violence or suicide, or worse yet, demanding to speak with a supervisor. I was 'the cooler.' Everyone simply referred to me as 'Q.'

I'd come here to the wilds of Massachusetts to write my novel. To the land of Thoreau and Kerouac and Hawthorne and Cheever -- a land rife with the ghosts of great writers. Even Melville, a fellow New Yorker, had written "Moby Dick" here (on a farm in Pittsfield, where he eventually passed away). From the red brick factories of Lowell, to the long shadows of Walden Woods. It was my belief that if I couldn't write a novel here, then I couldn't write one anywhere. It was all on the line now.

I'd taken the teleservice gig -- a nice, easy job (or so I thought) -- to keep me afloat while I worked on my book. The job turned out to be more than I'd bargained for. The company was undergoing a major upheaval: changing routes, delivery days and frequency (often without notifying cutomers); revamping its billing and invoice system; eliminating some old brands while acquiring others (we were actually several companies withtin one). It was a cluster fuck. Customers weren't getting their deliveries . . . and they were pissed off.

So, with a cup of bad generic office brew (made worse by bad generic nondairy creamer and a hint of styrofoam), I adjusted my headset and settled in for the carnage that was about to ensue. The calls came rapid-fire; as soon as one customer hung up (I was not permitted under any circumstance to disconnect or end a call), there was a single "beep," and the next caller was already on the line. The first few calls were just standard fare; customers who hadn't gotten their deliveries. I apologized; explaining that the company was currently in the process of consolidating certain routes in order to increase efficiency and improve service (the usual bullshit), then I'd reschedule the delivery for the following day, assuring the customer it would be there bright and early (more bullshit).

There was the familiar "beep" and a voice on the other end of the line. At first I couldn't distinguish if it was male or female. I asked the customer for his (her?) account number and pulled up the information on my computer. The account was listed in the name of a 'Dominick' with an Italian surname -- a paesan -- the address listed in NYC; my hometown. I requested the caller verify that he/she was in fact the owner of the account by verifying name, address and phone number, then asked how I could be of assistance.

"It's your route man," The caller said, in a voice still sounding non-gender specific, "He hasn't been here in over a month."

I was perplexed. Since NYC was so densely populated, deliveries were made on a weekly basis, unlike some other areas of the country where deliveries were made every 2 or 3 weeks. For a route man not to show for a month was highly unusual. I checked the account to see if there were any billing issues. None. Why the no-show? I offered my apologies, promising I'd have some water there tomorrow -- A.M. -- and would follow up on the skipped deliveries with the branch manager.

"Thank you so much." The caller said, surprisingly unruffled by the situation, "The water here is just awful . . . It's an old building and the pipes are rusted. I won't even let my cat drink it or use it to water the plants."

"Gotcha." I said, "I'm from New York myself. Queens."

"Oh, well then you know . . ." There was a somewhat awkward pause, then the caller said: "I think I know why I haven't seen your route man. I think I might've scared him off."

"Scared him off?"

"Yes. I'm a female impersonator. The last time he made a delivery I answered the door while I was getting dressed. I had my wig and makeup on but . . . well . . . let's just say I wasn't wearing a 'holster.' I think I may have traumatized him."

"Ah-hah. Well, I'm sure it wasn't anything he hasn't seen before."

"I would hope not."

"So, what's it like being in show business?"

"Just fabulous. It's been my life's dream and things are finally starting to break for me. I just landed a part in a new John Waters film."

"Excellent. I'm a writer myself. I'm working on my first novel. I hope things'll break for me someday too."

"They will, they will. Just keep at it hon'. Your day will come."

And so hearing these words from a young Italian man who made his living by dressing in women's clothing oddly lifted my spirits. I believed him. Somehow I knew my day would come. You take the life preserver from the hand that offers it.

That night I drove the 62 miles from Norton back to my rented condo in Worcester. There Nakita, my aged Japanese Akita dog, was waiting for me to take him for his nightly walk. His hind legs were bad and at times the snowdrifts were so high I had to carry him. After he did his business, we'd retire to my writing room -- the master bedroom located in back of the condo that looked out on an ancient railroad yard. While Niki snored by my feet, I listened to the old freight trains rumbling off in the distance, and thought of Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady and dreamed of the day my novel would be finished and I could quit my lousy teleservice job . . . and I wrote.

As I write these words, four 5 gallon bottles of spring water sit out on my patio -- delivered by the very same company I once worked for. My novel has been published, and Niki has long since gone to that great Japanese doghouse in the sky. Many miles and years later here I sit: writing. The journey continues, and, I realize, I'm living the dream.

I'd like to give a shout-out to some old friends who made an intolerable situation almost tolerable: Mark McCarthy, Bobby Girard, Greg Messcher, Melissa Bower & Terry Madden --Thanks,'Q'