Ol’ General Electric near retirement

By Alan Linda | The Daily Journal

Published Tuesday, March 25, 2008

“Sir? Can you come down here, please?” This request came from General Electric the Washing Machine, who commands The Basement Appliance Army.

“Yes, General, what can I do for you?” As I stood in front of him, it suddenly became apparent to me that the General was no spring chicken anymore. His porcelain-painted skin had the human equivalent of age spots, where it was chipped; matter of fact, the paint was prematurely peeling on the top of his control console.

He kind of took a second, then looked me right in the eye and said: “I’m having trouble getting my drain water to flow.” Oh, oh. Every older male’s nightmare—aging causes the involved hose to lose its tissue strength, which results in obstructing the easy passage of fluid. Even the term “nightmare” isn’t strong enough, really.

Let’s make something clear, here: just because it happens to some males, it’s not a problem personally. Uh uh! No way. My familiarity with this condition comes from extensive reading, and not with any “first-hose” knowledge.

So I didn’t mince any words with The General. I told him: “You know what this means, don’t you.” It wasn’t even a question. He knew. I was going to have to scope his drain hose.

Still, he’d been pretty ornery lately, so I let him have it full bore: “General, assume the position. I’m going in.” He gasped, kind of sagged to the left, away from Lady Kenmore the Dryer, who said: “Now you’re going to get a dose of what women have to go through.”

“I don’t want to hear any more about feminine biology,” The General said to her. I think it makes him queasy. Me too.

“OK,” I said to him, “I’m going to take your drain hose and carefully push this small viewing scope into it.” I added, “It’s very small. You’ll feel a slight pressure is all.” (That’s what every doc has told me just before the pain like to blew the top of my head right off.)

“Do you want me to give you something for the pain?” I asked him.

“Uh, well, no, I guess not. I can take it,” he said. He didn’t sound too convinced.

“OK,” I said, “On the count of three, I’m going to start this in.” Once it’s in, it’s not so bad, but the start, oh boy.

“One,” I said, watching him to make certain he wasn’t going to faint. I kind of smiled to myself.

“Tw……!” I shoved it in. He let out a gasp. “Two!” he shouted. “Two! You said, oh, you *&%$#!!!!!”

The General used some unprintable language. Army talk—well, navy, more like. “Oooook-kaaayyy,” I said, as I watched the walls of his drain tube go by. “So far, so good.”

I completed the examination, removed the scope, and gave him a few minutes to collect his wits. Even Lady Kenmore the Dryer was quiet, afraid I’d examine her for her extended drying times. She had hot flashes that actually scorched my undershorts. Her circulation wasn’t what it used to be.

“OK,” I said to The General. “Here’s the deal: basically, you’re in exactly the condition one would expect someone your age to be in.” (I recently had a doc tell me that about a shoulder that was bothering me. Trust me—it is not reassuring.)

“What’s that mean, exactly ?” He had mustered up some of his old courage. He knows his age, I thought to myself.

“It means, you’re no spring chicken. The good news, “I told him, “is that there are no growths or accumulations of mineral deposits (the equivalent of kidney stones).”

“Uh huh,” he said. “What’s the bad news?” Isn’t that always the way things are: some good news, some bad?

“The bad news is, at some point here, your water is going to back up on you, and then you’ll develop some kind of infection in your pump. (If you remember, I gave him a digital pump exam not too long ago. That’s another male thing we don’t talk about. We just hope the doc has small hands.)

“What’s going to become of me, when that happens?” he asked. A good question. If you retire the boss, you can’t have him hanging around messing up the transition to new leadership. Let’s face it: every member of The Appliance Army down in my basement was the same age, more or less. I might have to conscript a whole new regiment, which was not a happy thought.

“Well,” I replied, “I’ve been thinking about retiring you and bringing in a new Digital Frigidaire Front Loader.” They’re a sweet machine, but whether they can command remains to be seen.

“I don’t know what to do with you when you retire, General,” I said to him.

It’s kind of a universal problem. I know.

Alan Linda writes from his home in New York Mills.