The Vacuums
Copyright 2005 by Suzy Wurtz
A vacuum cleaner is an item that I don’t
think about much because I don’t see it very often. I don’t see it very often
because my housecleaning schedule could kindly be termed “sporadic.” All of our
vacuum cleaners were older than our teenage daughter. Some were purchased, some
were inherited. Each had its own merits in terms of size, flexibility, and
power. But none did a really good job, so I started thinking about getting a
new one. I wondered if we could walk in to a store with five or six old vacuums
in hand and trade them for one machine that that worked well.
I can’t even remember the last time I saw a place that sold
and repaired vacuums. Did these stores still exist? Are they still run by a
kindly gray haired gent with spectacles whose clothes are splotched with machine
oil? And whose wife is in the back baking cookies or repairing sewing
machines? Do thoughts of other household machine purchases cause hallucinations
like this?
We did what many people do with household decisions: we
procrastinated. After a few more unsatisfactory cleaning sessions with a smoking
vacuum, we realized we could procrastinate no more. One day my husband came home
with a shop vac, an industrial vacuum machine not often seen in living rooms.
He was fiddling with this one in our living room, however.
“Interesting,” I commented. “Is it for the garage?”
“No,” he said with enthusiasm, “This is for the house. It’s
lightweight, powerful, and has all kinds of attachments. Look!” He continued
unpacking many hoses and gizmos with great gusto.
I wasn’t convinced. This big machine with an orange and gray
canister reminded me of the Star Wars character, R2D2, only without the lights
and the annoying voice. Maybe if we were lucky, our orange machine would be as
smart as R2D2.
“And you can use it wet or dry,” continued my husband, with
salesman zeal.
“Very nice, dear,” I agreed unconvincingly, wondering where
in the heck we were going to store this colossus. He later stuffed it into the
closet where we keep normally keep the current vacuum. The older machine was
relegated to the coat closet.
Always a good sport, I gave Orange R2D2 a try the following
week. The gazillion hoses and attachments fit perfectly on the machine. At
least they fit perfectly according to the photo on the box. Apparently it was a
marketing ruse that could only be accomplished with trick photography because I
had Orange R2D2 “stuff” falling all over the floor and all over me. In
frustration, I chose a large hose without any attachment. Wow! My husband was
right about the power! The thing picked up picked up dust and dirt like
nobody’s business. Unfortunately, it also picked up things that weren’t any of
ITS business. Pens, loose floor molding, and cat toys disappeared into the
hulking hose. It tried desperately to eat up a pair of flip-flop sandals. As I
twisted around in horror to turn it off, it also sucked up a curtain. The final
insult came as I lugged Orange R2D2 up to the second floor, dragging the black
tentacles of hoses behind me, with the occasional “clunk” of an attachment
tumbling back down the steps.
This baby had power all right; the power to drive me crazy.
After a few months of listening to my complaints about the massive machine, my
husband came home with a featherweight carpet sweeper, the shiny, skinny C3P0
companion for my short orange hulk. It was lovely to look at and easy to move
around, but it didn’t have much power. So, as Orange R2D2 and C3PO Sweeper look
on, I use one of the old vacuums.
Some people collect coins; we’re building our collection of
vacuums. We’ll let you know when we have enough to open the museum.
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