Wash Day Blues
So we get home from a four day vacation all tanned and rested and naturally we load the washer right off the bat so we’ll have clean undies and socks next day. Half an hour later I wander into the bathroom where we keep an alcove for our washer/dryer combo … and splish splash, I was takin a bath in a small lake that was rapidly forming.
You know — and I do too — we’re going into Appliance Hell now, a dark journey down into the depths of plumbing, heavy mopping, washer troubleshooting, drywall tear-out, new paneling and maybe, a big maybe, we’ll fix the problem without a huge bill or, worst case, a new machine. You know — but I didn’t — this will more than likely go badly, not easy. The gods of plumbing are cruel and capricious sons-of-bitches, we all know that. Or will soon.
I got the pond on the floor sponged up okay, then decided to wait until next day to tackle the troubleshooting, let the room dry and me cool down, drink a few beers, sleep on the problem, see if tomorrow might be less, oh, ill-omened. Sometimes it’s best to admit defeat in the short term but hope your luck will change down the road. And yeah, I understand this is a corollary to superstition.
Next day dawned sunny and I awoke optimistic. I hauled the dryer off the washer, checked supply lines and drain pipes, didn’t see anything obvious so then I ran a load to see where the problem might be. An hour later I’m noticing the spin cycle doesn’t kick right but how does that explain the water? I’m running a second load when the phone rings. So I shut the machine off, figuring I’ll come back to it when my telemarketer is through with me. But it’s my old man on the line so we banter for awhile about the weather and the family health issues when suddenly … holy toilet bowl! … I hear a strange sound followed by what seems like water pouring out. “Dad,” I say, “I’ll have to call you back.” Click, then I run to the basement. The washer door has broken open and Niagara is cascading onto the floor, out the bathroom and into the hallway. The washer apparently no longer obeys electrical commands, just keeps filling up until there’s nowhere to go but out the weakest component, the locked door. The machine is now in complete control. The machine is trying to drown its former master. The machine is willing to destroy the house. The machine is now my enemy.
Like Dave in 2001: A Space Odyssey disconnecting HAL, I begin to uncouple the monster. Standing in the rising water, I cut its hydro-electrical components one by one, first the cold water line, then the hot and finally its electrical umbilical. I slam the Cyclop’s one eye shut even though the belly of the beast is only half full of water below the doorline, the rest a cold numbing grip on my ankles. We take full measure of one another and it is obvious to both of us this is a battle to the death, no surrender, no terms, no pity. To … the … death. At this point it seems neither might win, but I’m a human and I understand what it does not. Fear, pure and simple. Fear, enough to rise to any occasion. Fear, what drives us to fight if flight is not an option.
It’s two days later if you’re wanting to keep track. If you want to keep score, it’s Humanity ONE and Washing Machine ZERO. The filthy brute is by now on some scrap heap in the salvage yard of hell where it will harm no one again. Sure, the basement looks like the battlefield it was. Soggy drywall beckoning black mold, a yawning pit where the Cyclops once stood, the dryer on its side down the hall, plumbing parts strewn in standing water: a wet and dark tableau of one man’s struggle against the machine but a man who understands implicitly, absolutely, the machine must be made to understand who exactly is boss here. After all, it’s his castle, ruined or not. And by the gods, if we have to do laundry by hand, we’ll do it by hand. Better to live free and slightly soiled than to be servant to the soulless machine.
Hits: 29
AAARGH!!!!! Glad your feet are out of the water – inside, anyway….