Paige waves hello back. Eyeballing the height he’s holding his hose, I tell him to lower the nozzle a couple of inches; that’s all I need, some blind guy shooting water directly into an electrical appliance. Sid complies.
“After the water starts flowing, I’ll turn on the-appliance-formerly-known-as-a-vacuum and tiny jet streams of air will shoot out of this upholstery nozzle, in turn pushing the water off the windshield. What I’m looking for from you is a sense of whether the air jets properly disperse the simulated rain. This sort of trial run is what’s known in my profession as ‘reducing the invention to practice.’”
“Mm-hmm,” she says with an abundance of skepticism.
“Our system could make the conventional windshield wiper obsolete!” I scream, realizing I need to take my enthusiasm down a notch. “All I’m saying is this could be big. We really may be on to something.”
Keep using possessive plural pronouns like “we,” “us,” and “our,”
I remind myself.
Make sure Paige feels a sense of ownership.
I reach across her, key the ignition, kiss her on the mouth, and then scream to Sid, “Initiate the water!”
Sid loosens the nozzle on the hose and adjusts the spray stream so it hits the windshield just below the vacuum upholstery nozzle.
I shut the car door and steady the black flex hose with my elbow.
“Behold, the first bladeless windshield wipers!” I yell.
Then I flip the switch on the vacuum.
The vacuum motor slowly revs after being inert for so many years and I instantly smell smoke. The machine is clearing its throat. The vacuum coughs three times and out floats black gunkfrom 1952. My gag reflex kicks in.
Do not vomit.
As I reach over to turn off the motor, it suddenly finds a comfortable place in the twenty-first century and begins purring.
With things under control, I cautiously lean over to see whether air is blowing out of the vacuum and onto the windshield. Paige catches my attention and begins frantically waving her pointer finger back and forth across her neck. The “kill signal”—a familiar hand gesture to the seasoned television broadcaster. But does her pantomime refer to the vacuum or me?
Two things happen very quickly: I hear the sound of metal crushing metal and then everything goes black.
I’m on the ground. In a blind stupor, I hear the sound of duct tape coming undone; then the sound of what can only be a heavy metal vacuum cleaner tumbling off the roof of a car. The Eureka Attach-O-Matic crashes down and in its wake takes out my passenger-side mirror and my left ankle.
Am I wetting myself?
No, Sid hasn’t let go of the hose and he’s kneeling over me fumbling to find the off switch on the vacuum cleaner. Finding and flipping it, the contraption slowly winds down.
“What the—?” I say standing up, wiping hairballs and black dust from my eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. I’m a human ashtray.
“We should have emptied the vacuum bag before starting,” Sid concludes contemplatively. “It took a few seconds, but I believe the entire contents inside the vacuum bag hit you in the face.”
I spit. I cough. I pick mystery crud from my tongue.
Paige gets out of the car.
“It was terrifying and thrilling all at once,” Paige says, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “Sweetie, are you okay?”
“No, I’m grotesque! Don’t look at me,” I say, dusting myself off.
“Should I call Poison Control?” Paige jokes.
“I wonder if you’ve released some sort of airborne virus,” Sid speculates.
“Yeah, and I’m the host,” I say, rubbing my bruised ankle.
“And … scene,” Paige says with director’s authority. “I’m off to bed.”
Paige goes to kiss me, but unable to find a safe place to plant one, pats me on the butt like a football chum.
“Give us one week!” I yell to her as she crosses the street. “One week!”
Once she reaches her door, she looks back, and throws us both a kiss.
“She’ll be conked out for a
“After the water starts flowing, I’ll turn on the-appliance-formerly-known-as-a-vacuum and tiny jet streams of air will shoot out of this upholstery nozzle, in turn pushing the water off the windshield. What I’m looking for from you is a sense of whether the air jets properly disperse the simulated rain. This sort of trial run is what’s known in my profession as ‘reducing the invention to practice.’”
“Mm-hmm,” she says with an abundance of skepticism.
“Our system could make the conventional windshield wiper obsolete!” I scream, realizing I need to take my enthusiasm down a notch. “All I’m saying is this could be big. We really may be on to something.”
Keep using possessive plural pronouns like “we,” “us,” and “our,”
I remind myself.
Make sure Paige feels a sense of ownership.
I reach across her, key the ignition, kiss her on the mouth, and then scream to Sid, “Initiate the water!”
Sid loosens the nozzle on the hose and adjusts the spray stream so it hits the windshield just below the vacuum upholstery nozzle.
I shut the car door and steady the black flex hose with my elbow.
“Behold, the first bladeless windshield wipers!” I yell.
Then I flip the switch on the vacuum.
The vacuum motor slowly revs after being inert for so many years and I instantly smell smoke. The machine is clearing its throat. The vacuum coughs three times and out floats black gunkfrom 1952. My gag reflex kicks in.
Do not vomit.
As I reach over to turn off the motor, it suddenly finds a comfortable place in the twenty-first century and begins purring.
With things under control, I cautiously lean over to see whether air is blowing out of the vacuum and onto the windshield. Paige catches my attention and begins frantically waving her pointer finger back and forth across her neck. The “kill signal”—a familiar hand gesture to the seasoned television broadcaster. But does her pantomime refer to the vacuum or me?
Two things happen very quickly: I hear the sound of metal crushing metal and then everything goes black.
I’m on the ground. In a blind stupor, I hear the sound of duct tape coming undone; then the sound of what can only be a heavy metal vacuum cleaner tumbling off the roof of a car. The Eureka Attach-O-Matic crashes down and in its wake takes out my passenger-side mirror and my left ankle.
Am I wetting myself?
No, Sid hasn’t let go of the hose and he’s kneeling over me fumbling to find the off switch on the vacuum cleaner. Finding and flipping it, the contraption slowly winds down.
“What the—?” I say standing up, wiping hairballs and black dust from my eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. I’m a human ashtray.
“We should have emptied the vacuum bag before starting,” Sid concludes contemplatively. “It took a few seconds, but I believe the entire contents inside the vacuum bag hit you in the face.”
I spit. I cough. I pick mystery crud from my tongue.
Paige gets out of the car.
“It was terrifying and thrilling all at once,” Paige says, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “Sweetie, are you okay?”
“No, I’m grotesque! Don’t look at me,” I say, dusting myself off.
“Should I call Poison Control?” Paige jokes.
“I wonder if you’ve released some sort of airborne virus,” Sid speculates.
“Yeah, and I’m the host,” I say, rubbing my bruised ankle.
“And … scene,” Paige says with director’s authority. “I’m off to bed.”
Paige goes to kiss me, but unable to find a safe place to plant one, pats me on the butt like a football chum.
“Give us one week!” I yell to her as she crosses the street. “One week!”
Once she reaches her door, she looks back, and throws us both a kiss.
“She’ll be conked out for a
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