About four weeks ago I had an unpleasant encounter with my toilet. Worse, I had the temerity to write about it. But before you run off to look for a get well card, you should know it wasn't biological in nature. Yes, I am indeed fortunate not to suffer from IBS, diarrhea, hemorrhoids or constipation.
This encounter was strictly limited to plumbing of the man-made variety.
You see, driven mad by a plastic hexagonal nut that had fused to the threaded stem of the fill valve and my subsequent inability to remove it, I began to attack the problem from the inside. Namely, this consisted of smashing the fill valve with a hammer.
Alas, one of my swings was errant and shattered the water tank. Regrettably, it was only then that I entertained the idea of grabbing the fill valve with my bare hand and bending it towards the bottom of the tank until it broke.
Fortunately, the valve snapped before I did. (Although in plumbing circles, this remains a matter of conjecture.)
In the aftermath, I commenced to look for a new toilet. It was then that I was struck by a most-welcome realization: I had a two-piece toilet! I needed only to replace the water tank and could certainly install that myself. Couldn't I?
(Longtime readers will be excused for turning away at this point.)
Yes, unburdened by my short-tempered excursion into home repair I recovered the toilet's model name and serial number and before long had located the tank I needed to put this problem behind me.
I needed only to order it.
Of course, it wasn't that simple. Oh, the agent I spoke with was a delight and we had a very animated chat about how I came to be searching for toilet bits on the Internet. But in the larger sense, it couldn't (and wouldn't) be a simple matter of ordering, receiving and installing.
Is it ever?
The first replacement was surreptitiously left in front of my garage by FedEx. No knock, no doorbell and no wonder. The second I picked it up I realized it was in pieces. The good folk who manned the manufacturer's call center immediately arranged for another replacement.
I waited, fearing to even imagine a positive outcome. Which was a good thing because replacement number-two also arrived in pieces. This was also dropped-off silently by my FedEx man (or woman).
Full of the kind of trepidation only the truly-innocent can harbor, I called the manufacturer again, fearful I'd be accused of fraud. For a third time I was met with an agent who listened to my story and after a brief response, put me on hold.
When she returned, she had a solution. Instead of allowing the tank to be sourced from their default location in Texas, this tank would be sourced from a location much nearer. Despite my best efforts, I felt relief. This sounded like a very promising alternative.
In a world where we take so much for granted, the radiant joy that washed over me after I opened the box and found replacement number-three in a single piece was a minor miracle. Of note is that FedEx had boldly left it on my porch.
I unboxed it and cradled it in my arms. An over-reaction? Probably. But with a home repair project gone so spectacularly wrong, even the tiniest success assumes the weight of giants.
Eager to restore the functionality of my second bathroom, I scanned the unit. The small plastic bag of parts that accompanied it and my array of tools. Then I looked at the installation instructions.
Like most, they were exceedingly optimistic, reducing the installation to two steps. I smiled knowingly. Hell, I'd be lucky if I got through this with just two trips to my local home improvement store.
I set about removing the old tank, which went surprisingly well. I cleaned the mount where the new tank would sit and examined the new tank's fittings. While slightly different than the previous model, they didn't present a problem.
All was going swimmingly until it came time to attach the supply line to the tank—per the instructions. Left with a heavily oxidized solid unit, I fell prey to ambition and decided I would upgrade it with a braided flex line.
(To those of you not flushed with the kind of satisfaction one receives at having successfully mounted a brand-new water tank atop a toilet—go ahead—laugh.)
In keeping with the tenor of this project, the trip to my local home improvement store was made unduly difficult by the fact that within the 4.3 miles of travel it takes to arrive at my local home improvement store rest seven (yes seven) traffic signals (often referred to as “red lights” by hard-bitten, seasoned drivers such as myself who fail to appreciate their purpose).
I would be remiss if I failed to mention the remnants of rush hour traffic, a surface rail crossing and the fact that, yes, all seven of these lights turned red upon my arrival, stretching a trip that by rights should have taken no more than seven minutes into eye-clawing agony that persisted for nineteen.
(If you're counting, that is exactly half the average speed at which normal urban traffic travels—and I live in what I fondly refer to as the middle of nowhere.)
With my ambition intact, I sought out the plumbing section and promptly selected two seven-inch supply lines (why not replace both?) and a 13 millimeter crescent wrench. Even with the knowledge of what awaited me on the area's roads, I practically danced to my car, certain this project had reached the home stretch.
Oh that my financial reserves were as boundless as my naivete.
Problem number-one was that I had followed the instructions, and had secured the tank before installing the supply line. When the seven-inch flex line didn't possess the requisite flexibility, I resorted to the one-piece.
But with the tank fully screwed on, the clearance was left wanting.
So I undid the three screws, lifted the water tank and installed the original supply line. I cursed the instructions for inverting this sequence. For a second time I attached the water tank.
Sigh.
I turned on the water. This was the moment of truth.
The tank filled and the toilet flushed without resembling certain scenes from Titanic, but the clumsy and ill-fitting monkey wrench I had at my disposal did not allow for the proper tightening of the toilet's water line to the home's water line.
I turned off the water, ignoring that which had already leaked, gathered the now-useless flex lines and set out yet-again for my local home improvement store. I was momentarily heartened by a green light, but sank when I realized I could have made a right-turn on red, anyway.
Yes, that was how this morning was going. Even my illusions of good fortune were frauds.
I re-entered the store where my money was cheerfully and expeditiously refunded.Then I realized I had left home without my wallet. Yes, I was in a truly special place.
So it was fortunate that the refunded cash was sufficient to cover the purchase of a 16 millimeter crescent wrench. I was again made fortunate when I realized that since this item contained so little alcohol, it was unlikely an ID would be required for purchase.
Back in the car I valiantly fought-off traffic, determined to keep my eyes on the prize. This toilet would be made functional or by God...I will, um, er... Hmmm. It appeared I was fresh out of vengeful oaths for the day.
Once home, I deftly applied the wrench to the connecting nut on the supply line and watched with resonant satisfaction as its arms perfectly enfolded the nut's six sides and tightened it with a wordless certainty.
It was a moment of deep synchronicity. And of having the right tools.
Amen.
No comments:
Post a Comment