The most unsettling words in the English language are 'Installs in minutes'. Or 'No assembly required'. Things like 'Republican majority', 'Looming toilet paper shortage' and 'Road Construction Ahead—Expect Delays' pale in comparison.
In this careless creation of overly-optimistic expectations, they also create a craving for Maalox and various kinds of sedatives when those expectations go unfulfilled. (Am I alone in wondering about a connection between do-it-yourself home repair and Big Pharma?)
Take my toilet. A few weeks ago it was belching. This unseemly indiscretion morphed into a kind of high-pitched stream of constant re-filling. Whereas the burping had me well and truly flummoxed, I recognized the run-on from previous experiences.
I even allowed myself to believe the solution would be a simple one. But as investment counselors so often caution: past performance is not indicative of future results. Translated, this meant that just because I had successfully relieved two previous toilets of this condition didn't mean I was going to relieve a third.
That would be too easy.
Before we go any further, I want to point out that I'm not any kind of home repair wizard. But on the other hand, I'm not a total incompetent, either. I can fix stuff.
I successfully re-wired a phone jack. Replaced a basement light fixture. Ditto the cabin air filter in my car. And attached a new plug on my wife's vacuum. And you should know that in only one of these instances did I wind up with surplus pieces.
Let's be clear: I have yet to change a light bulb and end up with extra parts, okay?
So it was with a healthy degree of confidence that I approached this project. I first removed the cumbersome over-toilet cabinet the previous residents had installed and then removed the cover on the reservoir.
There lay the culprit. A flapper that looked as if it had spent a lifetime soaking in brine was at the bottom of the tank, covering the drain like a disheveled stripper's bra. What's more, an enormous float sat atop the water, making access to the flapper difficult.
With the kind of incisive realization that typifies my work, I decided to upgrade the toilet with a new fill valve and eliminate the cumbersome bladder altogether.
I happily made the trip to a local hardware store and purchased a combination flapper and fill valve kit, blissfully unaware of the agony that lay ahead.
On returning home I promptly shut-off the water and drained the toilet. I fearlessly removed the briny flapper, the bladder and the water line. Then I turned my attention to the hexagonal nut that connected the water line and the fill valve to the water tank.
Like so many of the nuts life has asked me to remove, it was in a highly inconvenient place. Located on the underside of the tank near a wall and made still more-difficult by the bottom half of the cabinet which straddled the toilet like an irksome giraffe.
Snaking my arms around its legs while kneeling on the floor and attempting to grip the nut with the pliers in one hand while my remaining hand attempted to hold the fill valve still and provide resistance was, to put it mildly, awkward.
You see, the nuts on the previous fill valves hadn't fused to the threaded stem like Donald Trump and his tax returns, and henceforth were fairly easy to remove. But none of that mattered now.
3-in-1 oil, Liquid Wrench, warm water and grip cloths all failed. The plastic nut would not be moved. I searched in vain for a PVC saw. I consulted my homeowner's policy to see if it allowed for the use of a military-grade flame thrower and was likewise disappointed.
My irritation had risen to the point where listening to a panel of Ted Cruz, Josh Hawley and Jim Jordan speculate on governance would have been preferable. I was pissed. Sore. And out of patience.
I recalled Naval experiments that utilized a sonar blaster capable of emitting soundwaves of 200 decibels and wondered whether those could shake the assembly sufficiently for the nut to be removed, but it was Saturday night and the Navy was closed.
Sigh.
Given my musical bent, perhaps it wasn't so surprising that I seized upon percussive maintenance. Yes. That would do it. When all else fails, the time-tested solution to just about every repair gone awry is to beat the shit out of it with a hammer.
Yes. That is what I would do.
While bereft of a PVC saw, a hammer I possessed. I eyed its gleaming stainless steel head and menacing claw. I held it at eye level. “Prepare to die!” I hissed.
I passed the bathroom mirror and was a bit shaken to realize I now resembled James Brolin near the end of The Amityville Horror, where he's finished sharpening his ax and turns to wreak domestic horror inside the piece of real estate alluded to in the title.
“A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do” I snarled to no one in particular.
Standing over the suddenly-diminshed toilet, I steeled myself. “Here's Johnny!” I said and I swung. Tiny slivers of plastic ricocheted around the tank. I swung again. More slivers. More ricochets. This was fun.
I swung again and the top of the fill valve snapped off. I felt omnipotent. Were there more balky fill valves I was unaware of?
Any baseball player can tell you it doesn't get much better than going three-for-three. And that to expect more is unrealistic. So it is unfortunate that there were no baseball players in my home that evening.
Swing number-four was slightly off the mark and the hammer connected with the left-hand wall of the ceramic reservoir.
Even when awoken from a sound slumber steel will smash ceramic materials. Even while inebriated. Or under the weather. Or a touch rusty. It doesn't matter.
Steel > ceramic.
Suffused with something darker and more malevolent than sweetness and light, I growled and grabbed the valve and bent it towards the bottom of the tank.
SNAP!
Even with a fresh wound to my palm, I was made glad that the offending valve had finally been vanquished.
Blame it on COVID. Blame it on the extended isolation of sheltering in place. Blame it on the anxiety of watching America unravel. But I had freaked. Lost it. Gone postal. Over a two-cent plastic hexagonal nut, no doubt manufactured in China.
The good news is that surgeons will be able to re-attach my nose with no visible scarring. And the new toilet arrives Tuesday.
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