Do you fix things around the house sometimes? Me too. But unlike most men, I’ll admit that I’m not too great at it.
In fact, I generally try to avoid household maintenance altogether because I’m libel to break something worse than it already is. In the South, we call that “rurnin'” something. Just for your future use, the past, present, and future tenses of the Southern version of “ruin” are used like this: “Bubba rurnt that perfectly good blender.”
“Bubba is rurnin’ that blender.”
“Bubba, you gonna slap rurn that blender.”
Never, ever say “ruin” in the South. People might think you’re a Yankee or something awful like that. You can, however, say “ruination,” which incidentally, was the state of my first apartment after college.
My roommate was a self-proclaimed handyman. Alex was a smart fellow. Bright. Articulate. He even graduated Phi Betta Kappa from Birmingham-Southern College. But for some reason, Alex subscribed to the school of thought that, “If it ain’t broke, break it so you can fix it.” Which actually would have been fine (everybody needs a hobby) except he was always “fixin’ to fix it” which is to say that nuthin’ was ever fixed.
Alex loves power tools. Oh yes, we had planers, jig saws, perpendicular saws, spoolers, vices, wenches, electric this-and-thats, air guns, staple guns, glue guns, nail guns, and probably a few big-game guns. We were ready for Armageddon. Had the devil tried to enter our apartment, Alex would have stapled his butt to the wall and probably would have caulked him up just to make sure no evil leaked out. He ran that kind of outfit.
I have a real fear of the word “Oops.” I do not like to hear people say “oops.” When Alex said “oops,” what he really meant was “Oh my God, I have created a majorly stupid catastrophe right here in our dwelling space.”
You think I’m exaggerating don’t you? Well let me count the ways my handyman roommate systematically destroyed our apartment: One short circuit. Two clogged drains. Three cracked windows. Four flooded floors. Five broken locks. Six plaster avalanches. Seven busted pipes. Eight dispose-all massacres. Nine kitchen fires. And Ten Landlords a’ Leaping.
Here’s a real life story. I bought some new knobs to put on the back door. Alex said it would be a simple job just to take the old knob off using a Phillip’s head screwdriver, and volunteered to do the task. I confess, I retired to the other room. These things aren’t pretty and I don’t like to watch. After about 10 minutes, Alex came through the room to go to the tool closet, “The #@! screw is painted stuck.” Cussing at inanimate objects apparently helps them to do whatever it is you want them to do. “Well,” I said, thinking of his health and mental well-being, “why don’t you just leave it?” “Oh no, I’ll have it repaired in no time.” Alex disappeared into the tool closet and emerged moments later with a Black & Decker rechargeable, multi-head, electric screwdriver with three speed settings. “This will get it,” he said smiling as he wandered back out to the kitchen. Ten minutes later he came back into the room dragging the screwdriver, “The #@! screwdriver doesn’t have enough torque.” “Well,” I said, thinking of his health and mental well-being, “why don’t you just leave it?” “Ha!” he said, and after awhile in the tool closet Alex emerged with an electric drill and extension cord. I could see that he had placed a Phillips-head bit on the drill, “This puppy will get her.” He disappeared into the other room snickering under his breath.
I could hear the drill whining to kingdom come and moments later Alex appeared, “The #@! drill stripped the screw.” “Well,” I said, thinking of his health and mental well being, “why don’t you just leave it?” “Nah, I’ve been wanting to try out my new pliers anyway,” he shot back. After about ten minutes of grunting and pulling, I went into the kitchen to survey the scene. Aside from a few of Alex’s footprints above the handle, the door appeared to still be functional. This was a good sign. Alex, however, appeared to be less functional. He was on the floor moaning. The piers were also on the floor, with the stripped head of a screw in their grip, “The #%@ screw is still in the door.”
“Well,” I said, thinking of his health and mental well-being, “why don’t you just leave it?”
“Nah, I figure I can whack the doorknob off, and then just slide the other side out, screw and all.”
First he used a small hammer. Then he came in and grabbed the sledge, “I can’t knock off the knob with that sissy hammer.” From the kitchen came a mighty heave, grunt, and thud. Alarmingly, I heard no “bonk”–the sound the doorknob would have made on the floor had it come off. I entered the scene. The doorknob was bent downward at an angle that was decidedly “not good,” as we say in the fix-it world. I fixed a drink and said, thinking of his health and mental well-being, “why don’t you just leave it?”
“Nope,” he said, “a quick job with a hacksaw will remedy this entire situation and we will be able to exit the apartment in no-time.”
I retired to the other room and prepared myself for the inevitable “oops.” We had not yet reached an “oops” moment, but I could feel it coming.
The sawing lasted 45 minutes. It was accompanied by the sound of my roommate reciting every swear word in Christendom. When it abated, Alex appeared dripping in sweat, out of breath, and carrying a broken hacksaw, “That . . . (pant pant) . . . SOB . . . is solid . . . (pant pant) . . . steel.”
“Well,” I said, thinking of his health and mental well-being, “why don’t you just leave it?”
“Never!” he said.
We were headed for real trouble. Alex strode back into the room with his Evenflame arc-welder. With a demented grin and evil laugh, Alex lowered the visor on the welding mask. In a few moments, the lights in the apartment flickered and I could smell burning steel and electrically-charged air. And from out of the abyss, he said it.
“Oops.”
Suddenly, my roommate came running through the room as smoke billowed from the kitchen. He tripped over the ottoman, “I can’t see anything through this #$@* visor. Where’s the fire-extinguisher? I think I missed the knob, and caught the door on fire!” He removed his mask and I noted with some alarm that parts of his clothing were aflame and remembered that we were not in procession of fire-extinguisher.
We ran into the kitchen, and through the dark embers and ashes flying about, I could see that the door was firmly shut. The umbrella stand however, was a towering inferno. Alex grabbed the Scotch from hands and flung it on the blazing umbrella. I will add that I drink old Scotch and this was fuel to the fire, as it were.
Calmly, as I have considerable experience with such matters, I grabbed the flour canister and dumped its contents on the disaster. When I reached to open the door and let some air in, the knob came off in my hands.
And in situation like the burning hostage calamity described above, the best thing I could think of to say Thomasville, was “oops.”