S*cks to Be Me (#3): The Attack of the Killer Appliances (from hell)

Hi, Everyone,

As you know I’m doing a brief (but painfully tedious) series of Xcargos on recent events of my life—events which, at the time, seemed as much fun as a proctology exam performed with a Roto-Rooter. By Hannibal Lector. During a sleet storm. But which, I’m sure, will seem quite amusing in a few years. I’ll look back and laugh. And laugh. And laugh. And they’ll come and take me away. Ha. Ha.

Where was I? Oh, yes, my recent life.

When last we visited Our Hero (that would be moi), I had just received a short note from a certain graduate program to which I had devoted four years of my life. And, as you’ll recall from last time, the aforesaid note said … in effect, bottom line, stripped to elementals . . . Drop Dead, You Stinking Asshole. But in a scholarly and professional way. Very mentoring.

Ah, the joys of academic life.

So, anyway, I had just gotten over that and figured that Things Have To Get Better.

Boy.

Was I wrong.

*

Now, some background. We live in a house. I know that’s a surprise. I know you were expecting a cave. Or maybe a yurt. Pitched on the wild and windy plains of Mongolia. Or New Jersey. But, no. A house it is.

In the aforesaid house, there is a kitchen. In the aforesaid kitchen, there is a dishwasher.

Or was.

Now, here in the U.S. of A., we celebrate a thing called “Thanksgiving.” For those of my readers who come from foreign shores or Mars, this is a happy holiday where-in we celebrate the survival of the Puritans who would have starved to death had it not been for friendly Native Americans who subsequently got killed a lot by the aforesaid Puritans. And the moral of the story is Let The Bastards Freeze In The Dark.

To continue, in the US of A, Thanksgiving comes in November. That’s not like Canada, where it comes in October. But, then, that’s just like Canadians. Pushy bunch. Always trying to get ahead. And saying funny things with “ooot,” in them. And tossing big rocks around and calling it Curling. Clearly a vast plot against us. Probably involves trained attack-beavers.

So, we were getting ready to celebrate Thanksgiving, a process which involves a whole lot of cooking. Martha, my beloved spouse, does all the cooking in our family. This is because I don’t cook so good. Heck. I cook awful. Last time I tried it, the microwave ran away from home. And the EPA landed an air-sea-land SWAT team. And I’m still paying off that Haz-Mat suit for the dog.

This means that I do the dish washing. That’s fine. It’s a task up to my level of competency. Well. Almost. Though sometimes those Brillo pads get a bit tricky.

Anyway, it was a week or so afore T‘giving, and I had just fed the dishwasher a couple of pounds of china and a gravy boat, and then I flipped it on, and then . . . then … then . . .

Did you ever hear a brass band playing Sousa tunes run head on into a rock crusher?

Sounded sort of like that. But louder.

*

So the d’washer was dead. No problem, I thought. I can fix it. I went to get my screwdrivers.

And, several hours, I realized I couldn’t fix it. The problem, I later learned, was that the washer was relatively new. Where the older versions were all springs and cogs, and I could get into ‘em and fiddle around, the new ones have a little circuit board that controls everything.

Okay, I thought, and I called a repair guy.

He shows up a little later. He smiles. He’s nice. We talk about politics. We walk into the kitchen. He looks at the d’washer. He says . . .“Oh, Christ.”

“What’s the matter?” I say.

“You know the little guy who was the loneliest man in appliance repair?” he asks.

“The Maytag repairman?” I say.

“He croaked,” he replies.


*

Here’s the story. We had bought a Maytag washer because Maytag was a really great brand. But, in 2006, Maytag was acquired by Whirlpool. The new company wasn’t stocking the old company’s parts.

So . . .

That circuit board?

I could go whistle in the wind for it.

*

Okay, we say, no problem. We’ll just go buy a new dish washer. I mean, what the heck, it’s only credit card debt. And besides, once the economy melts down some more and there are riots in the streets and firing squads in sushi bars formerly frequented by billionaire bankers, who’ll notice?

So, off we go to Sears. We go in. A couple of clerks sorta of notice we’re there. They wander over and ask, “You don’t really wanna buy anything, do you?” We confess that maybe we do. They mumble something and take out an order form. “Okay, if you gotta…”

We point out a dishwasher and tell ‘em we want that one. “Fine…(sigh).” They start filling out the form.

“So,” I ask, “when can we get it delivered?”

The clerk looks at me. “Delivered?”

“And how much does it cost to get it installed?”

“Installed…?”

“Yeah, you know, plugged in. Hoses connected. That sort of thing.”

“Ha...ha ha …Ha Ha Ha….HA HA HA!”

“And, maybe, you know, take away the old washer.”

“HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!”

“So, you don’t do that anymore?”

“HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA…”

I would have asked more questions but they were rolling around in the aisles and flailing a lot and I was afraid they’d hurt themselves. So, at this point, we stole away as silently, and as mysteriously, as we’d come.

*

Okay, making a long story at least a little shorter (albeit not much), the next day or so we went to Gray’s, which is a cool little appliance store we have in the Boston-area, and got a Frigidaire. And they were willing to install it. So, day is saved.

Of course, they can’t install it before Thanksgiving but that’s okay. And, when the big Turkey day rolls around, we have a great time. Our son David, one of his friends, and a student of Martha’s all come and join us, and afterwards they pitch in on the dishes so I don’t have to do ‘em all. Then, we achieve Turkey-coma and all’s right with the world.

Except…


*

Except…

You remember last time I said something about icicles forming on my nostrils?

*

It was about a week later. Turkey-Gobbling Season was being replaced by Xmas-Shopping-Mania Season.

It was also brutally cold. Boston tends to be warmer than, say, North Dakota, but, still, it can do a pretty good imitation of Ice Station Zebra when it puts its mind to it. And that particular day was . . . nasty. As in 16 degrees on the outdoor thermometer and that’s not counting wind chill and cars aren’t starting and the dog is hiding under the sofa and saying something like “Don’t bother yourself. I’ll just stay inside. And if I should happen to make a little deposit behind the TV set, why, heck, you probably won’t notice until August.”

But, I’m not bothered. We’re warm and safe inside, after all. I teach online at Northeastern and Cambridge College, so I don’t even have to leave the house. And the appliance wars are over. Things Are Getting Back To Normal.

So thinking, I spring out of bed at about six o’clock. I head into the front room for a bit of coffee.

Say, says I, it feels kind of cold in here. No problem, I figure. I just need to turn up the thermostat. Which I do.

Funny thing. I don’t hear the furnace go on.

No problem, I think. Just needs a few minutes to warm up. I go pour coffee. I notice there are ice cubes in it.

Huh.

I go turn up the furnace again. And again fifteen minutes after that. And again ten minutes after THAT.


*

Martha wakes up at about seven. “Say,” she says, “is it just my imagination…?”

“Yes,” I say, somewhat hysterically. “It’s your imagination. Complete delusion.”

“Or does it seem awfully col…?”

“No,” I say, grinding my teeth, “it doesn’t. Warm and toasty.”

“Like the furnace isn’t …”

“It’s not! It’s not!” I say, frothing at the mouth.

“Hmmm,” she says.

“Right,” I say, despairingly, knowing when I’m beaten, and go call the repair guy.


*

I hang up about fifteen minutes later with an appointment for the afternoon and, I figure, about a $1000 repair bill in the very near future.

Well… I think . . . well, at least, it’s not gonna get worse, right? I’ve had the Eye, the Letter, the Dishwasher, so, now, just seems like things have gotta start looking up. No doubt. Absolutely. 100%.

So, I head back to my office, and walk past the stairway to the basement.

And, as I go I hear, very faintly, a Sound.

Of dripping water.

But that’s for next time.

Onward and upward.





















Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker