A Column by John Estridge
Before I get into how this morning – what is a PG word for sucked, let me give you some background: I am an idiot.
No, really. I am an idiot. Like Sheldon on Big Bang Theory often says, “I’ve been tested.” And I have been tested. I am an idiot.
Back in the day I was a precision machinist for Perfect Circle of Dana Corporation in Richmond. Remember that: I was a precision machinist. At one time, Perfect Circle had three factories in Richmond: Camshaft, the Foundry and the Ring Plant. I was in the latter. We made piston rings for everybody American: Chevy, Ford, Chrysler, Briggs and Stratton, Cummins, Detroit Diesel and Caterpillar.
The 80s were moving on, and I could read the writing on the wall, because the figurative letters were pretty large and pretty bold: manufacturing jobs were leaving the U.S. faster than Dodger fans leave after the seventh inning of home games.
We, my UAW local, had an election for a time-study steward. We, at the Ring Plant, worked on a production scale. If one produced so many rings in an eight-hour period, one got paid X amount, a base pay. But if one produced more, one got more money. Thus, the company had a time-study person come out with a stopwatch and a clipboard, and we all hated him.
So, the union said we want a time-study steward so we can argue when you increase the amount of rings needed to make base pay.
Usually, with UAW elections for officers and stewards, only people with seniority won because anyone who was a steward or a UAW official had super seniority, which is a real thing. It is not like super secret probation or something like that. It meant even though I had less than 10 years in the union, people with 25 years or more would go out the door before me come a layoff. Thus, anyone with any sense did not vote for a young person for any of those offices.
But time-study steward was going to be different: We were going to take a test and only those who passed the test were able to run for the office. After winning the election, the UAW was going to send the time-study steward to classes to learn the ins and outs of that task. As it turned out, nobody with a lot of seniority wanted the hassle of test taking and then learning the ins and outs of time study.
So, we young married males with children who did not want to get laid off, were given two tests: IQ and mechanical aptitude.
I do have a big excuse concerning the tests. I was working third shift: 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. The tests were at 11 a.m. So, that is like 11 p.m. for regular people working regular shifts, and I had to do something in Richmond for four hours waiting for the stupid tests.
As anyone would do, I had breakfast and a few beers.
So, I took the tests with the IQ coming first. It was probably about 1 p.m. by the time we got to the mechanical aptitude, and the beers were really making me drowsy. That has always been my story, I have always stuck to it, and I am still sticking to it.
The person proctoring the test was a professor from Earlham, and he looked about as interested and out of place as an atheist at a revival.
A few weeks went by, and I got a notice at my workstation to report to the Union Room at 7 a.m.
I know this will come as a shock to everyone, but at that time – I am much better now — I had a problem with authority be it my foreman or my union president. And this will also be shocking, in the not too distant past to that moment, I had words with both my foreman and my union president.
The union president at the time was an alcoholic who stayed drunk most of the day, did nothing and got paid really well to not do it. Thus, I did not like him at all, and I did not hide that fact.
So, I walked into a hostile environment, wanting to go out and get some breakfast instead of having to talk to the union president and whatever hangers on – brown nosers — were hanging around the union office.
The Earlham professor was there, the union president was standing behind the professor, and the union president could not hide his glee. He probably would not have hidden his glee if he had been able to.
The Earlham professor said he had never done this, but he wanted to come in person to give me my results. He said he wanted to meet me personally. The union president’s smile must have hurt his face because it was so broad.
I did not say a word. And it took everything I had just to stay there in the room.
Well, the professor started with the good news. I got into the genius category with the IQ test. My score was the highest he had ever seen during his test-proctoring time. Ringing that bell and $10 might get one a cup of coffee, but with our current inflation, probably not. But – the bad news — my mechanical aptitude was the lowest score he had ever seen since he had been giving tests. In great detail, the professor described how idiots, imbeciles and morons scored higher than the score I had.
Remember, I was a precision machinist.
And God love my 20-something-year-old self, my only question was if idiot, imbecile and moron were real categories. I thought they were just demeaning and improper words.
That caused my union president to cackle. I ignored him. The professor said yes, they were real terms. And then he said I should really think about getting into another profession. Oh, how the union president laughed. My only respite in this was the union president was a three-pack-a-day smoker of Camels. He soon went into a coughing fit that seemed like it was going to be his last.
It was my turn to smile, and I did as the brown-nosers were pounding his back trying to bring breath back to him. His face was turning different colors as I left the room.
What my terrible mechanical aptitude means is I have no common sense whatsoever. I cannot work on cars. I cannot put things together. Things that are very simple for 99.9 percent of the populace, are like trigonometry to me. If I cannot get something together after 115 tries, I don’t have a Plan B, because I really don’t have a Plan A, because I am an idiot.
For quite a while in our marriage, My Long Suffering Wife Ruth thought I was kidding when I could not do something simple. Eventually, she came to realize it was not an act, and in fact, she had married a real idiot.
All of that brings us to this morning.
As those who read my last column know we have a new coffeemaker. When this coffeemaker arrived last Saturday, I was very disappointed. I thought I had ordered a Bun. What we received was a Cuisinart. We had tried this model and brand before, and it had not gone well.
I looked back on my Amazon history, and I had ordered the Cuisinart. All I can figure is I am not only an idiot but now I am an old idiot. Come to find out I do not believe Bun makes a single-serve coffeemaker.
The Keurig we had, had a really easy water reservoir to remove, fill up with water and then put back in place. I really liked the Keurig just for that reason. However, the rest of the Keurig did not work.
Let me diverge again.
Tuesday, I got the booster and a flu shot.
Wednesday, I thought I was going to die. It was the flu on steroids. My bones, my muscles — whatever is there that one time mimicked muscles – and especially my back ached like toothaches and/or earaches combined all over my body. I was tired, and I just wanted to sleep and do nothing, but I had to work, which I did.
Thus, Thursday morning I was much better physically, but I had not slept well and there were lingering aches especially with my back.
Also, in the mornings I procrastinate. I have a play list on Spotify I call the Songs for My Funeral. I was going to have 100 but now I am past 300. Ruth has stated very firmly, those songs will not be played at my funeral. I listen to that playlist, I read my Kindle, I read news on my laptop, I work on my blog, I talk to relatives on Messenger, and most of all I play my favorite Solitaire game: Fort Relaxed.
Suddenly, with very few minutes left before the start of my shift, I must brush my teeth, make my lunch, warm the car so the frost is off the windshield and most importantly make a huge cup of coffee for the day at work. And there are like 10 minutes or less to do all of the above.
And, of course, my first stop was the coffeemaker. It needed water. I use bottled water now even though Ruth says it will not do any good. I think the bottled water will be softer than Brookville tap water which makes a sound like a stone hitting cement when it comes out of the faucet. I buy those big containers with a handle.
Thus, I carried one of those containers to the counter near the coffeemaker and tried to unscrew the cap.
When my late mother lived in Richmond, Ruth and I would go get her groceries and then open all the caps and rescrew them on very lightly so mom could get them off. I need someone to do that for me now. Although some people may not realize this, I have never been mistaken for Atlas.
There was no way that cap was going to budge until Ruth got home.
So, I took the reservoir off the coffeemaker, and did it very easily. I filled it with our hard tap water and carried it back to the coffeemaker. I could not get the reservoir back on its base. It would not seat but was all caddawalled no matter what I did. I tried and I tried. Water slopped out the top like geysers, which is not good because the plug is right there on our coffee altar next to the coffeemaker.
I could not imagine a work shift without coffee to sip on for several hours. If Ruth had been there, I would have simply stepped away and allowed her to do it on the first attempt. But Ruth was already at her work.
I was an old idiot alone.
After carrying the reservoir over to the sink – it was now about three-fourths full, I emptied it some more to about half full and walked back to the coffeemaker for another battle.
I knew I was going into that battle unarmed.
So, I kept trying and I kept spilling water near the electrical outlet. I tested the entire English vocabulary while this was going on. Time was more than ticking away, but I HAD to have coffee.
God smiled on me because I was able to get the reservoir back on without electrocuting myself or starting an electrical fire. Nothing seemed to be broken on the coffeemaker. The coffeemaker began dispensing wonderful coffee into my large mug.
That done, I needed to start the car because Ruth had warned me there was a heavy frost. I did not have shoes on. So, I had to go to another room to find my shoes and finally I got them on. Then, I had to find my keys.
It took a while.
Remember, there was not much time.
Trudging out to the tundra I started the vehicle. I came back in and immediately got my bread and fixings for my Dagwood-like sandwich. My bread was moldy.
I eat wheat bread because I am a diabetic. With time ticking away, I was not going to be picky about eating too many carbs, but Ruth was out of white bread. Thus, I had to pick through what was left of my loaf to get the least moldy pieces and tear out the moldy areas so I could make my Dagwood-like sandwich.
That done, I headed up the stairs to brush my teeth.
When I got out to the car, I had not allowed enough time to burn off the frost so I had to scrape. I could not find my scraper. I was thinking credit card, when finally, beneath El Reparo receipts – we do the drive-thru option — on the passenger floorboard, I found a very short-handled scraper.
I got to work about two minutes before the start of the shift, maybe 30 seconds before, well I got to work. But I had a sandwich and, more importantly, I had my coffee.
