I want to stand in a loose semicircle of unionized public utility workers, all of us in matching navy hoodies with the Water Authority logo and white hard hats, as I hold a paper cup of bad coffee topped with a precarious plastic lid. I want to face a problem as concrete as a broken water main, the issue spewing out of the street and splashing onto my neighbors’ cars. I want my sphere of concern to be delineated with neon orange traffic cones. I want to peel up the blacktop with thick steel teeth and see, whether it is a clean crack or a slow crumble, what’s disintegrating towards the earth’s core. I want to shake my head and bitch about a shoddy weld or bargain-basement pipes. I want to call for twenty feet of six-inch copper, down the last of my coffee, give my buddy shit about the Jets, and start digging.