The Prairie Spy

Alan “Lindy” Linda

As you know, I made a large part of my livelihood servicing home appliances, and there came a day, after puzzling over what was wrong with various washing machines, dryers, water heaters, furnaces, and so forth for many years, I realized that they were communicating with me.

I was surprised, let me tell you. There I was in a farm house, answering a call from the woman of the house that went like this: “I heard gun shots from the electric dryer! Can you come out right away, please? I’m afraid to even open the dryer door.”

Gun shots? Let me tell you something else: I answered the phone every day hoping and praying that some one would call and report the OK Corral in their electric dryer. I moved her to the top of the list, strapped on my tool holster, saddled up the service truck, and raced out there.

I plugged in a trouble light, and, holding the light before me as somewhat of a shield in case someone inside there was still alive and had bullets left, eased the door open with my lucky pliers.

Such a tragedy I have never witnessed. Nor such a surprise, because it was then that the dryer, of a family known for its cool repose in a clothing crisis, Ms. Frigidaire, began to speak. “Gasp,” she groaned, “I’ve been shot.” Then silence while I opened the door further. 

Who’s in there, I said, while for the first time wondering what was in that vitamin pill I had taken that morning. Then I thought back further. Maybe I shouldn’t have inhaled back in the sixties. I thought that I had heard a voi…..

“Please help me,” said a feminine voice.

Who are you, I asked?

“Don’t go stupid on me now,” said the she voice, “I’ve heard on the wire vine that you’re quite intelligent, and I’m dying from several gun shot wounds, so get on with it.”

Ummmm, let’s see, what were those three rules from the Red Cross first aid course. Three “A”s, I think. Or was it ABC. That would be air way for one, so I quickly raced outside and checked the dryer’s vent for restriction, and found a huge glob of wool fibers. I’d have to talk to these people about running wool through their d…..

“Quit day dreaming,” said Ms. Frigidaire, “and get back in here.” She sounded a bit more breathy, now that she could breathe again. She also sounded bossier. The second A,  the second B. Look, I told her, I’m having a little trouble remembering my triage triangle so…

Ms. Frigidaire said: “Good grief! See all the holes in my drum lung? You have to plug them up or I’ll, I’ll…”

I’ll what. Get more bossy?

It was then that I found out what had happened. Someone, probably one of the teenage sons, had left several rounds of .22 ammunition in his pants pocket and when they made it to the heat of the electric dryer, they had corked off. Ms. Frigidaire had several slugs embedded in her. I whistled in admiration of the privilege of getting to do this kind of surgery, and grabbed my lucky pliers.

“Ouch,” she said, as I wriggled at the first lead slug and worked it out of her. “Are you a medical doctor or a veterinarian?”

Are you in pain, I asked her, because I can unplug you and put you under while I check out the rest of you.

“Don’t you dare,” she snorted. “I know your type. While I’m under, you’ll look under my up-top and at my down-there and who knows what.

I yanked the next bullet out quite rudely. She grunted. I dropped this one from my pliers into a small magnetic dish I used. It went clank when it hit. I began to feel like Hawkeye on MASH. 

This next one, I told her? It’s quite close to your temperature control?

“Yes,” she replied, “so what?” Boy. She swallows a bunch of bullets, which was her own fault, and goes all bitchy. Women! I’d show her.

Well, I said, the temperature control is close to your small framus, which itself lies upon your encabulator, which connects a secondary incandescent tubulus to the primary revolvaling. The revolvaling, I was going to say, looks like it’s had some hard wear on its rotalingual nervapling, but she interrupted me.

“Am I going to make it,” she meekly asked me.

Well, I said as I removed the last bullet, you’ve got more holes in you than a spaghetti strainer, but I think you’ll be ok.

I left her with a bottle of perfume—she wasn’t all that fresh, Frigidaire, that’s French, right?

I’d be back, I told her, to give her a complete physical next month.

She slammed her lid shut and closed her service door.

“Not in this life,” she hissed.

It was better when I couldn’t hear them.