I do not, in my moments of experiencing life, think, "I will blog about this later," which means that by the time I think "This would be cool to document photographically," "this" is a thing past. So I am sorry, but this post is not accompanied by pictures. I am not
her or
her.
(The latter is my second cousin, whom I haven't actually seen since I was like I don't know seven. Gotta love internets.)
I have been without a washer/dryer in-house since my last year of college (and that was a one-year island in a six-year stretch of laundry rooms and lavadarÃas). I have been fortunate, though, in having friends who have this equipment, and who don't point out that my detergent contribution does not balance out my use of their facilities. Recently, those friends all moved away.
This got me seriously considering taking advantage of those washer/dryer hookups in my apartment. Obstacle: I am poor, and twenty-five years of mommies, paid services and generous friends have left me with a firm belief that the ability to wash one's clothes is not the sort of thing that should cost six hundred dollars.
Solution: Steal the washer some friends left in the basement of their rental. This was a process that involved using a co-worker (Mark) for his truck and said co-worker's cousin for his dolly. Many curses and a near-decapitation later, the machine had been moved from a basement on the west side of town to a second floor on the east. There was still no dryer (the available one was gas, and our hookup purely electric), but that is only the second-most important part of the set.
Problem: We broke the washer. We did a lot of hauling it on its side, and we banged it around a lot, including a good six-inch drop while going down some steps. Your phone,
unless it is an iPhone, is made to survive a six-inch fall. Washers are not. (Consider that force is a function of mass.) Somewhere in there we broke a stabilizer, which is the part of the washer that distinguishes it from an earthquake simulator.
Running the washer with a broken stabilizer loosed the drain hose or something, because after two loads there was suddenly water coming out from underneath during the spin cycle. Annoying in your concrete basement; unacceptable on carpet and tile in your second-floor apartment which is owned by a water-paranoid landlord.
Now, occasionally I get all caught up in gender roles and decide I am going to fix something. Usually this does not go well. I pried the back off the washer
, adhering to the "screw it, I'll just rip this off and worry about it later" school of thought. Not finding anything visibly amiss, I decided to run it open to see if I could spot the leak.
I sure as heck did something wrong, because now all water input poured directly out onto the floor, and I have no idea why. Also, I could not get it back together without liberal use of duct tape. Also, don't plug your washer in with wet hands, because it will shock you and you will cry, and that will not help you feel like a manly Mr. Fixit.
New solution: Snag a 20-year-old washer (and a nice dryer) from my co-worker's co-worker (it's sort of like a second cousin), who is getting a new one. I spent my Saturday moving various boxes and washer-dryers for various people to make this score, making me feel like
Link trading his way to the magnifying lens in order to open the Wind Fish's Egg.
A couple replaced hoses and a minor repair involving a twisty-tie later, all is set. Except what to do with the first washer?
Mark suggested we put it in the alley and see what happens, assuring me someone would claim it. I was dubious as to whether this would happen, but agreed with him on the point of "we can always claim no knowledge of this and hope nobody saw us leave it." So in the alley I abandoned my first washer, awaiting a my fine for illegal dumping.
It was gone within hours.
Hours. Hauled away, presumedly, for scrap.
But isn't that impressive? A box filled with
washers of the other variety, sure, easy pickings. But what took us a week of planning, two people, a dolly and a truck, someone else seems to have accomplished as an afterthought on their way home.
There is an ecosystem here in Richmond--I've known that since I noted that my recyclables were always collected long before garbage day. Lurking out there in the alleys, unseen in the daylight, are the scrappers. The scavenger class. The
Jawas of the Whitewater Valley. Like piranhas on a cow, they make off with what would seem to be challenging targets.
I have a tickling desire to start a series of experiments to see what they'll take. I'm thinking a box labeled "used hypodermic needles and scrap metal."
