I once lived in a trailer. Owning rolling real estate has its ups and downs.

Maintenance, for instance, is a constant issue. When something breaks, you have three options: ignore it (this option works best if applicable); duct tape it (for most things in a trailer, this works just fine); or call someone else to fix the problem (this works but can be expensive and make you look like less of a man). And that's the avenue I was forced to take one fateful day.

I was sitting on my porch one afternoon when I heard a soft "pop" followed by the muffled sound of water spraying. I had no idea where or what a water main was until I investigated the noise and discovered a fountain spewing beneath my house. There was a knob nearby and I figured chances were good that it would shut the water off. I was right, and soon the fountain subsided, but I was left with no water, thus ruling out the "ignore" option.

The problem was obvious. There was a pipe, and it came apart.

I tried to push the two sections back together, and it looked like it would work, until I turned the water back on and got soaked when it popped apart again. I had some tools, but this was neither the job for a socket wrench nor a claw hammer, so I was stumped. I needed professional help.

I called the trailer park manager, since they were in charge of water going to the trailer and all maintenance therein. I explained the situation and was told she'd send someone out.

My knight showed up, not in shining armor, but jean shorts and a T-shirt. He crawled under the trailer to take a look. I knelt next to him and looked, with furrowed brow and a contemplative gaze, at the workings of the water system. I stood ready to agree with whatever he said.

After our joint inspection, the repairman stood up.

"Should be an easy fix," he said, "you got any bread?"

I quickly assured him that we did indeed have bread, as if, under the circumstances, it were the most normal question ever. In fact, I made it seem as if I expected him to ask me about our bread situation.

"Oh, bread? Yeah we got some," I coolly responded.

"OK, I got to go get my tools, and then, with that bread, we'll get it fixed up. I'll be back in about 10 minutes," he said.

I had no clue how bread could fix a broken pipe.

I had less than 10 minutes to crack the code.

Maybe, I thought, he meant money, like he expected to get paid for this. But how much? I mean, I know I didn't have to pay him anything, but he had come out at about 6 p.m. on a Saturday, so I could throw a little his way.

Or maybe "bread" was a term for some type of tool. I'd never heard of such slang, but then again, I don't spend much time at the hardware store either.

Or maybe, bread just meant bread. Maybe he was just hungry and wanted some bread. Maybe he had some coldcuts and wanted to make a sandwich. Maybe bread had some chemical component that when mixed with pipe glue made an unbreakable bond. I had no clue.

The maintenance man returned, and as he was gathering his tools from the back of the truck, I stuck a twenty in my pocket, grabbed a pair of Vise Grips, and two slices of Mrs. Bairds and met him at the water main.

I casually held the bread slices down, not presenting them to him. I figured if he asked for money or took the Vise Grips from me, I'd just take a bite of the bread, as if I was just hungry and made myself a little mid-repair snack.

He crawled back under the trailer and measured stuff and cut stuff and put glue on stuff. I knelt and watched him, all the while with a pensive look on my face, and three forms of "bread" on my person.

"OK, hand me some of that bread," he said to me as he reached out his hand.

Using my context clues, I quickly ruled out the Vise Grips. You wouldn't say, "hand me some of that Vise Grips" right?

Thinking quickly I asked, "How much?" and dropped the Vise Grips. Then I slid my hand in my pocket and grabbed the $20.

"One slice oughta do it," he replied.

Still confused but fairly certain I was on the right track, I left the money in my pocket and placed a slice of Mrs. Baird's extra thin bread in his calloused hand.

I half-expected him to look up at me and yell "GOTCHA!" as his maintenance buddies popped up from the bushes -- laughing at the latest "Bread Trick" victim. But instead, he balled the bread up and jammed it in the pipe to stop the water from flowing so he could have a dry surface to put the glue on. That way, when the water was turned back on, the bread would dissolve and come out of the faucet.

After the glue had dried and the pipe was repaired, the maintenance man drove off into the sunset. And I walked back inside and put my Vise Grips back in the tool box, knowing the day's events had made me a little older, a little wiser.

* The Wright Stuff appears in Spotlight every other week. E-mail Jesse Wright at jesse.wright@theeagle.com.