Tool Time

I have so many tools in my workshop and toolboxes that one could mistake me for a handyman. Many I inherited from my father, some I bought from a pawnshop, some were hardware store giveaways, many I bought for a specific project or repair-- sometimes to never be used again. They look impressive and it feels good to know they are there, silently waiting, poised for action, dusted off from time to time. Or simply waiting for that inevitable garage or estate sale once I’ve gone over or neared the top of, the hill. Anyway, I have acquired myriad tools. Too many for any rational person, but I feel Boy-Scout-prepared. For any emergency, though I often do more damage than good.


This morning the wife was doing some last-minute cleaning at the kitchen sink when when she let out a small scream. She had pulled out the faucet extension and the faucet came off in her hand, so that water was suddenly pouring out under the sink. After running to the basement to shut off the water, I surveyed the situation, thinking how quickly my day’s schedule had changed, since almost every project expands to fill the time allotted and because my morning was open, it was a given that I’d be here all morning.


First thing I saw was that someone -- probably me though I don’t recall it -- had put in shut-off valves under the sink. So I could turn on water to the rest of the house and wife and son could finish their morning ablutions and still catch their respective buses. Glad to have them gone, the last thing I needed were suggestions and questions. I needed time and quiet to ponder.


I shined a flashlight into the hole where the faucet had been, but saw nothing. So I crawled under the damp sink, squeezing past the disposal and contorting my body more than it wanted. I had an idea what was wrong but couldn’t figure out how to fix it. I poked around a bit and decided, sadly, I would have to take out the fixture and work on it separately. Uncomplicated but slow and painful work, no doubt going to cost me a sore knuckle or two. But perhaps I would end up with a new tool. That would be a minor consolation. Maybe the fixture was toast, a piece of modern irreparable junk. Maybe I should call my plumber friend. Nah. Not yet.


After I wormed my way back out, I stood at the sink. I shined the light in again, and something glinted ever so slightly in the deep darkness. Hmmm. I went downstairs, past all the fancy tools, and found a pair of long thin needle-nose pliers. More like surgical tongs. I’d bought them when a piece of plastic got stuck in the drain of the new tub, after an unsuccessful effort to clean out a clog. I brought the tongs upstairs but found I had a bit of a dilemma -- I could shine the light in or I could insert the tongs, there wasn’t room for both. So I looked as carefully as I could, memorizing the location of the glinting object. Then, without much real hope, I reached the tongs in, closed them around something, and pulled.


Lo and behold the water hose appeared, and it came out so smoothly and effortlessly that I actually looked as though I knew what I was doing. I screwed it back together, put it in, and turned on the water. Everything worked. Ta da. I felt so professional, not only because I had succeeded, but because I had grabbed the perfect tool. I put things away, and sat at the table, coffee cup in hand, laptop up and waiting for me to scribe some perfect words.


Wife came back because she missed her bus, and saw that at least the sink was working. I sat there basking in the warm satisfaction of pretending to be good at something. And that I had the right tool on hand, as any professional handyman would.