The Loneliness of the Maytag Repairman
I took a last hard pull on my coffee cup, set the mug down and with the trepidation of a Christian headed into the arena to face the Roman gladiators, I entered the washing machine’s den. Armed with only a few You-Tube tutorials and a couple of wrenches and screwdrivers, I tried not to show fear. You may think machines are insensate hunks of metal, but this was no wringer washer, it was controlled by silicone circuitries so alien no simple repairman could probe their defenses. I was wary, though, I wasn’t new to this rodeo.
With false bravado I jerked the dryer off the top of the Whirlpool and set it down across the room. They weren’t dealing with some wimpy wet-behind-the-ears yahoo and I wanted these hulking machines to register that deep down in their spin cycles. No, we weren’t playing games, we were playing for Keeps. I immediately wrestled the washer into a defensive posture, unscrewed its top plate and ripped it off, then without hesitating, grabbed the control panel and removed it too, disabling its primitive brain. Next came the front panel, then the door and finally the rubber boot on the drum. I noticed with some consternation I had inadvertently disconnected the wiring harness on the door latch switch. This would spell trouble later, I knew, but first things first.
I found what I was looking for: the drain filter off the pump, the culprit that must be the reason water remained in the bottom of the drum that we could hear sloshing when the last spin was finished. And sure enough, the bugger was crammed with a black sickening muck that encased coins and dental floss gizmos and other detritus too disgusting to analyze. A lesser man might have staggered backward, but I held my ground. I’ve seen worse. Much worse. My cesspool for one, but that’s another story. So I cleaned the gunk, washed the filter, and confident that I had solved my problem, I proceeded to reassemble the washer.
The wiring harness I’d pulled apart wasn’t obvious how it should go back together. Usually they are, but not this one. My confidence began to wane. But I put aside my anxieties and stuffed it into the door latch assembly. The rubber gasket do-hickey had a wire spring clamp that fought me to a standstill. I called my neighbor Pete, picked him and the two of us managed to get it on. The rest was fairly simple.
I plugged the docile beast into its outlet and watched the Power light pop to life, a bright reassuring blue. Hit the Start button … and nothing. Nada. Zip. The harness, I muttered, the &$#@! harness. I gave the sheet metal a good hard one with my shoe. Then my fist. I went upstairs to get a cup of coffee and settle down. The last thing I needed was the stupid machine thinking I was stupider than it. Even if it was true. The realization began to dawn on me that I might have ruined the washer. I had done just that with a weedeater I tried to repair a month earlier. A new weedeater. So it was possible. Maybe even predictable. Probable?
Repeat all of the above. The rubber bootie broke my heart to pull that recalcitrant spring clamp off, knowing how hard it was to put it on the first time. But a man does what a man has to do. And a machine, cripes, who knows what goes through a damn machine’s twisted little head? Who will ever know? I discovered the wiring harness had disconnected when I installed it the first time so maybe … maybe … that was the start problem. And of course, maybe not.
Yeah, I had to go get another set of hands to help with that spring clamp, but we got it on again. I thanked my neighbor prodigiously then set to work finishing up the reassembly. If you’re bored by now reading this, think how I was feeling some six hours into this repair. This so-called repair. I was switching from coffee to something a lot harder, trust me. When all else fails, drinking is a proper course of action. I plugged the bugger in and pushed the Power button, got the blue go-ahead, then, with believe me, bated breath, I hit the Start. It started. It started!!! I know, you probably can’t relate, but I was ecstatic. Ebullient. King of the Appliance World. I had gone where most sane men would never go. And returned unharmed.
I ran a load of laundry. I popped a beer and watched it fill, watched it churn, watched it agitate, watched it spin and drain. My machine. Doing my will. Subservient to mankind. The Way It’s Supposed To Be! I opened the door and pulled my clothes out. Sweet smelling clean clothes. Simple pleasures. Then I turned the drum, knowing that slosh would be gone, that a day’s work was not in vain, that I had triumphed!
Maybe you were rooting for me. Maybe you thought I could outsmart my Whirlpool. Maybe you thought I would live happily ever after in this twisted fairy tale swamp of a yarn. But this is the South End, this is where dreams go to die. Because when I spun that drum, the gurgling sloshing noises I heard mocked me with their laughter. Today I called the repair shop up north and spoke to the Maytag guy. He told me the water I hear is sealed there below the drum, perfectly normal, to help balance the loads. Nothing to worry about, he said. Write that on my tombstone, somebody. Nothing to worry about.
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A story for the ages. I laughed; I cried; it became a part of me. Hope the repair holds up.
I too cried. Laughed, not so much until a few days later. The repair, since it didn’t repair anything that needed repairing, should (praise Allah) hold.