Writers get asked the question, “Where do you get your ideas?” For me, story ideas often (but not always - some of those stories are simply the product of a disturbed mind) come from my everyday life. Take my recent experience buying a lawnmower. The old one had this long yellow cord that I had to toss over my head every time I turned to mow in the opposite direction. So when it died I bought a cordless, environmentally-friendly, Black & Decker rechargeable electric mower that folds up neatly like a card table chair, an attractive feature since my garage is stuffed with five kayaks and a canoe.
Smug with the purchase, I plugged my new lawnmower into the garage wall socket, and left it to recharge. When I returned, I noticed the battery recharger box had two little lights - one red - one green. Neither lit up. Surely those little lights were supposed to light up. Oh well, I thought, and cut my front lawn anyway. It was glorious, not having to throw a cord over my head at every turn. My euphoria was short-lived. The motor died, leaving my lawn partially cut. This is suburbia - one doesn’t leave one’s lawn half-cut.
I plugged in the lawnmower again, but still no lights on the battery recharger. I rummaged through the discarded box for instructional booklet. Across the top, in big bold block letters: IF YOU ARE EXPERIENCING DIFFICULTIES DO NOT RETURN THIS ITEM TO THE STORE WHERE YOU BOUGHT IT. CALL THE BLACK & DECKER SUPPORT LINE TO SPEAK TO A REPRESENTATIVE WHO WILL RESOLVE YOUR PROBLEM.
Well, that was hopeful. I could talk to a real live person about my problems. I called the 1-800 number, and navigated through the voice menu, pressed the appropriate number, and then listened to canned music, interrupted at regular intervals with a cheerful recorded voice telling me that all the representatives were busy, but that my problems were important to them, please hold on. Now the real dilemma with these kinds of service hotlines is that they’re like those slot machines at the casino, If I stop now, then maybe the guy behind me will put in a quarter and win the jackpot that was rightfully mine. If I hang up the phone now, maybe the next available representative is just about to take my call, and I’ve given up my place in sequence. Fifty-two minutes later, I decided all those representatives were out of the office at a Black & Decker ball game, and I finally hung up.
First thing the next morning I tried again, but this time, figuring I had at least an hour wait, I decided to use my time wisely. Surely, I had time to get dressed for the day. I put the phone down on the dresser. Thirty seconds later, butt-naked in my bedroom, I heard a male voice. It was the Black & Decker representative. How could he help me? Now there was a loaded question. I had this giddy urge to confess to the man at the other end that I was naked, but the call was being monitored, so instead I explained the problem to the Black & Decker guy using my best techie language. “The little red and green lights won’t turn on.”
I tilted my head to one side and hunched my shoulder to hold the receiver in place. Hands-free, I bent over in an attempt to pull on underwear, lifting one leg. The phone fell to the floor, along with the panties. “What’s the model number?” the Black & Decker representative was saying when I recovered the phone.
“On what page do I find that?”
“It’s not in the booklet,” he answered. “It’s on the lawnmower.”
“But the lawnmower’s in the garage, and I’m... “
There was silence on the other end, but I heard what the Black & Decker guy was thinking loud and clear - Well then lady, then go into the garage.
I made my way through the house and into the garage. There, I stepped over the long sea kayak and around the stubby whitewater kayak, and to the folded-up lawnmower. I felt exposed, vulnerable. It’s one thing to be naked in your bedroom, and quite another thing to be naked in your garage. “I don’t see any model number,” I said.
“It’s on the hood, a silver plate with numbers on it.”
“Where’s the hood?” I asked.
“It’s a the back end of the mower close to the ground.”
There was nothing else to be done. I got down on my hands and knees, doggie-style, looking for the silver plate.
“There’s only a black plate,” I said, “with numbers on it, also in black.”
“It’s a silver plate,” the Black and Decker guy insisted, an edge to his voice.
What was the edge in his voice about anyway? I was the one naked on my hands and knees in a garage, nose to the back end of a lawnmower, my rear end up in the air. How was I supposed to read black on black? My reading glasses were in my writing room. I gave him a series of numbers to the best of my ability. “That makes no sense,” he said. “You got those numbers off the silver plate?”
“It’s a black plate” I said, now an edge to my voice.
And if you hadn’t sold me this defective piece of lawnmower shit in the first place, it wouldn’t matter if the plate were black or silver, and I wouldn’t be in this asinine position. Literally.
“Take the lawnmower back to the store that sold it to you,” the Black & Decker representative said. “They’ll replace it.”
Do these guys read their own manuals?
I got up off my hands and knees, hung up the phone, and recycled the booklet, with its 1-800 number and bolded, block letter instructions to call the Black & Decker service hotline to resolve my problems. Then I got dressed, and returned the lawnmower to the store where I bought it. The newest incarnation works perfectly, with little lights that brightly shine red or green according to whether the motor is charged. My lawn is uniformly cut, my neighbours are happy, and I no longer get tangled up in a cord when mowing the lawn. Sitting here at my computer, writing this blog posting, I am not naked but then, how would you know? I have an idea brewing for a story.
Butt-Naked with the Black and Decker Guy