Anyone who knows me is aware that power tools and I do not get along. At all.
Perhaps it seems from the time my dad handed me a huge power drill with a circle cutter bit on it with instructions to drill holes in dry wall so he could blow insulation into the wall. “What happens if I hit something, inside the wall, like a wire?” was my first question.
“Then, you simply let go. I can replace the wall, I can’t replace you.” Kind words, but seconds later I was about to learn it was a lie.
The first two holes went just fine, upon the third, I hit a stud, the bit seized up, but the torque on the drill was quite strong an unexpected, wrenching my arm in the opposite direction. So, I let go, and now the drill’s free weight on the bit snapped it, as the circle blade caught the dry wall and tore a huge hole in the wall. He wasn’t pleased.
Or, there was the time I went to vacuum up grout after laying tile. When I was done, I discovered I couldn’t hear — the noise of the shop vac had damaged my ears.
Hand held tools aren’t much better.
Hammers hurt when you miss the nail.
And there was the time I went to help climb a ladder and pry off the shutters with a simple screw driver to bring them down for painting and replace them, only to discover a wasp nest behind them, dropping the shutter, which was made of fragile plastic, shattering it.
Even something as simple as attaching stereo speakers can result in a bloody call to 911.
I’ve been instructed by those closest to me that I’m to always ask for assistance, and my job is to either boil water and tear sheets (though I don’t understand how this helps, but it does keep me busy in the other room away from the project) or go order a pizza.
Given the colorful language and injuries that would often happen from the wood-shop in the basement, even as a child, I knew that despite every safety precaution, tools were cursed. I hated assisting for this reason. Supervision didn’t help. Shop classes in high school only increased the danger. And the expanded vocabulary wasn’t one I was allowed to use anyhow.
Apparently there’s some code of honor, that it’s more important the project survive than the repair person. This difference of opinion is where I and those of the trade-craft part ways.
Do-it-yourself home projects are quite possibly the sole reason I chose software development as a career profession and then pay other people to risk life and limb. I won’t even go into what happens if I attempt to change the oil in my own car.
So you think I would have instantly known better than to freely offer assistance when my friend was trying to install a new oven ventilation fixture. However, this looked pretty safe, hold the unit in place while he manually screws it in. What could go wrong? Indeed.
In all fairness, I did explain my history with tools before we started. So, it turns out he was prepared to deal with my “assistance karma.”
The first step was easy: do nothing and watch. Observing that he was putting wire nuts on exposed wires, I asked the obvious question: “Is the power off?”
The answer was no, as that would impact other places in the house, such as the kids watching television. No problem, I’ve seen it done this way before, and I took a healthy step back anyhow. And, of course, for him, there was no shock or sparks.
Now it was my turn. Lift the unit up, and hold it in place. This, of course, required a gingerly touch as the wires were still hanging out of the wall. So as I slid the unit upwards, and he reached in with his hands and pushed the wires back into the hole.
Except that his hand didn’t fit. So he grabbed a metal screw driver and started jabbing at the wirenut, which promptly fell off.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, it came undone,” I exclaimed as I was now holding a large metal box inches from a live wire while grounding myself through the gas stove with my groin.
We lowered it, tried a better wire nut, and I lifted it back into place. We used the unit itself to push the wires back, and now I’m holding a metal housing with heavy fan in place with outstretched arms, and it’s getting heavier by the second as muscle fatigue slowly sets in. Meanwhile, he’s got to go look for a longer screwdriver. In the garage.
I’m still good for holding, but not for long, and as he’s getting the first screw aligned, I start to smell gas. Then I hear a clicking sound. Then I hear a whoosh. I look down and I see that not one, but both burners on my side have kicked on, and my shirt, which is hanging over them, has flames shooting out of it.
“Need to stop, I’m on fire.” I say this calmly, trying to suck in my gut, but can’t let go because his head is under this metal box which is going to electrocute us both if I let it slip.
“Just a moment,” he tells me, “almost go it.”
“No, no, no. I’m on fire. Seriously, I’m on fire!”
He looks over sees what’s happened, and it would have been nice if he turned off the stove and then put me out in that order. But the stove gets turned off, and he holds the unit in place, and I go to extinguish my shirt.
Checking for damage, I see none, and it must have been the gas cloud that had ignited that shot flames out of my chest.
“See, you’re not on fire,” he reassures me, but I’m still checking for scorched cloth. I smell it.
Turns out, in order to catch any fallen screws, he put a towel over the burners. We lift it and discover two large round scorched circles. Had that not been there…
And just as I’m thinking that, he pulls it away so it won’t catch fire, should I unknowingly bump the easy-lite controls again.
He got one side in and switched to the other side where I was holding it. It looked like a vertical men-only game of Twister. This time, however, he brushed against the switch, and flames shot out under me again.
“Fire!”
He quickly turned it off, “wow, it’s easy to do that, huh?”
“Yeah. Screw.”
Anyhow, we get the fixture up and stand back to admire our work.
I’m not kidding, but about 30 seconds after that, we hear a large klunk, and the think falls on one side a few inches, wedging it in at an odd angle. The glue which held the screw support had given way.
He looks at me, “lets go watch a movie.” And we give up for the evening.
Of course, the next day I come over to see how the project is going, and this time he’s got bolts coming down from the top shelves. Brilliant. He’s going to lift it and push it into position, so while he’s doing that I get to push the wires back into the wall and then guide the bolts into the screw holes.
Only, I don’t get that far.
Just as I get my hand back there, “Bzzzzzt!” and I feel a familiar electrical shock — kind of like the time I tried adjusting an old fashioned television antenna but had my bare foot touching a heating vent on the floor. Apparently those are grounded, despite looking like they sit in carpet.
I pull my hand back, “I’m pretty sure a wire nut wasn’t fastened very well.”
“You get shocked?”
“That’s how I figured out it wasn’t fastened so quickly.”
So finally tally, to get it hung, I was set on fire twice and shocked once. This could have very well been one of my smoothest projects ever.
Elizabeth and I go way back, in fact, so far back, that in current day as a teen she has little recollection of events that took place between us, although for me, they seem like they just happened yesterday.
The display you really want to see is “Muppet Bodies,” where they take a bunch of preserved, dead muppets and puppeteers and cut them in half, showing you the insides.