The
patient takes a sudden and definitive turn for the worse. I know the end
is near, and for a few hours, try to convince myself otherwise.
Consulting a local specialist is my last resort. I am not optimistic, as
I carefully pack her into the car and drive the few blocks to the
specialist’s office.
The bad news comes by phone within a few hours. Sure enough, my worst
fears are confirmed, as even the expert admits the situation is beyond
hope. The cost of repairing my color printer would probably run beyond
the cost of replacement. As I meet this somber news with a sigh of
despair, my13-year-old son hovers nearby, eavesdropping on my hushed
conversation. Upon hearing the verdict,
he crows with glee: “Mom, can I take it apart? Can I?” With
that one comment, my despair has turned to delight. Once again, I’ve
been given the rare opportunity to improve my "Cool Mom"
rating by practicing the fine art of "make-believe".
With my son, it’s still not too late to let a child’s game work in
my favor, and he’s willing to invite me to play. A few hours
strategically spent, will rack up the points--if I play it right. When
I return home with the expired printer, Mark anxiously awaits, much like
a vulture circles around fresh meat. Despite my annoyance at the
prospect of having to purchase a new printer I can’t help but laugh.
From the time he was old enough to hold a screwdriver, no electrical
appliance has been safe in our household. Every misbehaving device comes
under scrutiny. It’s his fervent hope that the item in question needs
replacing, at which point he’ll request permission to dissect the
victim. More than once, I’ve suspected foul play, or even appliance
euthanasia.
Make-believe
that I have nothing better to do on Saturday afternoon than drive across
town to fill our car with someone else’s cast-off electronics...one
point per trip.
When appliance casualties are few and far between, my son convinces me
to journey to the thrift shop in a neighboring suburb. Once inside the
door, he’s off and running, in search of inexpensive appliances. Other
kids save their allowance for candy or toys, but Mark has other
purchases in mind. We’ve walked out with first-generation telephone
answering machines, ancient VCRs, and once, a rotary-dial phone. The
checkout clerk accepts the two dollar bills he carefully peels from the
roll in his hand, and reminds him that they are not responsible if the
phone does not work. I assure her that when he is done with it, it
definitely will not work. But the thrift shop can wait for another day:
he’s got a new project.
The immediate task at hand is the "appliance autopsy," as
we’ve come to call it. It is the careful and deliberate dissection of
the now-dead domestic device. Not always, but usually, Mark requests my
presence during the procedure. Sometimes I’m pressed into service;
other times I merely observe in silence. In this case, the victim
suffered an irreparable color ink cartridge failure. This drives the
potentially messy procedure to the back porch, where my son gingerly
lays the corpse upon an unfolded pizza box, rescued from the recycling
bin.
Make-believe
that I don’t notice when he uses my belongings without permission …
one point per item.
A large square shoebox sits nearby, and Mark solemnly gives me the tour
of its contents. Inside his "tool tray," resting on a bed of
carefully folded red tissue paper, lays an assortment of screwdrivers in
varying sizes and styles, a miniature magnifying glass, a small glovebox
flashlight, several squares of paper towel, his father’s favorite,
perfectly worn-in gardening gloves, and my very best eybrow plucking
tweezers. Slowly, deliberately, he dons the gloves. One by one, the
screws are removed. Mark delights in the magnetic-head screwdriver,
which allows him to carefully extract each screw from inside the
chassis. Every screw, every small piece of molded plastic, every worn
gear, is painstakingly deposited into an old laundry detergent box. The
autopsy receptacle this time must be large enough to also hold the
various plastic and metal parts of the assembly.
Make-believe that I didn’t hear him use a word I would rather not hear
him use …one point per word.
A tough screw causes him to clench his teeth. He’s so enamored with
this task, but grimaces at the sheer effort required by this one tiny,
insignificant object. "Tough little bugger," he says, and I
wonder where he learned that particularly distasteful phrase. The pizza
box is turned to provide a better vantage point, and I’m asked to hold
the flashlight over the operating theater. He muses aloud that perhaps
we could find "one of those round turntable things from the Chinese
restaurant." I tell him they are probably not available for
purchase by anyone but restaurant staff, and make a mental note to buy
him one for his birthday. I’ll rack up quite a few points with that
one.
Make-believe that those annoying noises are not annoying me...one point
per annoying noise.
As I hold the flashlight, he calls out for tools, mimicking the
doctor-nurse repartee he has seen on many an episode of M*A*S*H. I
dutifully stand there on the porch, assisting as the sun sets, and he is
eventually reduced to operating by the porch light. Each piece is slowly
and meticulously removed. Sometimes the item in question is re-attached,
detached and re-attached, as he marvels at how it fits together. A
spring-loaded plastic arm catches his attention: Sproing. "Look,
Mom, isn’t this so cool?" Sproing. "Listen to the sound it
makes." Sproing. Soon he is simultaneously flicking it and making
the sound himself: "Sproing." The ink cartridges are
extracted as gingerly as organs destined for transplant to a waiting
patient. Each is carefully sealed inside a small zipper-closure sandwich
bag. First the black and white cartridge; then the color one. The bags
are then deposited in the same detergent box as the other removed
organs. But before the final disposal, he is momentarily distracted by
the spring-loaded cover which held each cartridge in place. Click-clack.
It must be sprung, then re-loaded. Click-clack. Not once, not twice, but
three times. Click-clack. "Look, Mom, isn't this the absolute
best part?"
Make-believe
that those annoying "behaviors" are not annoying me…one
point per annoying behavior; double points if the annoying behavior is
accompanied by an annoying noise.
The detergent box is in danger of overflowing, as we get down to the
inner cavity. I think he's about done, but then a new spring-loaded
device is revealed. Thwack. I watch him fashion a spitwad from a small
corner of a nearby sheet of paper towel. Thwack. He summons his older
sister from inside the house, yelling: "Hey Alison, come
here!" Thwack. Mark loads the catapult arm as she approaches.
Thwack. Shriek.
Make believe that I don’t care about the impending
mess-potential…three points.
Next discovery: a worn white felt pad, now ink-stained with large
blue-black blotches. "Whoa, this smells gross." He wrinkles
his nose in disgust, but then immediately rivets his attention back to
the ink puddle. The garden gloves prove too cumbersome, and I
begrudgingly allow their removal, knowing that his fingers will be
ink-stained for weeks to come. Again, the paper towel is pressed into
service. This time, a small piece is wadded up, and he grips it with
tweezers to poke at the blotch. The still-wet ink forces him to blot
again with yet another paper towel wad. And another. And another. The
felt pad goes into a large plastic grocery bag, before its ceremonious
dispatch to the detergent box by a pair of ink-tattooed hands. A
small pile of inky paper towel wads sits on the ground, ignored.
Suddenly I’m sitting on the back porch with Sherlock Holmes, who has
acquired an extremely thick and overly theatrical English accent.
Make- believe that it’s a convincing accent ... one point; double
points if I reply using the same dialect.
"Why, I say, old chap, I do believe I've uncovered something. This
certainly demands investigation." Actually, there's not much left
to investigate at this point. He's down to the inner core of the
machine, with only a few stubborn screws in the way of completing the
job. A spring jumps loose, perfectly coiled. He grasps it between thumb
and forefinger, compressing, expanding, compressing again. "Well,
Watson, old chap, I do believe that I can find a use for this fine
specimen." In reality, I'm sure it's destined for the box of stray
springs already stowed in his desk, next to the pencil box full of dead
batteries, and the purple drawstring bag containing his cherished
collection of old keys. I reply in an equally exaggerated accent:
"Why I say, old chap, I do believe you’re right."
Make-believe that we have infinite room to save all patients and their
autopsy discards … two points.
One more turn of the pizza box operating table. The lone remaining screw
is discovered and removed. The last metal piece is wiggled free. Pliers
come out to remove a plastic tie holding the final cable in place. Soon,
all traces of my old color printer have disappeared. In its place there
is nothing but an empty, ink-stained pizza box and a detergent carton
full of parts, which will soon find its way to the appliance graveyard
in my son’s closet. I’m glad, because the rotary phone and the
answering machine could use some company--and I need the points.
