Tin Soldiers

Today's Track: Five Feet High and Rising--Johnny Cash

It began, as have so many of history's most profound and critical events, with a sandwich and a dull clunking sound.

It was quiet. As they say in the movies, perhaps a little too quiet. The late afternoon sun was ambling across the land, and somewhere, a bird sang out, a long, sweet tune. I stood by the kitchen sink, ankle-deep in thought. I had a decision to make, one on which more fates than mine might come to rest. I knew I must weigh my options with care, measure the situation with the utmost mental precision, and choose the path of most wisdom. But boredom always wins, doesn't it? And, besides, I was anxious to get back to a particularly tasty lunch. So I moved in haste, and was lost. What difference, I asked myself, could it possibly make? And so, little realizing the peril that I was casually dispensing from a harmless yellow bottle, I filled the little round resevoir. Indifferently, I slammed the door, set the timer, and walked away from my dishwasher.

Before I continue recounting the events of that fateful afternoon, let me pass on a couple of things. First, the combination of Stephen King, Pink Floyd, and a filling--if rather boring--sandwich will dull a human's wits faster than a swift kick to the head. And second, there is a reason, speaking in terms of concentration, certain detergents are marketed for use in dishwashers and others are not...

The afternoon stretched on, bloating its way through to early evening. I sat in my livingroom, complacently reading and digesting, and preening my ego. I was more pleased than usual with myself for having, in my infinite ingenuity, used a largish quantity of liquid hand/dish soap in place of regular dishwasher-formulated detergent--of which I had none--thus saving myself a trip down to the neighborhood branch of Buy-N-Go-Broke, our local grocery mafia. I'm not sure when I first noticed the sound. Perhaps I'd been hearing it for some time before, slowly, insidiously, a soft, steady patter-splash-slosh wormed its way in amongst the final chords of Dark Side of the Moon. I tracked the racket to my kitchen, whereupon I was struck by some subtle, unidentifiable difference about the place, something I just couldn't put my finger on. Also, try as I might, I could not recall my kitchen ever before having contained any major freshwater lakes. Ah, I thought coherently. Further observation led me to conclude that it was not fresh water at all, but in fact greywater, which is highly misleading, in that most of it was actually white. That is to say, it was utterly saturated with soap suds, resulting in a fluid approximately the consistency of marshmallow creme. The source, obviously, was the dishwasher, which was also concurrently producing the patter-splash-slosh sound as it ejaculated great viscous gluts of the afforementioned fluid.
Ah, I thought again, poking idly with my toe at a blob of suds that floated past at that moment.
Someone's going to have to do something about this.

War, then. This dastardly machine wanted a fight, and I was going to give it one.
I am no stranger to the little-known and often under-appreciated art of appliance combat. Many's the time I've marched forth, toolbox in hand, to glorious battle against the devious Brigadier-General Electric and his gleaming white horde. Oh, the tales I could tell. The time, for instance, when the electric range, perhaps in a feeble mechanical approximation of nonviolent resistance, chose to operate at only one temperature--that being the one labled on the control dial as "White Dwarf". (Victory: Me Casualties: Small sections of my epidermis) Or perhaps the inccident wherein the microwave adopted such a mode of operation as to always sound as though popcorn were being prepared inside, even at times when it was not, strictly speaking, turned on. (Victory: Me Casualties: One electrical outlet; one small water glass) In fact, my only acknowledged defeat--and only just acknowledged, at that--came at the hands of a demented and truly evil specimen of domestic engineering which had posed for years as an electrically powered hot water heater in my neighbors' crawlspace. I will not soon forrget that foul day. I was dragged from the safe confines of my bed at some unreasonable, barely post-dawn hour by a phone call asking for my assistance with a slight mechanical problem. Feeling immediately suspicious, I listened on, finding out, in the course of the conversation, that the water heater had suddenly gone AWOL early that morning. So I, of course, agreed to see whether I could be any assistance. My first clue that this little adventure might be destined for somewhat less than an auspicious end came when I opened my front door. To call the weather that morning a rainstorm would be much like referring to a lecture Al Gore on fiscal policy "a bit dull". I personally witnessed, on that day, raindrops the size of liquor shots hurtling intothe ground at what I conservatively estimate to be the highest velocity ever achieved on the planet earth. Things were not going well. So I make my way next door, having had most of my skin washed completely off. My dear neighbor, a woman nearly old enough to be my grandmother, proceeds to explain how I'm to go about getting at the water heater. There exists beneath their home, so says she, a crawlspace more than adequate to allow easy, upright locomotion by a gentleman of my (not insubstantial) height. Red flag. When I inquired as to the entrance to this area, she instructed me to "use the big door around the side". red flag #2. I've lived next door to this house for years. There is no big door. What there is, as I came to find out, is a perfectly square opening approximately the size of my head set into the house's foundation. Behind some enourmous shrubs. Partway below grade. But I was not discouraged. Not, that is, until I found out, after another few minutes of natural pressure-washing, that the door sealing this comical aperture would not fully open, despite my using of many magic words. Oh well, no pain, no gain, they say. So I clamber into the flowerbed, through the mud, and underneath the shrubbery with every bit of the unerring natural grace of a cow in a three-legged race. Another few minutes splashed by, and, after bending only a couple of the lesser laws of physics--as well as part of the framing--I managed to insert my impressive bulk into the opening. Despite the kind lady's assurances to the contrary, there was indeed barely room to crawl, let alone stand. But by this point, even crawling would have been an accomplishment, and I would gladly have done so. That is, until I took a second crouching-shuffle-step forward. There are few physical sensations that can match that of forty-five degree water rushing unexpectedly up to your chest wihle both feet simultaneously descend into no less than seven inches of rank, diseased-smelling mud. This is, of course, precisely what happened. At this point, pure stubborn determination takes over. I proceeded onward in a sort of half-floating duckwalk for a while (despite its claustrophobic dimensions, the crawlspace seemed to go on forever). Alright, I thought, at least it can't get much worse. I really must stop saying things like that. I was fine up untiil I tripped over the submerged electrical cables. I would probably have given in to my more rational impulses and fled at that moment, were it not for the fact that my flashlight, perhaps sensing the essential futility of the situation, enthusiastially and summarily died.
Suffice it simply to say that things went precipitously downhill from that point.
You can't win 'em all...

With these and countless other campaigns under my belt, I felt that the dishwasher situation was well within my grasp. Surely, after all I'd been through, I could not but triumph. And so I strode purposefully across the kitchen, managing--quite well, I think--to maintain my composure as I briefly lost my footing in one of the deeper and more densely soaped regions of the floor. As I approached, I sounded my battle cry, which to the untrained ear apparently sounds much like random vitriolic cursing. I struggled grimly, for long hours. There were times when even I, proud antagonist of the mechanical menace that I am, despaired of my chances of success. But in the end, smiling grimly, I emerged--literally--from the conflict, a hard-fought victory in one hand and a mop in the other. Let this be a lesson to you all. You need not be tormented by your appliances, your machines and gadgets. Rise up, friends. Take back your homes. Just remember to use the appropriate soap.
Good night, and Godspeed.

But... Hmm. Was that toaster making that sound yesterday?