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Donald Fagen once wrote a lyric about a beautiful blonde dancing on a mirror: “It’s the hair, it’s the dress—she’s a concept, more or less.” That’s exactly what I sadly discovered about a well-known tool manufacturer I had recently adored.

DeWalt—what a name, what a look, what a family of tools.

For years, everything about this brand—from its battery-powered screwdrivers to its chisels, pliers, and hand tools—bubbled up with promise: rugged, bold, and reliable. That is, until this week.

In my case, the heartbreak came courtesy of a DeWalt portable air compressor. I’d been through two other compressors over the years, both from lesser-known brands. They all failed. So, I figured air compressors must just have a short shelf life. Still, I wanted something more solid.

So I thought: I’m going big. I’m getting the beautiful yellow-and-black DeWalt baby. That’s the one. That’s my forever compressor. I brought it home, unboxed it with reverence, and practically wished for a flat tire just so I could use it. Then something went wrong.

I was filling the tires on my tractor when—bam!—the compressor let out a horrifying rattle like it had blown its top. My first thought? Eye injury. I flinched, expecting shrapnel. But thankfully, the pressure relief valve did its job and saved the day.

The problem? It never shut off. The motor just kept humming, pushing air into a tank that didn’t know when to say when. No shutoff equals no good.

“Wait … is it under warranty?” I asked myself. “I mean—it’s DeWalt, right? Built to last. 

Probably has a three-year, no-hassle deal.” I pulled out my phone. OK, let’s find out. Google search: “DeWalt air compressor warranty claim.”

Boom—there it is. An online form. Fill it out, they said. Just provide the model number (somewhere buried under the handle), the serial number (faded print in the darkest corner), and a copy of the receipt (which, thank goodness, I had scanned).

OK, done. Hit submit. Let’s do this.

And then—crickets. Nothing. No response. No confirmation. Maybe I missed the email?

Two weeks later, while cleaning out my inbox on a rainy afternoon, I searched “DeWalt” and there it was—buried beneath ads and newsletters. Their message, paraphrased: “Sorry for the inconvenience. We’ve forwarded your request to a different department. This product is handled by a specialized team. Here’s their contact info in case you want to follow up.”

That’s when I realized—I wasn’t dealing with DeWalt at all. The real manufacturer? FNA (Fini Nu Air) SpA. An Italian company. Never heard of them. Suddenly, I’m Butch Cassidy turning to Sundance: “Who are those guys?”

A quick search revealed: “With over 70 years of experience, Fini is the leader in compressed air.” Great, I thought. Glad you’re experienced. Can you just build one that works?

Turns out my $10 problem was a pressure switch. A tiny part that looks like a spark plug with wire terminals and a pinhole vent. Simple, right? Not so fast. The part was held in place by a stepless ear clamp—one that requires a specialty crimping tool I didn’t have.

OK, just pop off the plastic cover and swap it out. Easy fix.

Wrong.

That began a weeklong journey through tamperproof screws, snapped plastic clips, and black shrouds designed more like armor than housing. The interior layout? Think Darth Vader’s helmet assembly. 

I removed the wheels and rolled around the damp yard as if I were wrestling a dead metal hog.

And let’s be clear: if I didn’t have a bunch of spare time—being semi-retired and all—and didn’t secretly enjoy the challenge of a good repair job, that compressor would be in a landfill right now. Replacing the part was one thing; putting it all back together was another. As I clicked the final shroud back into place (sort of), I stood there looking at it and thought, I did it! 

Until—I plugged it in … and nothing. Opening Darth Vader’s helmet again, I discovered all the wires from the on-off switch were 

dangling. No problem, right?

Wrong.

Two wires. One switch. Four contact points. Which wire goes where? Google again, only to find there are no available wiring diagrams. And the parts list? It contains everything except the on-off switch.

So I used my best guess and took my final leap to reassemble Darth Vader—this time while getting soaked by the rain on my back.

Finally … success! I’m resembling Rocky Balboa, dancing around my yard in the rain. Later, resting on the couch, I start thinking: Did I just get conned by branding? And that brings me to the moral of the story:

What looks like a fantastic shop item—rugged, sleek, confident—might just be a “concept, more or less.” Something with a short lifespan, manufactured not by the company you trusted, but by someone you’ve never heard of.

And when a product comes with a short—and often expensive—warranty? That’s not a benefit. That’s a clue. A clue that the manufacturer knows their patient is going to die way sooner than expected.

And now you know it, too.