by Linda, Alan
“Now,” I said, “What about that gasoline.” The General was sloshing it back and forth with his agitator. Then he tipped his tub sideways and mumbled something about “pleasant bouquet” and “good legs.” Then he swallowed. Then he belched.
“It’s fine,” he said. “Tell Murray the Mower he’s sweet, and to drink up.” The General burped again, and sent the mixture of water and gasoline down the drain. On the way up the stairs, I thought to myself: Did he say sweet?
I hurried back out to the shed, informed Murray the Mower of The General’s conclusions, and began to dump gasoline into his tank.
“Say there,” he said, “I have another question.” Another question? That’s not good. It was time to mow, not talk.
“Go ahead.”
“Will you drive me in the gay parade this 4th of July?”
§
Same Sex
There’s a lot of controversy currently surrounding the issue of whether or not same-sex marriages should be legalized, but I’ve felt safe because that issue doesn’t follow me home. At least here, such issues as same-sex marriages are overshadowed by the frozen septic system drain field, the dentist’s bill, and a new pair of shoes that hurt my feet.
So it was with some dismay that General Electric the Washing Machine, called me down to the basement last night in his normal fashion—he walked clear to the end of his hoses and sent clanking sounds of unbalanced discontent up the stairs.
I hurried down there. He is, after all, a general, and he can be a problem. I really wish Sir Nautilus the Water Heater would have taken command of the army of appliances in the basement. He’s noble born, very soft spoken, and extremely political. He is pretty timid, though, and he still wets the floor when you upset him.
So I’m stuck with General Electric. I asked him what in the heck he thought he was doing, hopping around in a six-foot circle (the length of his hoses) like a maniac.
“You know what I was doing,” he crisply replied, as he spat soap fluff and water out onto the floor. The general could be a real pain in the butt.
No, I don’t. What is it exactly that you’re doing?
“Trying to get your attention, Mr. President, that’s what I was doing.” It’s not good when General E. calls me Mr. President. He knows I like it, and I know that he only does it when he’s sucking up.
You’ve got my attention, I told him as I popped his hat off and looked at his wiring to see if he’d come loose down in there anywhere. Too bad we can’t do that with real generals.
“I heard a rumor,” he said.
What kind of rumor, I asked?
“The kind I don’t like to hear,” he said. “Rumors destroy armies; loose lips sink ships; a penny saved is a penny ......”
Ok, I said, hold on. (When he gets like that, you have to rein him in, or you’ll be listening to platitudes all day.) I asked him to detail the rumors.
“I heard you’re replacing Lady Kenmore the Dryer,” he said.
Well, she burns my socks and won’t run when I want her to, I said. Furthermore, I added, she’s temperamental three weeks out of four, and won’t work for company on the weekends.
Yeah,” the General agreed, “she’s a real pain in the butt.” Now I know there’s something going on. He’s never that agreeable.
So what’s the deal, I asked him. I found myself thinking this house used to be such a quiet little place.
“Well, here’s the deal: I’m afraid you’re going to go out and buy another Lady Kenmore.”
I don’t get it. Why do you care?
“I care because I’m getting kind of tired of her moods, and I think it’s negatively affecting morale here in the Appliance Service.” I still didn’t get it. Usually, he gets even by sending Lady Kenmore extra wet clothing and towels, which takes her three times as long to tumble the moisture out of. I think it’s the big reason her lungs are nearly shot.
So, what do you want me to do?
“Well, I don’t want you to bring home another female dryer.” Here, I swear, if a washing machine can wring his hands instead of a load of clothes, he was.
You’re pretty riled up about all this, aren’t you?
“You go through life thinking you’ve got all the answers,” General E. told me, “then something happens to kind of wake you up, and then you see what’s been pretty obvious all along.” Maybe he saw it, but I sure didn’t.
What is it exactly we’re talking about?
General E. said: “I’m gay, and I want a dryer named Roper, or Amana. I want a guy dryer.” I looked at him. The way he was holding his hoses looked pretty determined.
You’re gay? I asked him. Oofda almighty! I wasn’t sure what to say.
Wait! I said to him. What ever happened to Clinton’s “don’t ask; don’t tell” policy for the military? Maybe I need a little of that myself about now.
“Beats me,” the General said. “All I know is, I’m here, my gears are queer, and I’m proud of it.”
OK, I told him. I’ll shop for a guy dryer. I know when I’m licked. Then I asked him: Is there anything else?
“Yeah. Could you marry us?”
§
Water Heaters
I hate water heaters. I never met one that I liked. As a lot, they are an unruly bunch; individually, they rob their owners and pick on servicemen. In the many years that have passed since they and I first discovered our mutual dislike, we’ve been feuding. They’re winning. They always win. Whoever controls the hot water in our modern society always wins.
They win a lot. Their water leaking, pilot-outing, mustache scorching, burned-out-element antics are hard to keep up with.
“Go on out to Sadie Whatshername,” said my boss to me back on the first job I had up here. “Take a look at her water heater.”
I’d been a TV repairman, had lots of electronic training—heck, this didn’t seem like a fair contest, me vs. a simple electric water heater.
I realized when I stumbled going down an unfamiliar stairs that they, water heaters, can see in the dark, down there in the basement. I fell the last three steps, into a painful tangle of arms, legs, and spilled wrenches.
The water heater said, “Hey? You ok? You the guy thinks he can fix me? Can’t even walk? Mr. Big Shot? Never met a schematic you couldn’t follow? Think you’re ready for me?”
Add sarcastic and condescending to my list of reasons why I don’t like water heaters.
I searched in the dark for this fellow who was taunting me. I swept the surrounding walls with my hands, hoping for a light switch. I found cobwebs as I groped my way around in the basement, lost. Evidently what they say about the lost walking in circles is true. I made a circle and tripped over my scattered tools, and as I fell, I felt one hand sweep two Mason jars off a shelf next to me. They shattered on the floor like bombs. The water heater snickered.
It hadn’t been like this with televisions. They were always upstairs, in rooms with windows and lights and people who were eager to lead me to the set, so they could watch Gilligan’s Island. A home with a leaky television set could not be tolerated.
People never lead servicemen down to the basement. That’s because they’re afraid of what’s down there. It doesn’t matter that the folks that live there haven’t showered in several days—they leave notes that say: “The door’s open. If you need me, I’m in the living room watching Oprah.” Then they’ll add: “Excuse the messy basement.” They can’t clean down there because the water heater might get them.
In the process of wind milling around the basement, I found a light bulb, which I screwed in. It gave off about twenty watts, and yes, the basement was a mess. In the dimness, I tried to plug my trouble light into the light socket’s receptacle, and couldn’t. All trouble lights have a polarized plug—one blade larger than the other. Light sockets don’t
. I think that’s because they’re also afraid of seeing the water heater. Anyway, the polarized socket is there to prevent…What is it there to prevent? Someone seeing the enemy?
I approached the rusty old electric water heater. Boy! They sure are long lived. I gingerly removed the inspection covers with my screwdriver, which I dropped. It rolled over into the corner under a moldy old mattress, two broken lamps, and a dehumidifier that hadn’t worked in this century.
I thought I saw a loose screw terminal in the water heater. I reached my screwdriver in and BAAAZZZAATTTT!!!
I flung myself backward from the solar flare of my screwdriver slipping and shorting 240 volts to ground. I landed on the mattress, blind, with a fireworks display of great balls of yellow and red cascading across my retinas. Can you say “ocular trauma?” After several minutes of stargazing, I looked at my screwdriver. It was a lot shorter.
“You bit the end off my favorite screwdriver, Water Heater!”
“You shouldn’t have stuck it in my face, Mr. Smart Guy,” replied the water heater.
I pulled my voltmeter from a pocket, and approached the water heater again. I wasn’t paying attention and tripped over a pile of National Geographics. I put out a hand to catch myself and stuck it right into the 240 volt terminals.
Electrocution isn’t so bad, really, just a bunch of your muscles contracting in rhythm to the pulse of alternating current, kind of like birds flying around in your arm.
Luckily, I was falling, so my hand came loose, and once again, found myself lying on the mattress.
They give shocks to crazy people, because it feels so darned good when it quits. I felt really good, and warm, too. Then I realized the warm was wet. I looked. The water heater was peeing on me.
I hate water heaters.
§
Annual Physical
As you may remember, when last I went down into the basement to attempt to mollify some of the unhappinesses that seem to be running rampant down there amongst The Appliance Group, it seemed almost hopeless.
General Electric the Washing Machine is boss down there, as much as anyone can be the boss. Apparently with advancing age his hoses are getting soft and his water, as he puts it, “doesn’t splatter the tub anymore.” Along with that, of course, his guts have slowed down to such a glacial pace that the clothes which he sends to Lady Kenmore the Dryer aren’t wrung out.
“I think I’m constipated,” he blurted out during his spin cycle as I addressed these issues with him. He was grunting a bit as the load inside him seemed never to finish. It embarrasses him to talk about his ailments, I know it does. He flips up his lid and whispers to me in order that Lady Kenmore the Dryer won’t hear what he’s saying.
Lady Kenmore herself isn’t any spring chicken anymore. In fact, she’s right in the midst of dryopause, and has become pretty hard to get along with. That’s something new for her, because all these years, she’s been the queen of the basement down there. “I was hot when I was young,” she is wont to say. “I could handle men’s underwear with the best of them.” Then she could. Now, she’s convinced that Mr. Williamson the Furnace is trying to incinerate her. “It’s so hot in here,” she says over and over as she keeps lowering the setting on her heating elements. I’ve had loads of laundry that would have dried faster hanging outside in the rain.
General Electric himself isn’t a young pup anymore either, and each year when I give him his check-up—I’m a registered appliance doctor—he gets more and more apprehensive about what I’ll find.
When I ask him if anything in particular is bothering him, he’ll say: “Nope. I’m as healthy as a horse.” He’ll snicker and then say, “Well, a half a horsepower, you know.”
So, how is your motor, General?” (I know it’s pretty good, but he feels good if I ask him.)
“It’s good,” he’ll say, then he’ll add: “I’m not as good as I once used to be.” Then he’ll snort and say, “But I’m as good once as I ever was.”
You’re feeling pretty good, then? You’d say? (He’s stalling. He knows what’s coming.)
“Absolutely. I’m battle ready.”
Good. You know the drill. Flip your front cover up and bend over.
“Ooooh no. I didn’t think you were going to do that every year.”
Well, now you’re over fifty in people years (One human year is ten appliance years), it’s recommended, you know, every year. Come on. Flip it up. Turn your head. Cough.
He hates the digital pump examination, where I, well, you know.
Lady Kenmore snickered and said, “That’s nothing. You should have to put your feet up into some stirrups and see how you like that!”
Oh, I said, are you anxious for your annual oil smear, Lady Kenmore? (That usually shuts her door.)
General Electric the Washing Machine took a shot at distracting me by pointing out the window and saying, “Say, I think John Deere the Riding Mower is smoking.”
I hate smoking. The General knows that. I looked out the window and The General slammed his inspection panel on my head. “Oops,” he said. Yeah, oops. I rubbed the knot that was forming on my skull and said, “You did that on purpose.” Over the years I’ve been sliced, pinched, slapped by belts…
“Ooooo, you’ve been slapped by belts?” That was Mr. Williamson, who has decided to come out of the closet. He also seems able to read minds. “Can I do that to you?” Then he said, “Will you do that to me? Belt me?”
Toshiba the 60 Inch Asian Television piped in about there by saying, “Can I watch?” He’s turned out to be kind of perverted about stuff, and frequently, while I’m watching Discovery, he’ll switch over to the Playboy Channel, to which I don’t subscribe. All I see is swirling snow, but I can hear him humming happily to himself and saying things like: “Oh boy. That’s a good frequency there, look at those sine waves on her, would you.” I guess that means that he can see it.
“Look,” I said to Mr. Williamson, “you’ll get your belt when your old one wears out, or you know what will happen, right?” He knows alright.
The General said, “He’ll have you by the nozzle if you don’t watch out.”
I hate giving physicals.
§
General Electric the Washing Machine Has a Diaper
General Electric the Washing Machine was coughing so hard that I could hear him clear upstairs. That tubby gut of his was acting like a megaphone. The floor was vibrating at seismic levels detectable clear to the coast. I raced down the stairs.
It was a dark night. I turned on the laundry room light, ignored the disarray of clothes scattered all around. Up there on the wall over The General, there was a line to which was attached an odd assortment of socks. Back a couple of years, I nailed that clothes line to the wall behind General Electric the Washing Machine, and hanging from it were every orphan stocking I found when I cleaned the room up.
I figure I’ll give the room a couple more years of disarray to cough up the matches to those socks on the wall, and then I’ll clean it again. I call that collection of socks the SMIA (socks missing in action) line.
In the meantime, I was shocked when I turned on the light. General Electric the Washing Machine was as white as a ghost. “Are you alright?” I asked him.
Stupid question. People are good at stupid questions. I was once in a car accident, broke my nose, had blood all over me. The first thing a passing motorist who stopped said was: “Are you alright?”
General Electric the Washing Machine let out another snort. He was not alright. Water sprayed out from beneath him on two different sides. His voice came out in gurgles, like he was talking through a tube partially filled with water: “Where are all these baby clothes coming from?” (“Gurgle, gurgle.”) He said that.
I said: “You’re dying, and you’re wondering about baby clothes?”
He said: “I�
��m dying because of the baby clothes.” He gurgled again, said: “I think there’s a diaper stuck in my lower intestine.”
He’s such a hypochondriac. However, this time, maybe he’s right. My daughter, her husband, and their daughter, who is seven months old, are spending some time here until fall comes, and a university teaching position opens up.
“You don’t have a lower intestine,” I said. Well, he does, kind of. Something must connect that tub of a gut of his to The Septic System.
I asked him: “Where does it hurt?” Then I poked him a good one in his drain hose, to see if it had prolapsed. I told him what every doctor has ever told me. “Hey. You’re gonna feel some slight pressure.” Someday, I’m going to look up in some medical text exactly what “pressure” means, and what I think I’ll find is it’s medical speak for “HURTS LIKE HELL!”
General Electric said: “Ouch! What’d you do that for? That hurt!”
“Ok, that’s good. Numbness there would indicate something very bad.”
“I’m leaking from several different places all at once,” The General gurgled, “how can anything else be worse?”
That told me I had to go in. “OK,” I warned him, “suck in your tub, I’m going to have to pop you open, and I don’t want to be hurt by any buttons flying out at me under high pressure.”
I popped his front cover, and found several other places to poke.
“Ouch!”
“Ugh!”
“Ooof!”
I stood back up, and asked him: “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”
He thoughtfully scratched his chinny console with his lid, and said: “Give me the good news, first.”
Sure. “Hey, Sears has washing machines on sale.”
He didn’t think that was funny.
I gave him the bad news, then. “It’s your pump.”
“Oooooh no, not my pump.” He was distraught. He began to wring his water hoses.