JOURNAL ENTRY, 24 May; AT OR ABOUT 41.85° N, 87.65° W. * WEATHER CLEAR, 65°, LIGHT WINDS NNW–
(entry): At last, after almost a full month, rescue! Flood-replacement washer/dryer arrived. Watched Three Men Named Juan wrestle combo below, I making sage comments they no doubt appreciated, since I voiced them cheerily in my mostly forgotten high-school Spanish.
Or maybe less-so, in the appreciation category: I may have inadvertently declared war on Guatemala (or worse), given the eye-rolling looks Los Tres Juans exchanged during our ten-minute International Relations Conference.
Willy-nilly, after announcing the appliances “all hooked up” (or “oop,” a word which subsequently made more sense), they piled back into the delivery truck.
At which point, the driver called out with his own cheer-inflected voice: “Drain hose too short. You need ‘nother.” And swiftly motored off.
T’was true. Strain as I might, the factory-supplied corrugated plastic host still fell inches short of the aching-to-mate drainpipe. Moving the washer closer was not an option, unless I myself ached to remove what is possibly a load-bearing wall.
Aforementioned hose looked familiar; a spare bilge pump hose I had stowed aboard Witchcraft might substitute. I trotted out to it (I only say “her” during storms and similar Desperate Moments, as I beg that “she” not drown me this time) climbed aboard and located the spare.
Pausing only to paw thru what I charmingly term my onboard “O SHIT!“ emergency-repair kit, I seized two stainless steel screw-clamps (sailors –particularly those who occasionally sleep aboard sailboats, or at least want to do so soundly– never single-clamp ANY hose), jogged back to the emasculated washer and performed the requisite reconstructive surgery.
Reattachment successful (if prognosis remains “somewhat flacid.”)
And now I stare at the twin, snow-white beauties, plugged in and eager, imagining their soft & seductive murmur: “Let me CLEAN something for you, Master…”
T’will happen, girls. Right after I peel this grape… and try to remember where I last saw the laundry detergent…
— Earl Merkel
(POSTSCRIPT, AS A PROPOSED SCRIPT:
ACT 1, Scene 1:
(Editorial offices of a magazine; in foreground an EDITOR scowls at typelines on his computer screen)
"That #^@%!! Merkel! Hey, do we still pay this clown by the word? Yeah? Okay, I'm sending this to Rewrite."
ACT 2, Scene 1:
(SLOW ZOOM IN TO C/U of magazine page.)
STORY reads: "My washer/dryer was delivered today. Had to hook up the drain hose."
(FADE IN: "-FIN-")
(FADE TO BLACK)
* * *
(POST-POSTSCRIPT, IN THE FORM OF REALITY:
(SFX: sound of cash register)
"$2.38, payable to E. Merkel"
- 30 -
* * *
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