The Tool Collector

She didn't ask me to fix it, she asked me to take it somewhere and have it repaired, when I “had the time”.

She was bathing Alex, our three-year old. That was normally my job, but I begged out of it, claiming I needed to tend to urgent budgetary issues. I agreed to do the dishes if she would put Alex to bed.

“No, problem,” she’d said, as she dropped her plate in the sink. “By the way, Alex did something to my camera. Would you mind taking it to that place at the mall and having them take a look at it?”

“When you have the time,” she’d added.

The camera was a small Olympus. The regular film type – what they used to call a snapshot. Not digital, and not one of those big fancy professional types either. It was just a simple, easy to use, black camera with an electronic telescoping zoom lens that moved in and out when you toggled the little switch. Even the switch was idiot proof, with a “W” for wide and a “T” for…tight… I guess. Okay, so it wasn’t completely idiot proof. Idiot proof enough for the normal idiot, not quite idiot proof enough for an idiot like me.

Or for my three year old son, who had totally disregarded the “T-W” toggle switch, and simply yanked the lens out to the very end of its telescopic limit. Apparently it no longer telescoped.

I had finished the dishes, and Coke in hand, was headed for the computer to do the bills. I reached for the light switch, taking one last look at the kitchen to make sure I’d completed the job, and there was the camera, sitting on the counter thumbing its fully extended nose at me.

I am like most men. Most men are mechanically inclined. At least most men believe most men are mechanically inclined. These men also believe that while there may be some men who are not mechanically inclined, they are not one of those men. The strength of this belief is directly correlated, in a positive manner with the mechanical ineptitude of the man. Meaning; it is the most mechanically disinclined men who believe they are the most mechanically inclined.

The camera was mocking me.

I picked it up. Turning it over in my hands, I observed three tiny Philips-head screws set into recessed holes around the perimeter of the camera’s back. They were of such a size, and set into the holes in such a manner as to discourage the less technically minded from attempting any disassembly. I realized with some satisfaction that I possessed the proper sized screwdriver, should disassembly be required.

Looking at the camera, I was insulted by a voice in my head. This is too complicated, it said, you told her you were going to do the bills. Don’t mess with it. I hated that voice. I’d heard it before. Voice of… voice of reason I think it was called.

I toggled the zoom switch. Whirr, whirr, click, whirr, whirr, click, the lens did not move. I pushed gently on the end. It would not budge. I pushed a little harder, still it did not move. I put it back down on the counter. I had completed all simple troubleshooting procedures. Further analysis would require the use of tools. I had other, more practical work to do.

A lesser man - or a smarter man, depending on your point of view - might have left the camera alone and gone to work on the bills. I - not being lesser, except in the smarter department - went out to the garage and got my aforementioned screwdriver.

I also got a towel, a pair of needle nose pliers, some Q-tips and a pair of tweezers. I contemplated looking for the camera’s owners’ manual, but after almost four seconds of consideration I determined this would not be necessary. I spread the towel out on the kitchen table, laid out my tools, retrieved the broken camera and sat down to the job. My wife was going to be thrilled!

This camera was like an old friend to her. She had owned it for many years, and taken many of her most treasured photos with it. I could only imagine how pleased she would be that I had fixed it. I looked forward to the affectionate gratitude I would receive for my technical mastery.

I unscrewed the first screw, and shook it out of the hole onto the towel. Then I followed with the second, and third. The third screw would not come out. I tried again with the screwdriver. It appeared to have backed all the way out; it turned freely and it wobbled in the hole. I shook the camera, but the screw remained. I shook again… nothing. I pulled on both sides of the camera’s case, but the case would not budge. I could not seem to open it.

There was a small recessed line bisecting the camera all the way across its top, down its sides and across its bottom. This was obviously where the case came together. It had been fit together for many, many years. I would need to pry it open with a regular screwdriver. Luckily, I had one of those too. I went back out to the garage to retrieve it. A strange thought occurred to me when I returned. Perhaps, I should stop here. It was unusual for me to have such a defeatist attitude so I shook it off easily and got back to business.

I wedged the screwdriver into the crack and proceeded to work it back and forth. Small bits of black plastic immediately began to fleck off around the screwdriver, but the two sides moved!. I removed the screwdriver and brushed the plastic bits away. There was a small crack where I had worked the screwdriver.

Barely noticeable, I thought, and pulled at the front and back sides of the camera. The case began to separate and I slipped my thumb into the crack and kind of twisted it like I was trying to separate the two sides of a walnut. With a sharp crack the last of the three screw housings broke, and the camera’s case opened wide.

At this point I experienced the kind of temporal distortion one experiences when watching an accident unfold in front of them, or in my case around them. Time seemed to slow down, as the camera’s innards - which had obviously been packed into the camera by rocket scientists using some sort of extremely high pressure technology - shot into the air and seemed to float there in front of me, before spilling down on the towel with a sort of Humpty-dumpty randomness.

Of course, not all of the pieces landed on the towel. Although I never actually saw them, I heard a couple of very small, and presumably very important pieces bounce across the kitchen floor and under the refrigerator – way under the refrigerator.

I stared calmly at the mess on the towel and contemplated my next step. Wondering just how important those missing pieces might be, I performed a quick but complex statistical analysis of the situation. The purpose of this analysis was to answer two questions. First, could I repair the camera from this point? And, failing that; could I get the guts back in, close it up, and put it back on the counter. Either option would need to be completed before my wife emerged from our son’s bedroom.

Unfortunately, despite my mechanical prowess, few sights seemed to horrify my wife as much as the sight of me with tools in my hand- especially indoors. I am sure there is some sort of repressed childhood trauma in her subconscious which causes this reaction. I’ve never probed; I just respectfully put the tools away when she gets uncomfortable.

As far as the camera was concerned, I may have been an idiot, but I was not a stupid idiot. I knew I had reached…well, exceeded actually, the limit of my technical expertise. I reluctantly accepted the fact that I would probably not be able to repair it. I still believed however, that I might be able to get the guts back in, reassemble the case and at least let a professional give it a try.

The fantasy of spousal gratitude had quickly evaporated, but perhaps I could still be her hero. I would deliver her camera to the repair shop just like she’d asked. At the very worst, I would be the sympathetic comforter when the camera repair shop called to tell her it would have to be put down. All I had to do was get it put back together, and up on the counter, before she finished with Alex.

I got to work quickly. The problem was the camera had obviously been put together in a laboratory, using very sophisticated machinery. There were too many pieces, and they fit together like a Chinese stick puzzle. I made an attempt at it, but realized I would have to go to another plan as I heard my wife wrapping up the bedtime story.

Plan “B” called for me to wrap the whole mess up in the towel. Put it out in the garage, and take it to get it fixed the next day. The problem was, I didn’t think of plan “B” until the next day. As it ended up, I went with plan “F”. Plan “F” stood for… well you get the idea.

It began similarly to plan “B”, in that I wrapped the whole mess up in the towel, but that was where the similarity ended. I heard the distinctive staccato smack of multiple kisses on my three-year-old’s face, signaling the end of the bedtime process. I was out of time. I panicked and dropped the bundle in the kitchen garbage can, and beat feet into the study.

I sat down quickly in front of the computer, a ball of dread beginning to develop in my stomach. It expanded rapidly, engulfing my entire abdomen as I heard my wife emerge into the kitchen. I could only hear her, but she seemed to pause for a moment, as if sensing the events that had unfolded just moments earlier.

She arrived at the study door, and I braced myself as I swiveled my chair around to face her. I worked hard to steel my gaze, certain my shame was written on my face like a video screen showing an endless loop of exploding photographic equipment.

“Hey,” my voice cracked. I was sure it did.

“What’s this?” she asked holding up her hand. She seemed to be making the “OK” sign with her thumb and forefinger, pinching a small, un-identifiable object. Although, I can’t say it was actually audible, I distinctly heard the theme from Jaws playing behind her in the kitchen. It seemed to be emanating from the trash can.

“Huh,” I gulped, straining to see what it was she held.

“It looks like a spring,” she stepped forward and lowered her hand to show me. It was a spring.

“Hmmm,” I said reaching to take it from her, “where’d you get it?” The music grew louder and quickened.

She dropped it in my open palm. “It was on the kitchen floor.” It did not help that she added, “Which you obviously didn’t sweep.” I thought I saw the shadow of a large fin, circling in the kitchen, just outside the study doorway.

“Don’t know,” I said, though I had a pretty good idea. “Maybe it came from one of Alex’s toys.” I studied her face, ashamed of my deception and failing fast under pressure.

“Better hold onto it,” she said taking it back from me. She turned and left the study.

Relief set in. I silently thanked God and promised him I’d take the camera out of the trash after she went to bed. I intended to take it to the camera shop in the mall the next day. I already knew I would have to replace it, but perhaps if I went through the motions, I could make it right without delivering the humiliating confession I knew she deserved.

I turned back to the computer. It’s funny how we negotiate with ourselves, I thought, then, there might be a story in this. I liked that line about negotiating with ourselves.

“Bill,” Stephanie called from the kitchen. The negotiation turned hostile.

“Yeah?” I called back meekly, the dread returning.

“Where’s my camera?” Hope left the table, breaking off all further negotiation. Nothing but lawyers remained.

“Uh, I, uh….”

I knew I was done. She appeared in the door holding my treasured little Philips head. I hated that screwdriver. Who made the rule that men were supposed to be good at fixing stuff anyway?

“Where’s my camera?” she demanded, holding the screwdriver out as evidence that she knew wherever her camera was, it probably wasn’t someplace nice, and I probably had something to do with its disappearance.

“Steph, I uh…it’s ah….” I searched for mercy in her eyes. There was none.

“Where is it?” she demanded.

“In the trash.” I squeaked, in my most pathetic emasculated voice.

She nodded her head up and down, holding back her anger. My wife is so much more adult than me.

“Is it totaled?” she demanded, already knowing the answer.

An un-intelligible noise escaped my throat. She turned and walked away.

I bought her a new camera of course, and in time she spoke kindly to me again. In fact she forgave me much more quickly than I had expected, but she’s light years ahead of me in the grace department too.

Her new camera enjoys a special kind of status in our house. It is one of the very few things which our three year old (now five), is not allowed to play with. I treat it with more care than I do other electronic devices. Though it will be many years before it reaches the same sentimental status in my wife’s heart, even she admits it takes better pictures than her old one.

I continue to collect tools; I almost never leave Sears without wandering through the hardware department. Quite often I end up bringing some shiny new tool home. Though, I must admit they enjoy a special status of their own, for though I collect them, they are rarely if ever used.

I do use one tool quite frequently though. It is my day-minder, and it contains the number of virtually every repair shop in town.