By David Wilkinson
It was Wilkinson versus the Wiper (as in windshield wiper).
Don’t laugh. This duel was a battle to the death, my own no-holds-barred version of Wrestle Mania, waged on a Saturday afternoon in the driveway.
In this corner, weighing in at 5 feet 8 inches and 184 pounds of all thumbs out of Waco, Texas: the challenger, David the Crown Prince of Clutz. (Heck, I just had a 15-minute, clean-up delay in typing this paragraph after spilling coffee all over the desk.)
In the opposite corner, weighing in at 22 inches and maybe a pound-and-a-half of rubber, metal and plastic straight from Hades: our reigning champion, the Wiper.
Sure, the Wiper may look like a harmless opponent to all you handypersons out there, but to the Untool Man, this deceptive little booger can be as menacing as Hulk Hogan was on his most menacing days.
Just minutes before the Bout in the Driveway began, I was hit by a bit of psychological warfare. As I opened the wiper box, a small piece of paper floated to the ground. Fearing the worst, I hesitantly picked up and unfolded the pale blue paper.
Just as I feared: instructions. Another arch enemy of the un-handyman. And this was not just your elementary, how-to stuff either. Printed in six-point type were instructions for removing and installing not one, not two, but four different types of windshield wipers. Postage-stamp sized illustrations beside each set of instructions added insult to injury.
I should have thrown in the towel right then and there. But I tend to be stubborn.
I should also confess that I have fought this duel before — and lost. After at least half an hour of grueling battle and wearing blisters on both thumbs, I had to resort to calling my wife, Melanie, out to the driveway. She looked at the replacement wiper, scanned the instructions, picked up the wiper in one hand and the extension in the other, and then stopped just short of snapping the wiper into place.
Since she knows me and still loves me, she said sweetly, “This may not work, but maybe if you try holding it just like this and twist here . . .” Then she let me “do it.” Of course it worked.
Well, this time, I wasn’t calling in wifely reinforcements. I gave it a go. And, after only a few tries, the Wiper was pinned into submission. Ditto for his two-inch shorter partner on the passenger side.
Just to make sure, I stepped into the van, turned the ignition and switched on the wipers. Victory! Nothing flew off. No horrible grating sounds of metal against glass.
I leaped out of the van for a little in-your-face victory dance. It was brief but inspired, with the “The Eye of the Tiger” theme from “Rocky” reverberating in my head.
Then, unbowed, unbeaten, and, for once, even unbloodied, I strutted into the kitchen to do a little trash talking about my conquered opponent. I even decided not to wash my hands for a few hours, just to enjoy the little bit of black grime under my fingernails as a souvenir.
Confidence soaring, I got a little carried away and announced I was ready to tackle installation of a ceiling fan in the bedroom.
Melanie smiled that knowing smile and handed me a notepad with the number of a contractor we had used for several home improvement projects. “The Eye of the Tiger” screeched to a halt in my head.
I called handyman Jonathan the next day about installing the ceiling fan. And I took comfort in knowing that God loves the un-handypersons of this world too.