Tales in Hot Pink is a semi-weekly column by our fearless leader. Like all management, he is not required to tell the truth, represent himself accurately, or trouble himself with reality in any way. And, in keeping with our corporate style, he is not bound by good taste or specific subject, so he may ramble wildly from topic to topic. As his employees, we encourage this, because the day is long and we are frequently bored.
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Snow Blower
It starts with the cord. The cord is not anywhere near the snow blower, where I specifically remember leaving it. I know I left it there because I am untroubled with the need to carefully wrap and store items in drawers, closets, or shelves. I'm a firm believer in the convenience of having my belongings jumbled into corners, stacked into towering piles. It makes things easier to find, because they're not hidden from view. Strangely enough, there are some people who don't see the deep, clear wisdom of this way of life. These people believe they should hunt down piles of belongings and scatter them in a thousand different closets, cabinets, and baskets, shattering the integrity of the pile and ensuring that hours must be spent searching for things. I happen to live with one of these people. Thank you in advance for your sympathy. Anyway, it starts with the cord, which is not where I left it six months before. The cord, which you need to start the snow blower, has been hidden from view. It is, no doubt, neatly wrapped and stored somewhere in the house. The six dollar cord has been "taken care of", carefully placed somewhere where no one will ever think to look for it, instantly transforming the snow blower into a seven hundred dollar piece of junk that sits in the place where I should be parking my car at night. But luckily, my keen intelligence, unaffected by the cold, kicks into overdrive, and recognizes the electrical cord input that fits into the leaf blower has the same general configuration as the snow blower output. I'll neglect to tell you that I only recognize this after moving the leaf blower on twelve separate occasions, trying to find the snow blower cord underneath it. I'm going to keep that tidbit to myself, so you'll think I'm clever and buy my book to see what other razor-sharp insights I have. The thrill of innovation passes quickly, however, when I realize I can't remember how to start the machine. I look for directions, hoping to find some pasted on the machine somewhere, but the only stickers I can find are ones that tell me not to put my hands or feet into the moving auger blades. I find this distressing. Are there really more people in the world that need to be told not to stick their limbs into grinding blades than people who need a gentle reminder of which setting they should have their knobs and buttons on so they can set the blades in motion? Are these people the same ones who eat packets of silica gel that they find in their pockets? Or use the hairdryer in the shower? Do I really share the road with these people? Eat in the same restaurants? Sit next to them on the train? And, perhaps most disturbing of all, do I need to find one of them right now, at this very moment, to tell me how to start my snow blower because I am incapable of figuring it out without their help? I refuse to ask for help from some handless, footless person, poisoned by silica gel and the victim of repeated electric shock. My problems are my own. After all, I figured out I could use the leaf blower cord to start the snow blower. How difficult can the rest be? I'm not sure whether I need the red knob flipped to the rabbit or the turtle. I use all my cognitive powers to quickly divine a solution. If I had been sleeping for six months, and I finally woke up, which would I most closely resemble: a tortoise or a hare? And who won the race at the end? After fourteen attempts at having the knob set on turtle, I switch to hare. The snow blower sputters to life. I am unable to congratulate myself, however, because the machine sounds very, very sick. It's coughing and sputtering and wheezing like an asthmatic in a cigar bar. Every now and then it lets out a loud, gunshot-like pop, making me jump, and thick, black smoke puffs out of the engine in rhythmic spurts. I don't remember it doing any of this last year. I wonder if it's picked up bad habits, hanging around in the garage for six months with all the other things we have that don't work right. In spite of the engine sounding like it might explode at any minute, I decide the best thing for me to do is to try and clear as much of the driveway as possible before the final blast. The prospect of having to shovel the whole driveway is less appealing than the thought of perishing in flames and leaving a large crater in the middle of the driveway for people to remember me by. My laziness is unparalleled. The snow blower, however, chooses not to burn out, but to fade away. As soon as I unhook the electrical umbilical cord and I put the blower in gear, it sputters to a stop before I even wheel it out of the garage. So I wheel it back to the outlet, plug it back in, start it, and let it warm up again. And when I think it's ready, I unplug, wheel it two feet, and it shudders and ceases again. So I repeat the process. And the blower quits again. So we do the dance again. And again. And again. At some point, the blower realizes that it has underestimated my determination not to use a snow shovel. It realizes it has no choice but to run, because if it doesn't, I'll keep trying to start it until late April. So it spews noxious gases, coughs and gasps as loud as it can, and waits for me to roll it into the snow. Then, for the next twenty minutes, it spits snow in my face. It doesn't seem to matter where I point the snow thrower, the wind always changes direction to match me. I can crank the valve to the right, I can crank the valve to the left, but the snow somehow always winds up in my eyes. After a few minutes of trying to get the right angle, I give up and pretend the ice flecks biting into my cheeks don't bother me. I refuse to give the infernal contraption the satisfaction of my surrender. Blinking, wincing, half blind, I clear my driveway. It's why I have a snow blower. For the convenience. My face may sting, my eyes may run, my nose may be numb, but at least I'm not out of breath. After I finish, I look back at my handiwork. There are tiny snow ridges running down the length of the driveway where I've missed some snow in between passes, like wales in a pair of corduroy pants. The width of the driveway has shrunk, yet again, as it does after each snowstorm. And the combination of wind and incompetence makes the driveway look worse than it did before I started. I decide that I've done the perfect job. I roll the blower into the corner and drape the electrical cord over the machine, secretly hoping someone will take care of this cord, too, so I will be left blameless when the driveway isn't cleared at all the next time it snows. |
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| A collection of more diseased madness below. Check
out a few, and then buy The Reluctant
Prophet. We won't tell
anyone what you spent your grocery money on. No one needs to
know. We can keep it just between us.
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