Always trouble in the basement

By Alan Linda | The Daily Journal

Published 12:00 p.m., August 28, 2007

Once again, there seems to be trouble down in the basement, among The Appliance Group. Trouble seems to be the norm down there lately, and it's almost as if their troubles are somewhat of a mirror of the nation's current difficulties.

I made my way down there, and stood just about where I could see all of them, and asked: "Would anyone like to tell me why there's no hot water, the load of wash is stopped halfway through, and although it's chilly upstairs, there's no heat?"

They were silent. Actually, most appliances are that way, for anyone else. But then, I guess, because of what I went through just after getting back from Vietnam, I developed the psychotic ability to converse with appliances.

The first appliance with which that happened occurred just after I got back in the world and was attending Iowa State University. I had gotten an early out to do so, and with the army's usual compassion and understanding, three days from the time I was being shelled up on the DMZ, I was sitting in a classroom in Ames.

Yes, that felt kind of abrupt. Jarring. Like an emotional earthquake. I found a room in the corner of an old couple's basement, where I had a cot, a refrigerator, and a hot plate. The refrigerator, Mr. Kelvinator, was an evil old round-shouldered coot who tried to poison me. How else to explain all the puking and dry heaving I did during the day, as the noises and smells of a society not trying to kill me for a change instead seemed to choke me.

The furnace, though, turned out to be a friend, and during the night, when I realized that Mr. Kelvinator was trying to asphyxiate me, I would take a blanket over to Mr. Lennox the Furnace, and sleep up against him, comforted by his warmth.

It was cold in November, unlike Vietnam where the weather was boiling both my body and soul. Mr. Lennox didn't say much. I guess neither did Mr. Kelvinator. I never thought to talk to them. One I was afraid of; the other was comfort enough.

So now you know that part of the story. Anyone who wonders why I went into the heating and refrigeration business should have a Freudian field day with that psychotic split with reality.

"So, what is it?" I asked the basement in general. Somebody would crack.

No one did, surprisingly.

"Would anyone like to tell me why I have no hot water?"

Sir Nautilus the Water Heater coughed out some soot and said: "We're sad."

"You're sad? How come?"

John Deere."

Now, we're getting somewhere. Exactly where, I had no idea.

"Come on, tell me. Maybe I can fix it." I've fixed just about everything that can go wrong with most appliances.

"Well," said General Electric the Washing Machine, "these folks down here think Johnny got a raw deal from the VA hospital."

"What VA hospital?"

"The Veteran Appliances Hospital, you know, where veterans go to get things fixed." John Deere the Riding Mower, whom I keep parked in the basement during inclement weather, was silently contemplating the lawn, through the patio door. It's been so dry that he hasn't been needed in almost two months.

I asked: "What's wrong?"

Lady Kenmore the Dryer said: "He's depressed, and the VA said they can't help him." She added, "They said they're too busy with Iraq veterans to deal with Vietnam veterans."

"So," I said, "he's depressed because the lawn doesn't need mowing, is that it?" Heck, I'll find some thistles somewhere. They grow when it's dry."

"No, no, no," said Mr. Williamson the Furnace, "he's depressed because, well, because the Iraq veterans got a parade when they came home, and all he got was somebody calling him a baby killer."

"But no Vietnam soldiers got a parade," I said. "He shouldn't feel so singled out."

"Yes," said Sir Nautilus, "that's logically true; nonetheless, he does."

I said: "He did get a hundred bucks from the state, though, for what he did, right?" At least vets in Iowa did. Boy, I tell you, I was absolutely overwhelmed by this outpouring of generosity and honor. For years, I went around thanking friends and neighbors for that. A hundred bucks for 329 days in Vietnam. Wow. Of course, it was years later when we got it, and by the time I was thanking everyone for it, the irony kind of missed its mark.

"Tomorrow at 12 hundred hours," I announced to the group, "we're going to have a parade. You civilians can throw confetti, and Mr. Williamson (a Korean vet-), Johnny, and I will march around the chimney."

Maybe now I can get some peace.

On the way up the stairs, I heard Johnny say: "And yellow ribbons. How about yellow ribbons?"

Oh, sure. They'll really help.

---

WOULD YOU LIKE TO SHARE THIS STORY?

---

Alan Linda’s column runs Tuesday.