Mr. Fixit Learns His Lesson

A hilarious fiasco taught me to step back, breathe and see the big picture.

Soft morning light, filtered by wooden Venetian blinds, splashed against the sky-blue walls of my bedroom. Reaching over to once again grab the handsaw, I glanced at the potted spider plants that hung from the ceiling, my gaze sweeping past the glossy Donny Osmond Farah Fawcett poster before settling onto the source of my frustration: the bedroom door.

Just then, Joe, who had moved into my apartment a year earlier, in 1983, entered my room. He looked at the door, which had been removed and placed onto two saw horses.

“What’s up?” my roommate inquired.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I replied, irritated. “I’m fixing this door.”

“YOU? Fixing something?”

Joe then peered at my handsaw, and at the growing pile of sawdust that had accumulated onto the newly carpeted floor, the result of my repeated attempts to “fix” the door over the previous hour.

And he began laughing.

“What the hell’s so funny?”

“Oh … nothing. I’ll leave you to your little project,” my amused roommate said, shaking his head and backing out of the room.

Somewhat puzzled, and briefly fantasizing about applying that hand saw to Joe’s neck, I resumed trimming the bottom of the door.

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A few weeks earlier, my landlord – Frederico, an unassuming, congenial fellow from Barcelona with a quick smile and a spectacular amount of dandruff – decided to add carpeting to his apartment building’s hardwood flooring. Fellow tenants used to joke that said flooring had been sourced from the remains of the Nina, the Pinta, and/or the Santa Maria, of Chris Columbus fame. With every creaky step, I ran the risk of suddenly falling through the rotted wood and into the lap of my downstairs neighbor. (To my knowledge this neighbor was San Fernando Valley’s only drag-queen mailman – but that’s another story).

I loved the new plush upgrade, which resulted in a safer, dare I say more comfortable, walking and stomp-dancing experience. The only problem was that the low-hanging door to my bedroom, which had swung freely when situated over the brittle 1492-era planks, now dragged over the thick carpeting. After a week of strong-arming that door open and closed, I decided to take action.

The game plan:
1. Remove the door.
2. Trim the bottom of said door just a tad.
3. Replace the door.
4. Humbly rejoice in my DIY genius

Easy-peasy, right?

Uh … Well …

My initial mistake was in trying to remove the door using the first thing I spotted: a plastic protractor, a simple device used to measure angles in degrees. My idea: wedge the gizmo under the pins that connect the door to the hinges, then lift up, popping out said pins before slipping the door out of its hinges.

Anyone else would’ve ambled downstairs for a hammer and nail, and use them to tap, tap, tap the door-hinge pins upward, freeing them from the hinge, like this:

Not me.

And I had 17 plastic protractors. Broke ’em all. (At least I was persistent.)

Nah, not really. My one and only protractor snapped like a tortilla chip just as the first door-hinge pin budged upward a roughly estimated 7.72 microns.

Fifteen minutes later, using the correct tools, I finally freed the door from its hinges and, feeling a bit unhinged myself, set the now-liberated object onto two saw horses borrowed from the landlord, Flaky Freddie.

Grabbing a rusty hand saw, I proceeded to cut half an inch from the bottom of the door, before carefully replacing the door onto its hinges. Strangely, it was as difficult to open and close as it had been before I’d snapped the tortilla-like protractor.

Fine, I thought. Half an inch isn’t enough. So I did it again, removing the door and lopping another thin section off the bottom.

By then, I’d trimmed nearly a full inch from the bottom of the door, when Joe, my roommate, walked in, looked around and started laughing.

That’s when it dawned on me: I’d been slowly, meticulously, painstakingly trimming the TOP of my door.

Why I didn’t have an aneurysm right then and there remains a mystery.

Letting loose with a scream of creatively strung-together expletives, I yanked the saw from the door and spiked it in disgust onto the plush carpeting. As the saw karmically bounced up and cracked me in the right shin, a soft inner voice whispered through my 100-decibel fury: One day, Einstein, you’re gonna laugh about this.

As I drove to the local home-improvement center to procure a new door for Flaky Freddie, it occurred to me that, while we humans are by nature detail-oriented creatures, it always pays to slow down, breathe and take in the big picture before diving in to any project … or any endeavor, for that matter.

In the 1973 feature film “Magnum Force,” Detective Harry Callahan, portrayed by Clint Eastwood, famously said, “A man’s got to know his limitations.”

Today, knowing my own limitations, I realize that my chances of handling even the simplest DIY project are on par with Dr. Hook securing gainful employment as a hand model.

I’m finally beginning to learn that the Cosmos shall smile upon us if we play to our strengths. Mine happen to be writing for (1) pleasure and self discovery and (2) gawd forbid, making a couple of bucks.

Still, it always helps to apply a can-do attitude with “weaker” endeavors, right? So who knows? Maybe one day I’ll prepare meals like a 5-star chef, sing like a lounge crooner or handle tools like a master carpenter.

Just not in this lifetime.

And rest assured: If I need anything more involved than a flathead screw tightened, I’ll calmly assess the situation, take on a shiny, happy can-do attitude, breathe in to get centered, visualize a positive outcome … and call a handyman.

High-fives to the fine folks in my online writing community, Write Hearted, who provided valuable and encouragement as this piece was being developed: Brigitte Kratz, Dan Xin Huang, Dana Allen, Linda Kaun and Rick Lewis. This essay – and all of my writing – is greatly improved, thanks to you.