Rage Against the Washing Machine

There is a fine line between frugal and cheap, and I have hopped from one side to the other all my life. An old washer was being given away down the block that wasn't functioning. I decided to lug it home. Repairing an item like that is often just a matter of replacing parts, and it is particularly easy on an older model. There were no electronics, it was a very common unit, and an appliance junkyard was a few blocks away.

I replaced one assembly which did the trick, but other areas would occasionally fail and need attention. It was just fine until my girl moved in. Oddly enough, she wanted clean clothes all the time and her face turned funny colors anytime there was a breakdown. Sure, I promised a new pair of machines, but not while this one had a glimmer of life left!

It came to a big argument when I took a new job halfway across the continent. She wanted the new set as soon as we got there. I thought that since we had a moving van anyway, we should take them. After all, it would take time to shop for new appliances, and we could use the old washer to get by. Being frugal, I knew I would hold off as long as possible. That would backfire.

The old beaters were hooked up, furniture was moved, and boxes were being unpacked. We had three days of travel clothes that were dirty, so the better half went to the utility room to start a load. Most of the work was done for the day and I had kicked back on the couch, but a loud shriek and louder clang got me moving.

When I entered the room the first thing I had to do was avoid the downswing of my splitting ax. After it left another gouge in the metal, I had to persuade an angry woman not to swing again. That washer was completely filled with water, and instead of cycling, it gave up the ghost. It was finally not fixable. She did stop when I said she might flood the room, and by the time the water was siphoned out, the storm had calmed. The offending machine was relegated to a far corner, and aside from the occasional dirty look, it was forgotten.

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I don’t like holidays in general, but really despise those created to siphon off money from poor saps for gifts, cards, flowers and other baubles. That doesn’t mean I won’t do something like send flowers, but I prefer to do it when it isn’t expected. So when it came time to clean the junk out of the house, I had an idea for a fun little surprise on a Friday evening.

When my lady returned from work, I told her I had a surprise and to get into some comfortable clothes. We took our big SUV and drove a few miles to the local industrial park that was mostly empty. In fact, the most activity out there was my crew tearing structures down. I pulled up to an enormous old building. With one eyebrow raised, she followed me to the back of the rig where I popped the liftgate. Inside there was a charcuterie board with her favorite wine, Moscato, chilling in a small cooler. I poured into nice glassware, set out the meats and cheese, and we ate it on crackers and sipped sweet wine. Now,it was just a matter of waiting.

The setting sun was coloring the sky with hues of red, orange, and pink. We made small talk about our weeks at work. The view wasn't horrible, but since we were living in the mountains of a national forest, it was an unusual picnic spot. I was betting curiosity would get the better of her.

It took awhile, because she would often rather not know than ask a question. Also, we were having a nice evening. Blame it on the wine, perhaps, but eventually she just had to have an answer. The need to understand why we weren't overlooking a lake or treed valley popped out of her like a champagne cork. I smiled, turned toward the huge abandoned building and loudly whistled.

A throaty roar emanated from the dilapidated building as a large diesel engine came to life. I held up a hand to stave off any questions and soon the engine noise was accompanied by the clanking of metal tracks. A moment later the huge earth moving machine came out into the dying sunlight.

The excavator had a scissor boom with a bucket full of teeth on the end. Clutched in that bucket, over two stories in the air … was the offending washing machine. To say the operator was good would be selling him short. He was an artist. That old machine was tossed high in the air and caught again, slapped on the concrete, and simply abused. To this, my date was both thrilled and in awe.

After smacking, squeezing, and beating the old thing into scrap, it was dropped to the ground. The final indignity was running the tank like tracks over it until the eight ton machine left it flat as a flapjack. Then with a wave instead of a bow, our entertainer backed away and was gone. Still speechless, she turned to me with a smile and gave me a sweet kiss. It turns out it was the most romantic thing ever done for her. I certainly know it's the most romantic thing I've ever done, period. Later she told me it could only have been better if she knew how to drive the machine.

(WC:944)