I went out into my garage. When I opened the door, a wave of heat hit my face as a dry Las Vegas afternoon baked my work space to a toasty 130 degrees. My wife had the dryer going, its shoom-shoom, thump-thump talked to me from the left corner. I also detected the aroma of wet towels and a softener sheet.
In the middle of the floor, my large word machine stood silent, waiting. Since I manufacture my own words, I had to spring for my own equipment, at great expense, I might add. However, I’ve been busy with my real job, so I hadn’t had time to make any words for a while. As a result, my machine, painted a light-blue, became covered with sawdust (since I’m also a woodworker). The sawdust mingled with regular dust and oil leaking from several bad gaskets. Underneath, a small puddle of hydraulic fluid had spread on the floor, congealed with a mix of more sawdust and to my chagrin, metal shavings.
I wiped the sweat off my brow, weaved around my band saw and our treadmill, and reached for the circuit breaker on the wall. The status light on the control panel glowed red, showing that power reached the relay panel. So far, so good.
I approached the machine, flipped the power button and pulled down on the engagement lever. The machine hummed to life. Gears ground, pistons activated, cylinders compressed. The floor shook, sawdust fell from the rafters, the lights dimmed. With a faint rumble, the machine spit out a word.
Guess I need to tweak the controls a bit.