An exercise from Old Friend From Far Away by Natalie Goldberg.
What have you tried to repair? Ten minutes. Go.
For the first time, I tried to fix the vacuum cleaner. I have bad luck with these. I buy them at Walmart (yeah, I know) for $40-$80, the bagless ones with nice plastic locking canisters and hepa filters, blue or green, Daredevil or Bissell. I used to use them for six months to a year until they made strange noises, lost suction and failed to pick up lint and crumbs and paperclips, ceased to scare me when the end of the hose came in contact with a plastic bag, a rug, my pant leg. When this happened (when nothing happened) I’d stare at them, kick them a couple of times, then haul them back to Walmart (no receipt necessary) for a free replacement. Most times, I’d walk out with the exact same vacuum cleaner, and when it died in five months this time, I’d try a different one, and keep moving through variants, until I had gone through five vacuum cleaners in four years.
I used to put them together myself–take out all the parts, find a screwdriver (one of the only tools I kept on hand) and snap and twist everything together until it was a workable machine, a hungry electric beast. Not that this part was difficult–I’m an instructions kind of gal (that is until I’ve put together so many vacuum cleaners that it becomes basic instinct, or reflex). But it never occurred to me to take one apart, to mess with the bits that came pre-assembled, to attempt anything that wasn’t on paper.
When I moved out of my last apartment, my dad shook the vacuum cleaner, attacked the hose with a fork, pulled out clumps of dirt and lint held together with long strands of hay. And it made sense. Ahh, of course–the stuff my chinchillas eat, criss-crossing inside the hose. It’s as if hay is perfect for nesting. Or something.
On our way out of town I took the vacuum back to Walmart despite its renovated state, hoping to claim problems regardless so that I could get the dollar amount on a gift card as usual and buy a new machine when I moved to Pittsburgh, instead of shipping this one. But alas, return policies are subject to change–exchanges within three months with a receipt. So with no other option, and no chance for a refund, I left a perfectly good vacuum cleaner sitting at Walmart as we drove out of dusty Idaho.
Now I’m on the floor, six months later, facing the same problem, even though I won’t vacuum chinchilla hay anymore. I have a nice remodeled apartment, and the carpet is new, and the fork pulls clump after clump of brand-new-carpet fuzz from the hose–this was unavoidable, I realize, and not my fault. My chinchillas are bouncing around the room while all the parts lie on the floor around me–the hose, the belt, the plastic bottom (wheels still attached)–so I can reach the last bit of hose underneath. Luna hops over, grabs one of the metal screws with her teeth, and scurries down the hallway. I spook her until she drops the screw, piece the parts back together, then resurrect the monster.
I won’t lie–today’s a good day. I’m happily repair-savvy and chasing chinchillas with a vacuum cleaner, hoping I won’t clog it again.
