Mechanical Jack

My family believes that I am maladroit in mechanical matters. This is, technically, not true. It is an illusion created by serious effort and long years of cultivation. I am as capable as the next fellow of electrical wiring, plumbing repairs, and carpentry. I discovered early on, however, that evidence of proficiency in these areas could lead to expectations that I would do them! And I, naturally, have many other things to do, like reading philosophy, listening to Bach, and monitoring the fortunes of local sports teams.

There is a problem, however. Expert repairmen are both costly and elusive. At night and on weekends they are away on trips to Milos and the Costa del Sol. During the week, they exist only on answering machines. One is faced with the choice of taking a hand to the leaking pipe, or enduring a week without water. I would opt for the latter were it not for a frenzied wife and weeping children.

So it happened that after repeated calls to the plumber, with offers of bribes by me and sexual favors by my wife, the little lady handed me a ready-to-install toilet repair kit. As she left for her employment with her cemetery plot sales firm, she admonished me: “This kit is so simple even a college professor could do it. Give it your best shot.”

Fearlessly I tackled the job and expertly removed the offending parts, preparing to install the new equipment. Unfortunately, I had neglected to turn off the main pipe and there was suddenly a cascade of tumbling, drenching water covering the walls, the floor, and me. With the feline instincts of a tiger I snatched the wrench and fastened onto the cylinder, only to turn it the wrong way, removing all further obstacles to the avalanche of water now filling the bathroom.

I headed for the basement in a vain quest for the valve that would shut off the water line and stave-off the imminent destruction of my entire house. There I found a superabundance of knobs with no instructions as to which pipes they controlled. I was lost.

As I was rummaging in the basement, my wife returned and noticed a waterfall coming down on a quagmire that had once been our living room. She inserted a large pot under the deluge and charged into the basement. Her face was a boiling cauldron resembling the fiery red spot on the planet Jupiter. Deftly she turned the correct valve and terminated the flood. She then turned on me. Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as she struggled to find the appropriate words to condemn my incompetence.

I tried to minimize the situation with the comment: “What’s so important about being able to repair the plumbing? Leave that to the plumber. I am a writer, a poet, a philosopher who understands Schopenhauer. Surely that is more impressive than facility in the art of plumbing.” My long-suffering wife exploded: “That cuts no ice with me Mack, I would be impressed if the plumber understood Schopenhauer. As for you, I’d be satisfied if you could tie your shoelaces without expert help.”

Ah the pleasures of a Sunday afternoon! Here I am sprawled on the couch watching the New York Yankees blow a six run lead while my wife installs a new light fixture in the kitchen. Humiliation does have its bright side!