Simply Be of Service

Testosterone: A male sex hormone.

Shorty came over the other day. I have a snow-blower and a long driveway down a steep hill right between two unforgiving stone walls, and there's 2 feet of snow on the ground right now. The snow-blower is not presently operating in any fashion whatsoever. It sits in silent protest, mute, keeping its mystical secrets hidden.

I bought it last year and used it exactly twice, and assumed incorrectly that it would start the 3rd time out. I didn't fire it up before it snowed. That's thinking ahead which I avoid at all costs, unless I'm imagining something terrible. I consider that productive foresight. This is not a common opinion in the normal world.

Having known me for a while and being aware of my massively overwhelming mechanical abilities, Shorty shows up with some tools.

"Do you even own a screwdriver?" he asked, a little snarkily.
"I have a screwdriver," I retorted. "I think so, anyway. If I do it would be in a kitchen cabinet with my other tool, a hammer of some sort."
"Is it a Phillips or a Flathead?" he asked. "We need a Phillips."
"Is it a what now?" I replied.

Our very male plan of attack consisted of pulling the rip cord that starts the machine with varying degrees of ferocity. We tried pulling it fast and pulling it slow; we used rapid, short strokes followed by long, steady pulls. We pulled from the side, low down, way over the top. We looked away, pretending to ignore it, then seized it suddenly in a surprise sneak attack.

"Does it have gas?" Shorty asked, panting. Checking the gas gives people the impression that they're doing something.
"Yes," I gasped.

We checked anyway, then repeated the exercise with the oil receptacle, which we located with some difficulty, before engaging in another bout of energetic cord pulling.

We decided to make sure that the spark plug was connected properly, verified the gas and oil levels again just in case, and re-checked the spark plug that we had disconnected and inspected 30 seconds ago.

We had nothing.

Shorty attacked the rip cord again, viciously.

"Did that sound different? Did it almost catch there?" he wheezed.
"I think so," I lied. "I think it did."

I gave up at that point and started to shovel surreptitiously. I had to clear the driveway and I could tell at that the snow-blower wasn't going to be part of the equation. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Shorty pull the cord out as far as it would go, stand there for a minute like the Statue of Liberty, before letting it wing back into place. Then he started lifting the entire machine about 6 inches off the ground and letting it crash into place. Finally, he grabbed the rip cord for one, last Herculean series of pulls. Insanity is, after all, doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. He gathered himself, gave a mighty jerk skyward. There was a small explosion showering us with bits of glass and metal.

I have these . . . had these motion control search lights installed just above my garage door entrance.

He picked up a shovel and started to help me clear the driveway. There was a lot of glass and metal buried in the snow right in front of the garage. I can't imagine that's going to be good for car tires.

Later I called and thanked him for trying to help out. I mentioned that, if he was available, I was having some trouble with the motion control lights on my garage. He hasn't called back yet.