Beep! Time to clean

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Updated: February 16, 2012 8:07AM

I’ve spent much of my spare time in the past month in my basement tool shed. I’m not working on a project or anything, and I’m not in trouble (that I know of); I’ve just been looking for a “beep.”

Like many a suburban dad, I decided when we moved into this house years ago that a section of the basement was to be cordoned off as Dad’s Shop. I wanted a place where I could do wordworking projects, fix items and store my tools. (I don’t actually know how to do workworking projects, but it seemed like a nice idea. I even bought a small table saw. It’s really scary, so I’ve used it only once.)

My tool shed, though, has remained — a reminder of what could have been. It’s crammed into a back corner, in the same room with the furnace. It’s not really a big enough area in which to work on projects, so I never spend any time in there.

I’m not the most organized person. When I’m finished with a job, I open the door to the shed, toss the tools onto the ever-growing pile and walk away. Over the past 15 years, it’s turned into a jumbled heap of tools, paint cans, caulk guns and coffee cans filled with rusted nails.

Cleaning up and organizing my tool shed is my “this weekend” project: a project that I vow to complete every Saturday morning — and will continue to think about until the day I die. We all have one. Say it: “This weekend I’m finally getting around to (insert your own pathetically unmet goal here).” My wife’s “this weekend” project, for instance, is sorting through her clothes closet, which has now reached levels where I’m waiting on a call-back from the folks at “Hoarding: Buried Alive.”

About a month and a half ago, though, the high-pitched beep started. It occurred every minute or so and was just loud enough to be annoying. My 17-year-old son first brought it to my attention, as it was distracting him so much he couldn’t fall asleep after school on the basement futon. I offered him five bucks if he could find the source of the beep. This produced no results, because A) he’s just lazy enough that five bucks wouldn’t get him off the futon, and B) we both know that I’m just cheap enough that I’d welsh on the five bucks I’d owe him.

But as the holidays came around, we had to shuffle people around to accommodate kids coming home for visits, and one of our boys was going to sleep on the futon. I didn’t want him to be up all night. Night after night, I’d go into the tool shed, listening for the beep. Sometimes it came from the ceiling, sometimes from the floor. Each time it seemed to come from someplace else.

One night, I pulled a stepladder into the tool shed and spent half the evening crouched with my ear bent toward the ceiling. Another evening, I called in both my daughters, and we stood, ears cocked, waiting. Every time the beep sounded, all three of us pointed in different directions. At one point, I was convinced it was coming from somewhere inside our furnace, and even researched stethoscope prices on the Internet.

It became an obsession. I’d rustle through piles of cans and tools, shifting things back and forth and swearing like an angry rapper. I’d spend hours perched on a stool, sullenly staring off into space, cringing with every beep. I was starting to get that look James Brolin had in “The Amityville Horror.”

The one thing I did not do, however, was actually clean up my tool shed — a “this weekend” project is by definition a project that you’re not really going to get to.

This past Saturday morning, I decided I’d had enough. One of my New Year’s resolutions was to take charge of my life. I grabbed a few contractor-grade cleanup bags, rolled up my sleeves, and waded into the pile.

The first thing I picked up was a white bucket with some old gardening tools inside. It would be the first to go. As I shoved the bucket into the bag, it beeped. I stood and stared at it, and then pulled it back out. Under the gardening tools was an old smoke alarm, no longer in use, the red flashing light indicating the need for a new battery.

I took the battery out of the smoke alarm, folded up the contractor bags, firmly closed the door to the tool shed, and went upstairs to see if we had any cold beer.

I haven’t forgotten about cleaning up the tool shed. In fact, I’m going to do it — this weekend.