Fixing the Vacuum Cleaner
“…it squealed a mournful wail that caused the dog to run for cover behind the sofa. ” (photo by Igor Normann – Fotolia)
It howled and grumbled like a banshee in a bear trap. Whenever my wife tried to get some work out of it, it squealed a mournful wail that caused the dog to run for cover behind the sofa. This time, I’m talking about my vacuum cleaner, not my lazy cousin, Carl. The ancient beast is two days older than the dirt it so effectively picks up. So is the vacuum cleaner.
Anyway, it was not functioning properly, the vacuum cleaner, that is. A shrieking noise came on whenever the machine took to sucking and a gurgling cacophony could be heard coming from deep within its bowels. I decided to try to fix it.
It is a collection of orderly parts, working harmoniously (until now) in precise synchronization to create a vacuum within a chamber and facilitate a mechanical inhalation sufficient to pull in large and often sticky objects. The way to proceed was obvious: hit it with a hammer.
This failing to remedy its ills, I became stumped. Any object with more than two moving parts strains my mechanical abilities to their petty limits. My son suggested I try a screwdriver. Hitting it with the screwdriver did not help.
Finally, I opened ‘er up to where I could get a look at its inner workings and I became even more confused. Aha! a giant ball of hair, interwoven amongst the whatchamacallits. I slashed and hacked the fuzzy horror to confetti and reassembled the machine with only a small handful of superfluous screws leftover. (Why put in two when one will do?)
I threw the switch and the accursed gadget resumed its nauseating unnatural yawp. Time for a beer.
When performing frustrating tasks, one should always walk away from a project to obtain a fresh perspective, rather than using the ever-present hammer, or similar blunt instrument, to pound the project into a non-functioning, homogeneous mass. It may produce a second of satisfaction but it will be followed by a period of intense self-loathing, which is always good to avoid.
The beer did not offer a much different perspective, but it did taste mighty good. I resumed the task with renewed energy and faith. I only stripped one screw while taking the machine apart. I probed its innards, tongue lolling out the side of my mouth in moronic concentration, while I uttered inane and ineffectual oaths to gods who weren’t listening and didn’t care.
Inside every vacuum cleaner is an ingenious little device that reminds owners and stupid repairmen that the machine is still plugged in. It’s called “electricity.”
Time for another beer.
After another several minutes of holding the machine up to the light, closing one eye and muttering “Hmmm,” I was about to try hitting the insides with a hammer when my grandson came by, blowing on a small candy box to make it sound like a kazoo. A light bulb went on above me.
An enlightened analysis revealed a small piece of cardboard out of place near the mouth of the vacuum’s bag, creating a kazoo effect and rattling against the side of the machine as the air rushed by. I changed the bag and the sassumrickenbacken thing worked perfectly.
My success at this chore did not fill me with any allusions about my mechanical aptitude. I am as technically inept as ever and I know that if I ever have to make a living out of fixing vacuum cleaners, I’ll have the skinniest kids in town.
Anybody want to buy an old vacuum cleaner? It really sucks!
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