It Sucked the Machismo Right Out of Me!

There’s nothing like a broken piece of machinery to make an adult feel like a helpless infant. This well known fact became clear to me a few years ago when youngest son dropped our vacuum down the stairs.

At a glance, it looked alright, but when I tried to vacuum the living room, it roared like the devil himself had been sucked up into it and was fighting to get out.

Upon closer inspection, I noticed a little plastic piece, which helped to hold the beater bar in place, had been broken. No problem. I’d have to replace the whole base of the thing, but hey, I’m a relatively intelligent person—the key work here is relatively—I should be able to accomplish the task without too much difficulty.

WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF THE VACUUM: the one machine that can suck a guy’s “MACHO” image away as efficiently as it does dirt.

It seemed to me that all I’d have to do would be to unfasten a few screws, replace the old base with a new one, and I’d have that old vacuum working as if it had never been broken.

By the time I’d undone six or seven screws, a handful of springs, and had various other little parts come tumbling out of that confounded machine, I knew I was in for a long duration of frustration and tongue biting.

After four days of trying to piece together this puzzle, I realized that I was showing signs of premature senility (with each passing day I would forget a little more of how all the parts fit together). It was time to swallow my pride and call the repair shop.

Thirty dollars for them to put together a vacuum, which I only paid seventy dollars for to begin with, seemed a bit ridiculous.

When one considers that I paid nearly thirty dollars for the new part, it didn’t seem feasible to dish out another thirty bucks to have it installed.

Upon the suggestion from former Mrs. Bagley, I contacted ex-father-in-law and asked for his help in solving my mechanical woes. After all, he was and still is more mechanically minded than myself, but then again, so is a baby duck.

By now the vacuum was in several pieces and hardly resembled an appliance used for house cleaning.

Gathering all the different parts, I loaded my truck with them and headed toward my in-laws’ (by the way, what’s the difference between in-laws and outlaws? Outlaws are wanted, but enough frivolity) place.

Confiscating a corner of the basement, my father-in-law and I began to play Joe Mechanic. After 45 minutes and a few words you wouldn’t want your mother to hear, we decided the repair shop had given me the wrong base for my machine.

If I were to make a list of things I detest, returning merchandise, especially a part which had been promised to be the correct one, would have to be in my top five.

If a sales clerk were to make a list of things he detests, being told, “You sold me the wrong part” would probably rate right up there in his top five.

Imagine the response I received when I not only informed the clerk at the vacuum store that he sold me the wrong part, but I told it to him in front of a customer.

I almost had to grab an extinguisher to put out the fire in his yes. It didn’t help matters when he looked at the part I brought in and informed me that it was, indeed, the right one. I was just too unintelligent to figure out how to secure the rear axle of the vacuum in place. Red-faced, I slinked out of the store and once again headed to my in-laws’ house. Back in the deep, musty corner of the basement, father-in-law and I worked feverishly in our attempt to resurrect my vacuum.

Things went rather well until we started working on the height adjuster mechanism. The adjuster looked like it could be attached to the vacuum a number of different ways.

After a period of time—elephant embryos are in the womb in less time—we let out a cheer of celebration; we’d finally figured it out.

Caught up in our little celebration of how smart we were, we’d forgotten to secure the front axle, which happens to sit right under the height adjuster. Yep, you guessed it, we had to disassemble that whole blame thing and start over.

At last, we finally pieced the machine together—well, sort of. When we were done, we had a handful of screws and springs left over, and the handle was as limp as a steamed noodle. That height adjuster we so aptly figured out ended up with only two settings, high and low. Plus, the darn vacuum had to be raised off the floor (which isn’t easy with a limp handle) in order to change the adjustment of the height.

“Plug it in and let’s see if it works,” father-in-law suggested in a tone that let me know it matter whether the vacuum worked or not, we were done.

One of us plugged the vacuum into the nearest outlet, but I don’t remember who. I only remember the cloud of smoke and dust that engulfed us after it was turned on.

Once it was on, that monster let out a screech which cold beard three countries wide. Like a dragon, it spit fire and moaned as if it were mad at us for waking it from a peaceful slumber, and the handle swished up and down with a thud that shook the beams in the ceiling of the basement. The outer casing, or cover as some call it, spun in circles around the handle like a dog wormed with turpentine.

Quickly turning it off, I cradled that temperamental beast in my arms, carried it outside, gently set it down in the bed of my truck, and headed home.

The next day, I scanned the newspaper for sales on vacuums.