34. The fridge

Since moving into the new apartment in the Mission, I have not seen eye to eye with our fridge.

Let me state from the outset that I love American fridges. I love their burnished aluminium bulk. I love their twin doors, like a Wild West saloon. I love the way that they remind me of the tremendous optimism of this country - two cars in every garage, more food than you can eat, tanned limbs and soda fountains and the beach boys, and the belief that there is more than enough for everyone. Yes it was naive and conformist and repressive and frequently untrue, but it must have been wonderful too.

I also love the ice dispensing facility of the modern American fridge. No more fiddly trays left unfilled. And the crushed ice, so useful for making cocktails! If you have ever tried crushing ice manually, you will know what a joy that facility is.

So, I was disappointed to discover, on the day of our Halloween party, that the ice making machine appeared not to work. On closer investigation, I saw that the drawer which ought to have been full of ice cubes was in fact filled by one solid block of ice. I tried to remove the drawer. I had to drag the fridge out from its wooden housing to open the swing door fully in order to gain access to the drawer. Having removed the drawer, I held it under the hot tap for 20 minutes so that the hot water could melt the block of ice. I alternately scalded and froze my fingers, but no matter, the goal was noble.

The process was also educational: it provided me with a visual image of the melting of a glacier. The rivers of hot water formed little boreholes in the surface of the ice, eventually converging in subterranean streams and undermining the integrity of the frozen mass until it finally broke into small pieces.

I replaced the empty drawer and checked on it periodically. The cubes of ice which were coming out of the ice-maker were misshapen. I fiddled around with the mechanism, pushing here and prodding there. I began to obsess, checking the drawer every hour. I didn't understand the mechanism. Why were the cubes only half formed?

Maybe the flow of water to the freezer was insufficient? With much effort, I dragged the fridge all the way out of its surrounding wooden housing. I saw, amongst the dust and fur balls and disintegrating organic matter, that the fridge had been standing on the water feed pipe, reducing the flow. I managed to pull out the water feed pipe, then I pushed the fridge back in.

Confident of success, and desirous of confirmation, I checked the ice drawer at least every half an hour. NO IMPROVEMENT!

Again I pulled and prodded at the mechanism. Still nothing.

What's more, having removed the pipe from under the back of the fridge, it now tilted back at a very unsatisfactory angle. In fact, when both doors are open, it looks as if the fridge is leaning back to hawk up a throatful of phlegm prior to spitting it at whatever sad, fridge-light-illumined figure happens to be standing in front. The interior of this fridge, once a place of cool and calm abundance, has morphed into the mocking maw of my nemesis.

G and I have tried placing a plank of wood behind the fridge and then tipping it forward so that the back will be lifted by resting on the plank. However, the wooden housing means that we can't tip the fridge forward sufficiently.

I am saddened by these developments.

Last night, I resolved to try one more time. I meditated a little, then I opened the ice drawer. I allowed my fingers to wander over the mechanism. Like a zen master, I did not try to guide them. With radiance pure and simple, I allowed them to feel their way. When they encountered resistance, I allowed it to pass through consciousness and then to evaporate like a soap sud or a thought formed by the illusion of selfhood. Eventually, and with my fingers almost frostbitten, I was rewarded. The warmth of my fingers had melted a tiny piece of ice and freed up a part which, up until that point, I had thought was fixed. I moved it and it clicked satisfactorily into place. Then I went to bed.

After a few minutes, the ice machine starting to produce an irritating, clucking sound. Was this the equivalent of derisive laughter? Was this mechanical monster mocking me? It certainly stopped me from falling asleep.

And this morning, no ice.

But a haiku:

American fridge -
Bright doors to rich abundance!
My cold sad fingers.