The Fixer

By Gordon Hopkins I think my toaster is busted. For the third morning in a row, I have been forced to eat a bagel raw. This got me to thinking about the evolution of language. Yes, these things are connected. Just go with me on this. Language evolves. The way we speak and write changes over time to accommodate the way our society changes. For example, many moons ago, certain professions were associated primarily with just one gender. Certain jobs were, by and large, done only by men. Hence, the labels we applied to one profession or another reflected that. Given the social upheaval surrounding the whole concept of gender that began well over a century ago and continues to this day, with no sign of slowing down, it is unsurprising our language has been forced to adapt to these changes. What I mean by all of this is that there is no longer any such thing as a policemen. They are now called police officers. Likewise, firemen are now called firefighters. Garbage men are now sanitation workers. Sometime those jobs associated primarily with women also needed to be changed, which is why stewardess are now flight attendants. Admittedly, such changes can sometimes feel a bit awkward. After all, would you want to read a book called, “The Postal Worker Always Rings Twice?” As society changes, so must our language. Yet, there are some terms that have not evolved and there is a reason for that. To illustrate, let me ask you a question. When was the last time you took your toaster to a repairman? (See, I told you these threads would connect.) I can think of no gender-neutral term for repairman. There isn’t one. That is because, before our language had to adapt to a world where a woman could do any job a man could do, repairman stopped being a job. Now, I know what you’re going to say. There are still people who fix things for a living and that is certainly true. However, most of those people fix a specific thing, not just anything. Some folks fix cars. Some folks fix computers. Some folks fix hot water heaters. You see, we are mostly talking big ticket items here. These are things that required a major outlay of cash. Obviously, you aren’t simply going to throw a car away just because it isn’t working. You are going to pay someone to fix it. And that person isn’t identified as someone who fixes things. That person is identified by the things he or she fixes. In other words, nobody fixes stuff anymore. Not one thing. Not one product. Just stuff. When I was a kids and my mother’s vacuum stopped working because it sucked up half a dozen Lincoln Logs, she took it to a repairman. Same with the blender that broke after I tried to make a Tootsie Roll milkshake. (Tootsie Rolls are murder on blenders.) When the radio stopped working, my folks took it to a repairman. When the TV blew a fuse, the repairman came to our house, because it was one of those massive console TVs that weighed more than my dad’s pickup truck and we were taking it anywhere. Did you call someone to come over to your house and fix your TV when it stopped working? Of course you didn’t. You threw it away and went out and bought a new one. Just like you did with the blender and the toaster and every other appliance and mechanical doodad that didn’t require you to take out a loan to buy. Because that is just the sort of world we live in today. That brings me to a little problem I have. See, I am writing this rant on a 1975 Smith-Corona Galaxie twelve Typewriter. (That is not a typo, by the way. I have no idea why “Galaxie” is spelled that way.) I tis a beautiful machine; two tone, chocolate brown and caramel. It looks like a candy bar. Despite being 47 years old, there is nary a scratch on her. Cosmetically, she is one of the best-looking typewriters I own. Alas, looking good does not mean working good. Several of the keys stuck pretty badly. Some wouldn’t move at all. That is a common problem among old typewriters, especially ones that have not been maintained or used in a long time. As you may have gathered, I don’t have a repairman to take my typewriter to. Hence this rant. Clearly, if something was broken, I realized I was going to have to fix I myself. This is a problem, since I am about as mechanically included as an arthritic duck wearing mittens. Still, owning an old machine, if you intend to use it, means being able to perform maintenance on it. So, I did a bit of research. My first thought was that maybe my typewriter just needed a bit of lubrication. The wise and rational voices on the internet assured me this was a terrible idea, as oil collects dust and grime and get all gooey over time and would turn the insides of my typewriter into a taffy-pulling machine. Instead, I was advised to first blow out all the dust and cobwebs and schmutz with compressed air. There were a lot of dead bugs in there. It was like a bug funeral parlor. Next, I gently cleaned the type slugs and bars inside with mineral spirits and a tooth brush, careful not to get any one the outside of the machine, should it damage the paint job. I have never given anything this kind of attention before, including my ex-girlfriend, which may explain why she is ex. Next, I swapped out the ribbon, which left my fingers covered in black ink. I looked like I’d just been booked and fingerprinted. Was all that effort really worth it? Yeah, I guess it was. Now the typewriter works like a dream. That you are reading these words is testament to that.

Mary Long

Moore Or Less at Random

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