Burton Cole

Over the years, I have carefully cultivated my persona as a guy who can’t fix things. You may laugh, but it’s kept me safely away from numerous repair jobs and household disasters.

When the pipe under the sink let go, I heard, “Burt, help! Come out here and fix this… Never mind. I’ll call Bruce.”

Which is how I got to remain in the comfort of my easy chair to watch the fourth quarter of the game while Bruce wriggled among the bottles, jars, rags and puddles beneath my kitchen sink.

He muttered the whole time: “Whatever you do, don’t let Burt help. He’ll accidentally poke three more holes in the line or something.”

When the bathtub clogged, my daughter fixed it. “I like being an independent woman who doesn’t have to call on some guy to do things,” she said.

You’re welcome. I taught you that.

Sometimes, when no one’s looking, I’m tempted to sneak a wrench or a socket out of my secret hiding place and fix something myself. But I don’t. It would only lead to trouble — for me.

My reputation would be shot, and I’d be commanded to do things like look under the hood for that knocking in the engine or to give up my nap to replace the damaged paneling. I couldn’t stand the inconvenience.

I learned my lesson about the dangers of being a handyman decades ago when we were a family of four and I still toyed with the idea of fixing things.

We were rushing out the door for a very important picnic when my wife noticed that the deadbolt on our front door jammed. The door wouldn’t close.

I thought of the fried chicken, deviled eggs and chocolate cake, and declared, “I can fix that.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” she said, and walloped that door with enough hip action to scare an Elvis impersonator. The door shook, rattled and rolled snugly into the frame. And stayed.

Trouble was, we were still inside. We crawled out the window, secure in the knowledge that no one could get in through the front door. Especially us.

Climbing back in a window is tougher on a full stomach, but we managed — although sleeping on the porch might have been easier.

The next morning, I slithered back out the window to stomp urgent footprints all over the door. Apparently, that technique only works for licensed television detectives.

Back through the window, I lost my mind, slipped the screwdriver out of hiding and began plucking pins from hinges to remove the door completely.

To reach the top hinge, I mounted the wobbly step ladder that I said I’d fix, but hadn’t. Seconds later, I had a sudden and impactful meeting with the hardwood floor.

While I rolled around, writhing in incompetence, my wife UNLOCKED the front door. She BUMPED the door.

It popped free on both sides, since the hinge pins lay across the floor where I carefully scattered them as I was falling.

She set the door back on its hinges, dropped the pins in place, then hauled me off to the medical emergency center.

On the way, she made me promise to let her finish the work on the door herself. This was a promise I could keep — and I have ever since.

“Hey, can Burt come over and help me fix the lawn mower engine?”

“Not unless you want it to blow up,” she’d tell the inquiring neighbor.

I’m a man who doesn’t fix things. Life is much easier, with a lot few scars that way.

Burt also doesn’t seem to bother fixing typos. Send repairs to burton.w.cole@gmail.com or to the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.