Dishwasher Man

A small puddle of water in front of the dishwasher can’t be of any major significance in the scope of the Big Picture. Drop a couple paper towels down, forget about it and go about the business of solving the worlds problems.

What’s that you say? The dial sticks and won’t move beyond the wash cycle? “How long have we had this dishwasher Honey, a year or has it been two?” 8 years?, no kidding. How much are dishwashers these days? ” 5 hundred and up, can be $1,000 and more,” honey says. “Not goin’ for it,” honey’s husband replies.

A short drive to the appliance store, past the tires, thru the lawnmower department, past the treadmills and finally to dishwashers jumping up and down shouting…”buy me,” “buy me!” We are approached by a smiling saleslady with makeup galore and glasses with a safety chain. Comes in handy when bending over to demonstrate how to load the bottom rack, wouldn’t ya think?

We are thrifty shoppers, bargain hunters, not to be confused with cheap skates. We gravitate to the bare bones section. We totally understand that all the bells and whistles on the super models just lead to the greater possibility of leaking, smoking and malfunctioning.

We are all set to settle on a rock bottom unit, priced at what I remember dishwashers selling for, when my detective wife spots a poor lonely dishwasher in the corner. “Oh, that one,” the saleslady smiles, “let me call downstairs and check on it.” “They say it’s a floor model and they would like to (here’s what I Luv to hear) . . .”they would like to get rid of it.” We compare it’s features with the bargain basement unit we R ready to trade plastic numbers for. A better unit, more features? Wonder how much more? How much? $169 bucks? Less than Old Cheapie? Done. Wrap it up. When can you deliver it? She doesn’t know anything about delivery & hands us a piece of paper. Do I smell the beginnings of a problem? Here, call this number.

Oh boy, just when we thought we had found a dishwasher looker’s dream, we run into a possible roadblock with the delivery guy. Well, there goes our great bargain. Dishwashers have absolutely no value unless they are delivered.

I call the 800 number, in the sky, and get some guy who had robots for parents. So condescending, I felt like I could puke. Told him we had guests coming in on Thursday and we needed it before then. “Don’t know if that’s possible, Tin Man mumbles.” “Saleslady said you could.” “We never talk to the sales people,” is his unremorseful reply. Perfect. It’s now Monday. Finally, I asked to speak with the delivery guy directly. I’m patched in to Eddie. Terrific, I thought, Eddie, why not Jimmy or Freddie or Frankie? Anytime anyone adds an ie or a y at the end of a perfectly good name, you’ve got trouble. These tags usually have been dumped in Jr. High school. Delivery man says, “can’t do it Wednesday,” “full up.” “Thursday is too late, Eddie…we have company arriving.” “I can do it tomorrow.” “Did you say tomorrow as in Tuesday?” “Yes Sir, how about noon?” “Ideal, see you then.”

As the town whistle blows, at exactly 12 noon, Eddie shows up in his pickup truck. A delivery guy on time? I’m dreaming! “How are you today Sir?” “Great Eddie and you?” “Just fine.”

Eddie never should have been passed up as a defensive tackle for the Green Bay Packers. Eddie’s back is wider than his truck. Shoulders at least a yard wide, barrel chested, and arms bigger than the village blacksmith. A broad smile and. . .get this. . .dimples.

Eddie grabs his trusty dolly (with one hand) and slips in the kitchen door. Big Eddie has the leaky dishwasher, with the stuck dial, unhooked and out the door faster than you can say “Jackie Robinson.” I peek out the window & watch Mr. Universe unload our bargain. Eddie reaches in his truck and lifts our DW out with straight arms, sets it on the dolly and is back in the kitchen in a blur. Muscular Eddie, deftly reaches in his small bag of tricks (tools), hooks up the wiring and plumbing, smiles and tells us we’re “Good to Go.” ” I hate leaks, Eddie, any chance this baby will leak on my floor?” “No Sir, haven’t had a DW leak in 10 years.” We sign the paper work, Eddie shakes my hand as I wait for the sound of crushing bones and count my fingers. Eddie smiles, hops on Silver, and in a cloud of dust, gallops out of town. Who was that masked man?

I bash golf pros. I bash everybody. It has been my vast experience that only 5% of any of them know what the hell they are doing. 5% of “them” are good. 95% of golf pros, dentists, plumbers, doctors, government officials, non-government officials, information telephone operators, candle stick makers, Phds, pick someone…have no clue. Across the board its the same, no matter the title.

But, now and then you run into an Eddie, someone who’s proud to do the job right. I love the name, don’t you? Especially the ie on the end. Nice ring. Adds class. How many Eddies in your lifetime? How many teachers in school told you that everything was possible and inspired you to do great things? How many really good “anyones” have you had the pleasure of doing business with? Most go through life in a coma like the clerk at the drivers license bureau.

It’s the old bell curve alive and well. 5% excel, 5% can’t find their car, and 90% live and die and it’s hard to tell they were ever here. Where do you fit in? From time to time I find myself lost

in any one of the three categories.

Jim McLellan
The AntiPro/the Maverick

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