September 20, 2013--Midcoast: Power Washer (Concluded)

Back at the house I took the AR 142 power washer still in its box out to the shed where, I was certain, I had all the tools needed to assemble it. Just like in the old days in Brooklyn.

"It should take me maybe 30 minutes," all puffed up, I said to Rona. "Then we can give it a test on the front steps. You know, start small."

Rona stared in my direction, studiously ignoring me.

About 20 pieces tumbled out of the box mainly, it looked to me, more hoses, scrubbing brushes, and vacuum-cleaner-like wands than mechanical and plumbing components. Too bad, I thought, it would be a better challenge, and thus additionally enjoyable and satisfying, if I needed to snap the wheels on and secure them with cotter pins or, even better, have to do some wiring since the washer was electric powered.

Two or three pieces looked familiar from my memory of the fully-assembled model in the store--the body of the washer and the handle, which I knew, without even a glance at the instruction booklet, would affix to the top of the body.

I quickly found the two screws included, aligned the handle with the body, snapped it in place, and then secured it with the Phillips-head screws. Of course I had at least a half dozen Phillips screwdrivers in the shed, found just the right one, and stepped back to look at what I had accomplished, feeling I was off to a good start.

All the remaining parts, however, looked unfamiliar, or at least did not immediately suggest to me how they would be used or where they should be attached to the body, which now, at least, had its handle securely affixed. Good, I thought, more to learn about, more assembly problems to solve. Just like in the old days with my Erector set.

So I turned to the rather skimpy instruction booklet. Its apparent brevity another sign that the rest of the assembly would be a piece of cake and I would be able to get it all done in less than the 30 minutes I had indicated to Rona.

In fact, there were only three or four pages in English, the rest in Spanish and French. And at least half the English pages were devoted to various WARNINGs and CAUTIONs.

Too bad, I thought, that the lawyers are running everything. Why does this power washer and everything else come plastered with warning labels? Are we that stupid and litigious? No need to answer. On the other hand, at times they do add an element of unintentional humor when buying a step ladder or electric drill. My favorite recently was for a steam iron--"Do not iron garments when wearing them."

Those in the power washer booklet hardly needed stating--

WARNING--Risk of Electrocution

• Do not touch plug with wet hands
• Do not spray electrical apparatus and wiring

WARNING--Risk of Explosion

• Do not spray flammable liquids
• Never use in areas containing combustible dust, liquids, or vapors

Electrocution and explosions aside, I concentrated on the assembly tasks at hand--

(1) Attach swivel adapter to pump water inlet, if not already attached. 

I rummaged among the parts on my workbench and nothing looked like anything resembling a swivel adapter, whatever a swivel adapter in fact was. So I looked in the booklet at drawings of the parts but didn't find anything labeled "swivel adapter." And nothing that could be described as such was already attached to the washer body or to the the protruding two inches of threaded pipe that I assumed was for water intake.

I read--

Notice the swivel adapter is marked with the words "pump" and "hose."

Good, I thought, all I have to do is find something, anything thus marked. Should be no problem. 

But I found nothing close. Beginning to feel frustrated, I even looked at the two brushes, knowing in advance that that was clearly a distraction--the real challenge was getting the power washer itself assembled. 

Maybe, I began to think, some parts are missing. Worst case scenario, we bring everything back to the hardware story and they'll give us replacements for the swivel adapter and anything else that turns up missing. 

Before coming to that conclusion, I reached for the empty box, thinking maybe something looking how a swivel adapter should look was lurking in the bottom among the discarded wrappings. 

But I found nothing there except a large card on which, in two-inch high red letters, was printed--

UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES TAKE THE POWER WASHER BACK TO THE STORE WHERE IT WAS PURCHASED. 

IF THERE ARE ANY QUESTIONS, PARTS MISSING, OR IF THE PURCHASER INTENDS TO RETURN THE POWER WASHER SEEKING A REFUND IT MUST BE TO THE AR COMPANY IN FRIDLEY, MINNESOTA.

I felt the onset of an anxiety attack and needed to sit down to catch my breath and allow my heart to calm down. 

I also noticed I had been in the shed for half an hour--the time I had boasted to Rona it would take me to complete the assembly. Thus far, I had only managed to attach the handle to the body with the two screws provided.

Thus, in spite of myself, I turned my attention to the brushes, thinking that dealing with them should, by comparison, be rather straightforward and give me a sense of accomplishment.

In fact the brushes were easy to deal with because included in the assembly manual there was a two-page insert with very detailed drawings about the parts needed to make the round Twister (or "large-surface brush") and it's companion, the Turbo or oval-shaped brush, operational. Operational, of course, if I could manage to get the power washer itself operational. I was still far from that, having, confessedly, only having managed to attach the handle to the washer body.

After about an hour Rona came looking for me. She discovered me huddled on the floor of the shed with the doors closed. Worried, she asked, "Is everything all right?"

I mumbled something incomprehensible.

"I was concerned about you. You said it would take maybe half an hour and here it is nearly two hours later."

"No need to exaggerate," I muttered, "An hour's bad enough."

"'Bad enough'? What are you talking about? And could you speak up, I can hardly hear you."

I curled up into an even tighter ball.

"Do I need to call 911? Did you injure yourself, or something? Though I can't imagine your doing that while assembling something as simple as a power washer. The smallest 1,600 PSI one at that."

"No need to make me feel worse than I do," I said, and with that, what I had been struggling with, including all my frustrations, came spilling out.

"Slow down, slow down. There's no need to make yourself crazy. I'm sure, as you say, that the instructions are confusing and that there are all sorts of parts missing. Also, in spite of that card warning not to bring the machine back to the store and how we need to mail if to Minnesota, I'm sure Nate at the hardware store will be willing to help us. This is Maine, after all. Not New York City."

I grunted, "That makes sense."

"Let me take a look at it," Rona suggested. "Maybe I can figure something out." She had picked up the instruction booklet.

"You're right about all the ridiculous warnings. But let me see," she was thumbing through the pages. "Did you notice the French and Spanish versions of the instructions? Maybe if I read them we'll be able to figure out what to do. Perhaps they contain additional information."

She read, "'Attacher l'adaptateur pivotant à pomper l'eau d'entrée, si ce n'est déjà attaché.' Now where is that adaptateur pivotant? Is that the one you were having trouble finding and think may be missing?"

C'est vrai," I said, beginning to feel a little better.

"This looks like it," Rona said, holding it up so I could see it from the floor where I was still squatting. It doesn't say 'pump' and 'hose' as the instructions indicate, but there's an arrow on it that probably shows which way the water is pumped in."

With that insight, one-two-three, Rona attached the adapter to the the screw-threaded intake pipe that protruded from the body of the pump.

But, even reading all the French and then turning to the Spanish instructions, Rona could progress no further. We had the handle attached (I had accomplished that the first minute) and Rona had screwed the adaptateur pivotant to the pump, but no more. We were both stymied.

"I guess we should go back to Nate tomorrow," Rona said, "and see if he can help us. The assembled version of the AR 142 should still be there. Worse-comes-to-worse, we can use it as a model to guide us in assembling ours."

"But what about having to send it to Fridley, Minnesota? You saw that card that . . ."

Again, Rona insisted, "Nate will help us. Remember, this is Maine."

The next morning, sheepishly, we slinked back to Damariscotta Hardware and looked in the back for Nate.

"It's his day off," a salesman said. "But I can help you. Just what is it you have there?"

I made myself small and attempted to hide behind Rona. "We bought this power washer the other day," Rona said, "Nate helped us and . . ."

"And even thought it says we have to send it to Minnesota," I found my voice, "we thought that maybe . . ."

"That maybe Nate or someone else might be willing to help us figure out how to assemble it."

"The instructions are really terrible," I held the brochure out to him. He waved it off.

"We thought that if no one can help us and we really do have to send it to Fridley, we can look at the floor model and use it as . . ."

"It's not there," I whispered to Rona.

"What's that?" the salesman asked.

"It's not on the shelf." I stammered, "The AR 142. Maybe it was sold. Nate said they were going fast. We got the next to last one. It was quite a good price. But we can't . . ."

I had to stop myself from sounding as if I were whimpering. I wasn't feeling very good about my non-Maine-like behavior. After all, we were talking about a $66 power washer. Not that a storm blew out all our windows and we have a flood in the house. Something worthy of causing agita.

"Let me take a look," he offered.

I asked if he wanted to see the instructions.

"Naw," he said. "I don't think it will be too much of a problem."

"I guess not," I said. "You must have to assemble them every day. Considering how incomprehensible the instructions are."

"Actually, you guys are the first to bring one in needing help. Which," he quickly added, "is not a problem. Not at all. I'm happy to try to help."

And help indeed he did. While we were talking he had shaken all the parts out onto the counter and before he had finished telling us how happy he was to try to help he had all of them connected and told us where to attach the garden hose and how to use the water gun.

"That about does it," he said. "Is there anything else I can help with?" He was all charm and friendly smiles.

On the drive home Rona sensed that I might be sulking. "I know how hard it is for you to feel that as you are growing older you are losing some of your powers. That when you were ten and had that Erector set and built that Ferris wheel you thought you'd be able to build and fix things forever."

"I now know better," I sighed.

"And it's OK. You're still my sweet boy," she reached over to touch me. "You always will be. And, you know, though it's true you're not as adept as you once were, you're much smarter than when I met you and that for me is what's most important."

I felt I was beginning to tear up and pulled over so I could give Rona a hug.

"And when we get home," she said, clinging to me, "as you suggested, let's start small and test the washer on the front steps."