My vacuum cleaner is a good one. It’s really interested in getting everything out of the carpet. Dust. Fur. Small mammals. My vacuum cleaner will suck up a tennis shoe and spit it right back out again, all clean, no problem. When you change the bag, there’s no dust anywhere. It’s a tight system. As long as whatever I’ve vacuumed up is no longer squeaking, I’ll never hear from it again.

It’s not lightweight. It’s not quiet. Those would be nice qualities but mine stomps across the landscape like a starving ankylosaur and it means business. If it were lightweight and quiet, I’d have doubts. Can a pleasant and convenient vacuum really be doing anything? Plus, I paid a lot for it, so I have a vested interest in believing it is super-duper. The best ever, like you’ve never seen.

I’m afraid I love my vacuum cleaner the way people love politicians who promise to solve the border crisis by ruining the landscape, rounding up brown people like fish in a gill-net and setting them on fire on their way out of the country. Give me muscle, baby. Make it roar. I’ll believe in you, the way people believe who never question themselves.

My vacuum sucks. So that isn’t why I think it needs work. It’s that it got even louder. Super loud. Possibly it sucked up a howler monkey. Or a squadron of cicadas. I can’t rule it out. Nothing comes out of those bags.

Whatever it is, is unsustainable. I can’t be near that. I’d rather scare the dust out of the house with a leaf blower. Right away I tried to find a video online to troubleshoot but nothing was helpful. So I took it in to the store I bought it from. There was a certain satisfaction in that; I’ve become accustomed to the special torture of trying to have my magical devices repaired online or over the phone. Chatbox: My name is Ahmet. How may I rock your world today? Me: My ether is busted. There are holes in the plasma. I’ve unplugged everything including the toaster and sent it to its room but it never comes out. Ahmet: Have you tried unplugging everything? Me: STFU, Ahmet.

So I was whistling a happy tune when I rolled my vacuum cleaner into the store, where I would hand it over to a knowledgeable human with skills, just the way they did it in pioneer times. Sure enough, Hank was right there with a smile and an aura of competence and I handed over my machine, and he plugged it in and turned it on and vacuumed his little sample carpet square, and it sounded totally normal. What the hell, human? I took it back home. Figured there’d been a clog in the tubes and our municipal pothole collection had dislodged it somewhere along the way.

I plugged it in at home. Howler monkeys.

This time I flipped it on its belly and discovered there were sixteen screws on the thing, and, in a sign this was meant to be, they were all plain Phillips screws and they were all the same size. I flayed that baby right open. Rudely probed every hose and tube. Found no clogs. Took out the HEPA filter altogether and turned it on again. The monkeys were back.

This time I took it back to the vacuum store and a nice young woman named Bailey took it over. Hank looked surprised to see me. I explained the whole thing. “What does it sound like?” Bailey wanted to know, untangling the cord. “Sounds like an F-15 taking off while you’re standing on the tarmac,” I said, and she nodded and said “Fan,” and I was filled with hope. “We’ll get that fixed for you,” she said, and I pointed at Hank.

“Good,” I said. “Because if you can’t, I’m going to need him to come home with me and turn it on.” Hank was fine with that. Bailey flipped the switch. Cue the flying monkeys.

“How long do you think it will take?” I asked.

Bailey crunched her shoulders up under her ears. “A week? Maybe?” she said.

“A week? Maybe?” I said.

Well. The repairman was supposed to be there today, but he kinda sorta hadn’t shown up. Or called. Or anything. So.

I’ve got my fingers crossed. The repairman is probably in Ahmet’s basement playing Dungeons and Dragons but he has to come up for Cheetos sometime.