Len, the Dishwasher Repair Man

There was a large pool of water originating from my dishwasher, speedily traveling to my dining room. I didn't see it, but my feet did and I nearly lost my footing.

A week before a repairman came and found nothing wrong with my dishwasher which had been releasing rivers of water whenever it wanted. The repairman told me I was using the wrong soap. I looked at him skeptically. Because I have reached the age where I'm trying to save time by being honest, I told him that that didn't seem like a good assessment for such a large problem. He told me a long story supporting his argument and we parted ways. To alleviate my concerns about his diagnosis, he ordered some parts to come to my house, just in case I needed to call again. A few days later, assorted sizes of boxes appeared in the mail to repair the problem I didn't have.

Finding a puddle of water again in my kitchen wasn't unexpected.

This time the repair company sent Len. I had never met Len, but he came to my front door with a smile and I let him in, my dog barking frantically. He came in the house and set a large canvas tool box on the floor. Then he placed an industrial laptop on my kitchen counter and asked, "Okay, what's the problem?"

I told him of the water. I told him about the soap diagnosis. And I gave him three oddly shaped boxes which contained mystery dishwasher parts. Len looked at me and said, "That guy must have been new. It wasn't a soap problem, I can tell you that much." Len spoke strongly and confidently. He did a series of tests via trial-and-error to see if it was the motor or the gaskets. He ran the dishwasher empty. He couldn't recreate the problem, but he believed me about the puddles of water and he persevered.

Len punctuated his findings with stories. About an old lady who put undiluted dish soap into her washer and found herself in a sea of mess. He told me about how he saved up money for his son's college education. He told me that he had the same dishwasher as me and he hoped to high heaven that it never died because, in his words, "they don't make this kind of motor anymore." These words both comforted and frustrated me because I work my appliances hard so I buy strong brands.

In one story, he described how his wife emptied the dishwasher. First she slid open the top shelf where the glassware sat and lay a towel over it to absorb the water pooled in the top of the cups. As he spoke his hands moved musically in the air as if he were invisibly removing all the contents of a dishwasher. His story was so simple and lovely and ordinary that I was mesmerized by it. He smiled with his eyes. He must have a special relationship with his wife. Her, and his dishwasher.

He told me that my machine would benefit from a special cleansing solution once every 6 months. "Listen," he said, "at my company, they'll tell you you need this stuff every 3 months, but you don't. Every 6 months will do the trick. Now I have some of this stuff on the truck, but it's twelve dollars to you. You can easily go to Target and get it for half that price. I need to tell you this because some lady on social security got mad at my buddy for not divulging this information. Either way." His honesty was so beautiful that I paid the twelve dollars right there. In my mind, I paid six dollars for the solution and six dollars for the stories he told.

He noticed that I had a Kenmore Elite fridge that he was thinking of getting. He seemed like the kind of person who would appreciate frugality. I proudly told him that I bought it on Craigslist, a little pre-dinged. "My kids will ding it up anyway," I said.  I told him the one thing I didn't like was the flow of water from the fridge door. Within minutes, I found myself showing him the plumbing in our basement while he spoke of a saddle valve a quarter inch in diameter which would alleviate my water valve problem. Then he told me of a specialty store which carries these parts that no one else sells. "You know where the mall is?" he asked. And then he described in great detail how to find this little hole-in-the-wall place. "Even my company doesn't sell these parts."

After a half hour of chatting while he worked, I realized that this man represented so many other hard-working older men in my life who are largely invisible. They're old school. They change their own oil. They repair their own appliances and get their lawnmower blades sharpened every mowing season. They trim their own bushes and make sure their driveway is sealed every year. If you go to their garage, they have all their tools outlined on a pegboard. A lot of these men grew up in hard times and learned to do everything they could to make a living. They have difficulty paying other people to do work which they can do, despite the fact that their age is creeping and their knees are creaking.

There was something about Len's build and candor that reminded me so much of my paternal grandfather that I almost wanted to hug him. Who knows. He may have hugged me back.

When he left, I secretly hoped my dishwasher would break again so I could hear his stories.