The Day the Fan Declared War

I woke before daylight because my bedroom had reached the same temperature as fresh biscuits left inside a cast-iron skillet. There are people who claim a body grows accustomed to heat. Those people have either never experienced true summer or have made peace with lying to strangers.

The ceiling fan above my bed turned with all the determination of a government office. It moved plenty, accomplished little, and somehow managed to stir every bit of warm air into a slow parade across my face. I gave it a look that suggested disappointment, though I knew full well it lacked both shame and eyesight.

The true hope of the household sat in the corner, waiting with all the confidence of a miracle cure advertised on the back of a seed catalog.

It was a floor fan purchased during a clearance sale that should have served as fair warning. Anything advertised as "Powerful Cooling Comfort" while sitting beside discounted garden hoses had already begun telling lies. The box had shown a smiling family wearing sweaters while a blue breeze drifted around them. Looking at that picture now felt like reading a work of fiction.

The fan had performed faithfully for nearly three summers, which in the life expectancy of inexpensive machinery was about the same as a mule reaching old age.

That morning I carried it into the living room where I intended to spend the day accomplishing absolutely nothing. A man might dream of industry until the thermometer reached ninety-five. After that, ambition became something to admire in other people.

After a doubtful glance at the wall outlet, I plugged the fan in and waited.

Nothing happened.

Another attempt earned me a long mechanical groan that sounded like an old cow objecting to a tax increase. The blades lurched forward an inch, reconsidered, then began turning with a racket fit to empty a church.

"KRAAAANK... CLACK... WHOOOOONK..."

I smiled. It lived. My victory lasted approximately four seconds.

The fan gathered an astonishing amount of hot air and launched it squarely into my face.

If someone had opened the door to a bakery oven and invited me to stand inside, the experience could scarcely have differed.

I stepped aside, and the fan followed.

Its head had apparently developed a habit of oscillating only when it wished to annoy me personally. Left. Center. Right. Back to my face every single time. I moved my chair. The fan found me again. I hid behind the couch. It paused thoughtfully before sweeping toward my forehead with the confidence of a bloodhound finding a lost trail.

By then I had begun to suspect there existed inside the machine a tiny employee whose only assignment was locating my nose.

"I'd appreciate a little cooperation," I told it.

"KRAAAANK."

"You don't have to be hateful."

"WHOOOONK."

It seemed we had reached an understanding.

Out came a screwdriver. Every man believed he could repair machinery with confidence entirely unrelated to experience. We inherited this optimism from our fathers, who inherited it from theirs, all the way back to whichever ancestor first struck a wheel with a rock and declared himself an engineer.

Removing the back grill uncovered enough dust to qualify the fan as local history. The blades wore a gray coat thick enough to plant potatoes in. I scrubbed everything clean, added a few drops of oil, tightened every screw I could find, and stepped back with the satisfied expression common to men who had absolutely no idea what they were doing.

The fan answered by making the exact same noise, only wetter.

Outside, the sun climbed higher with the enthusiasm of a debt collector.

Inside, my shirt attached itself permanently to my back. Sweat gathered beneath my glasses. A drop rolled down the end of my nose and lingered there as though considering whether the journey had been worthwhile.

I remembered an old trick involving a bowl of ice placed before a fan. The idea sounded scientific enough to satisfy anyone unwilling to ask questions.

The freezer surrendered one lonely tray of ice cubes and a bag of peas that had seen better administrations.

I balanced the bowl before the fan.

For thirty glorious seconds the breeze hinted at civilization.

Then the ice melted, the bowl tipped over, and cold water spread across the hardwood floor. The fan enthusiastically picked up the splash and sprayed it onto my socks.

Warm air stayed above while cold water settled around my feet, leaving me uncomfortable in two different climates at once.

The newspapers I stepped on wrapped themselves around my ankles so completely that I looked like a man trying to escape while wearing yesterday's headlines.

After peeling the paper away, I decided water alone wasn't enough.

A wet towel around the neck sounded promising.

For two minutes it felt heavenly.

By the third minute the towel had become warm enough to steam vegetables.

I exchanged it for another.

Then another.

Soon every towel in the house hung over chairs, dripping like surrender flags while I searched for something else to soak.

The dog wandered through, took one look at the damp mess, and quietly left for the porch. Even he had concluded I was making poor decisions.

Desperation bred invention.

I taped cardboard around the fan, fashioned a tunnel from two moving boxes, shoved the remaining frozen vegetables inside, and congratulated myself for constructing what I believed to be homemade air conditioning.

When I switched it on, the fan inhaled a loose bag of corn.

The bag burst.

Thawed kernels blasted through the cardboard tube and peppered the kitchen with surprising force. Corn bounced off cabinets, ricocheted off the refrigerator, and disappeared into places I will likely discover next Christmas.

I spent ten minutes picking vegetables out of my hair.

The kitchen had somehow become hotter.

Surely the refrigerator could help, so I opened both doors wide and parked a chair in front of it.

Cold air drifted out in the same manner a banker parted with money.

Still, I sat there smiling.

Twenty minutes later the refrigerator motor began roaring with the determination of a freight train climbing a hill. The kitchen filled with warm exhaust, the milk had lost its enthusiasm, and the butter looked prepared to negotiate.

The refrigerator had joined the fan.

They were working together.

There remained one sensible option.

The bathtub.

I filled it with cold water, dragged the fan into the bathroom, and placed it carefully nearby.

The arrangement looked brilliant.

Until the fan vibrated itself across the tile floor.

Nothing moved a fellow faster than watching electricity shuffle toward bathwater.

I lunged, slipped on the wet tile, grabbed the shower curtain, and brought the entire rod crashing down on my head. The fan survived untouched.

By then the house resembled the aftermath of an unsuccessful science fair.

Towels dripped from every chair.

Water puddled across two rooms.

Corn decorated the kitchen.

The bathroom looked as though a wrestling match had broken out between plumbing and furniture.

Even the fan sounded pleased with itself.

There came a moment when reason packed its bags and left.

I climbed into the truck and drove to the hardware store to buy another fan.

So had everyone else.

The parking lot looked like the county fair.

Inside, every person wore the same wilted expression. A crowd stood around the air-conditioning vent near the entrance pretending to compare lawn fertilizer while secretly refusing to move.

"Any fans left?" I asked.

The clerk laughed so hard he had to lean on the counter.

"Sold the last one three hours ago."

"What about that one?" I pointed toward the display model.

"That's nailed down."

"I'll buy the nails."

"Three other people already offered."

Defeated, I wandered into the grocery store next door.

Half the town had discovered the frozen food aisle.

Folks drifted slowly past the freezer cases reading labels with extraordinary concentration. One elderly gentleman spent fifteen minutes deciding between two identical bags of hash browns. A woman stood in front of the ice cream with an empty cart and absolutely no intention of making a purchase.

Nobody fooled anybody.

We were all there for the cold air.

I stayed until an employee asked if I needed help finding something.

"Peace," I said.

"We're out."

The drive home felt longer than the morning.

Opening the front door revealed the same miserable heat waiting patiently where I had left it.

The broken fan still occupied the center of the living room.

I stared at it while it seemed to stare back with one crooked blade.

Against every lesson the day had taught me, I plugged it in once more.

"KRAAAANK... CLACK... WHOOOONK..."

A blast of hot air struck me square in the face.

I laughed.

The fan groaned.

Neither of us had won, though it certainly held the better record. By sunset the heat finally loosened its grip, and the first honest breeze of the day drifted through the open window.

The fan chose that exact moment to give one final, defiant rattle, shudder twice, and die forever.

It had waited all day for cooler air before deciding it no longer needed to work. That, I believed, was the purest form of spite ever demonstrated by a machine.