The pressure washer at the John Deere facility where I worked was unique in a couple of ways.  For one, it had a hose that must have been at least 100 feet long.  Someone definitely was thinking when they added that length of hose to it.  The equipment we worked on was large and sometimes needed to be washed down. It was often necessary to use that extra length to get the job done.

The second addon was the nozzle.  Most of today’s pressure washers have several interchangeable nozzles that vary in size.  With a quick snap of the collar, you can have them changed in no time.  But this washer was before those times and only had one nozzle.  But . . . you could slide the nozzle back on the shaft and change it from high pressure to a low pressure, far reaching, high volume, stream of water.  It easily shot a half inch stream of water 60 feet out.

One day my friend Gregg, who worked in the same vicinity as I, was assigned a weed eater to work on.  This one didn’t run right, and he commenced to check it out in the shop.  We, who were working nearby, quickly got tired of the incessant whine that could bore right into you from any angle.  Finally, someone hollered at Gregg and told him to adjust it outside.  There was a reason he wasn’t adjusting it outside in the first place.  It was cold out there.  But he acquiesced and moved to just outside the shop entrance door. 

For some reason this weed eater carb must have been harder than most to adjust.  So, while that incessant whine was not in the shop anymore, it soon started to grate on our nerves with its rhythmic up and down engine speed.  And, again, for some unknown reason, Gregg seemed to think the best r.p.m. to adjust it was maxed out to the limit. 

I started hearing some grumbling going on again and peeked out the door window.  Now at this point, it is necessary to put a word of defense in for Gregg.  He was doing the best he could, and I seriously doubt anyone of the rest of us could have done any better. 

What I saw, as I peeked out the window, gave instant inspiration for cessation of those engine rev’s. 

Do you know what happens to a guy’s britches when he squats down?  The front part, where you snap or button them together gets really tight, and the back part, which usually fits fairly snug against your back, now gapes open in a bit of a v shape.  Since Gregg was wearing a pull over, and since it wasn’t tucked in, the cavity that leered up at me was simply too much to ignore.

I sneaked around to the other side of the building, where I knew a water fountain was, ran the tap a bit to ensure the coldest water possible, and filled a paper cup. 

I quickly made my way back around, hoping the water wouldn’t warm up too much from my hand.

I waited until we had another full throttle session going on, one of his hands on the throttle, the other on the screwdriver adjusting the carb, and slipped the door open. 

And the water disappeared into that crevice faster than my money does at the end of the month. 

Gone.  Not a trace to be seen.

There was an instant throttle response.  So quick, in fact, that the motor died altogether.  I expected a bit of laughter or some sort of whiplash. 

But nothing. 

My friend uncoiled from his crouched position, and I quickly pasted on a fake Calvin and Hobb’s grin.  The grin drained off my face as the dilated pupils of my friend’s eyes make direct contact with mine.  The way I remember, no words or threats were shared in that moment of friendship, and I, having accomplished what I set out to do, went back to work in the now peaceful and quiet shop.

*****

Several months later, I was hunched up under the gull wing door of the combine I was working on.  These doors swing out and slightly up, making a wide space to work in near the bottom of the door, but a decidedly small space near the top.  And I was near the top, working on a wiring harness that required, like I said, a scrunched-up posture. 

Suddenly, and without any warning whatsoever, I was completely deluged.  At first, it didn’t make any sense.  My mind raced to the possibility of some leak on the combine, but it didn’t smell like any combine fluid, so I dismissed that quickly.  And the deluge didn’t stop.  And it seemed, from deep underwater as it were, I heard some maniacal laughter going on somewhere near the door of our shop.  I was so scrunched up that I couldn’t disengage very quickly, and besides, any quick movement would have resulted in crashing my head against something nearby.  And the deluge still didn’t stop, even after I had extricated myself and was standing on my own two feet. 

I made a mad dash for the source of this mighty confluence, and quickly staunched its flow.  But the damage had been done.  My jeans were a sopping mess, and it was only the start of the afternoon.  By the end of work, I was a chaffed and raw individual.  Thanks of course, to the extra-long hose that Gregg had to string out clear into another shop, and the soaker/flush option on the nozzle. 

I could complain that the discipline meted out to me was enormously out of proportion, but, when it is all said and done, it probably was a fair retribution for the ignominy born by my friend for something not his fault.