Tuesday, November 11, 2008
A Friendly Advertisement
Welcome to my warm-hearted collection of short fiction, and stuff that should be fiction, about my bicycle, life, etcetera. This blog is basically a glorious showcase of my life's work. It ranges from riding the train to building a closet to pointing out the flaws of Rutgers University in New Brunswick. Why, there's little I've left to do. And I've written it nearly all down. Fact is, I sometimes worry about running out of good meaty material before I die. That's what happened to Hemingway. Wound up writing bootleg Charlie Brown comic strips in Bermuda because all the good wars dried up. Since I don't want that to happen to me, I absolutely refuse to slow down with my wild, breakneck lifestyle. Why just the other day I was realizing the horrible ironies of televangelism... But you'll have to search through my many adventures to find out what I'm talking about. The point is, this is very exciting and adventurous stuff. It's so exciting you can't believe it. You just can't stand it it's so exotic. Why, if you bundled together fifty different species of tropical birds in a pillowcase and trained them all to sing "When the Saints Come Marching Home", that wouldn't compare to the delights you'll find while perusing My Shogun. So get started, and please feel free to make comments galore, since I've no other way of hearing from you, my beloved readers.
A Public Service Announcement
I have to take this math course before I can graduate next spring. It's almost the lowest level of math offered by the fine people here at Rutgers. Elementary Algebra - as if I was supposed to have learned this stuff before leaving the fifth grade. Anyway, it doesn't look good because I keep bombing my tests. It's not that I don't get the ideas, it's just that I can't seem to copy the problems onto my paper. Sometimes 6 turns into x. That's because when I think "six" I see the x. Sometimes 8 also turns into an x because there's an x in the middle of the 8. I also confuse plus and minus signs because there's a minus sign in a plus sign. There are many more that I haven't pinned down yet.
This is frustrating stuff because even though I know to a large extent what I'm doing wrong, I can't seem to slow down and focus hard enough to stop doing it. So I thought, that sounds like ADD. I called the psychological testing services here at Rugters to see if there was a test I could take.
Oh was there a test. "Let me break this down for you," said the grad student on duty, "because it's expensive. For $450, you can take the ADD test, but for only $250 you can take the ADHD test. Then there's the combined test, where we test for ADD and ADHD at the same time. There you're back up to $450."
Well, the clever pricing alone put a stop to my delusions of grandeur. But there's something strange about it still. Even if I had the money. It's not like you walk in and say, "hey there's something wrong with me can you help?" It's set up like they're selling a product.
I was telling my friend about all this and he warned me that insurance companies consider ADD a pre-existing mental illness. That means they can probably find loopholes to get out of paying for services should I ever need them. That is, of course, if I purchase my test results. I didn't fact-check that one. My assumption that my friend is right is probably tainted with bias. I'm really just imposing my belief that the insurance companies lack a certain pre-existing morality.
So, if you're struggling with a similar problem, there may be no actual resources.
This has been a public service announcement from the ADD Council.
This is frustrating stuff because even though I know to a large extent what I'm doing wrong, I can't seem to slow down and focus hard enough to stop doing it. So I thought, that sounds like ADD. I called the psychological testing services here at Rugters to see if there was a test I could take.
Oh was there a test. "Let me break this down for you," said the grad student on duty, "because it's expensive. For $450, you can take the ADD test, but for only $250 you can take the ADHD test. Then there's the combined test, where we test for ADD and ADHD at the same time. There you're back up to $450."
Well, the clever pricing alone put a stop to my delusions of grandeur. But there's something strange about it still. Even if I had the money. It's not like you walk in and say, "hey there's something wrong with me can you help?" It's set up like they're selling a product.
I was telling my friend about all this and he warned me that insurance companies consider ADD a pre-existing mental illness. That means they can probably find loopholes to get out of paying for services should I ever need them. That is, of course, if I purchase my test results. I didn't fact-check that one. My assumption that my friend is right is probably tainted with bias. I'm really just imposing my belief that the insurance companies lack a certain pre-existing morality.
So, if you're struggling with a similar problem, there may be no actual resources.
This has been a public service announcement from the ADD Council.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Relativism? What?
I don't know about you, but I've been hearing a lot about this thing called relativism lately. It sounds like a trendy thing to talk about and then avoid like the plague.
I happened to see a televangelist the other day. It was the day of the election and behind the speaker there were giant cardboard cutouts of the Democratic ass and the Republican elephant, implying a reasonably balanced perspective. At any rate, I thought it had to do with what was going on at that moment. I normally don't watch televangelists but I thought I would give him the benefit of the doubt.
As usual the speaker was rather charismatic, delivering highly abstract messages in crisp 40-second sound bites. The perfect format for an in depth theological analysis. He was giving us an overview of the political landscape right now. He spread his arms apart to show the two sides, also making himself appear much bigger as he stretched the ability of his shirt to remain tucked neatly into his jeans. We were at war, he said. It was truth versus relativism.
I was hooked. Not only did I consider myself a member of the studio audience, I was already very familiar with the two sides, having been steeped in pop-evangelical-culture at youth group in Maine. Truth was obviously the side to be on. Relativism appeared sexy at first, but was quickly revealed to be a brain-fart. It was a philosophy that said something may be right for person A, and wrong for B. Therefore truth is relative. It's like this, the speaker said, Professor Fuzzyface comes into the classroom and hands out a multiple-choice test. Each question has four possible answers, but don't worry. None of them are wrong. That's relativism!
This drew quiet applause and knowing chuckles. Oh those relativists. We had all been avoiding them for years.
In reality, he asserted, it's not like that at all. Truth is absolute and tied to God. God is truth. The Bible is the only source of pure, unadulterated truth. It's got electrolytes.
Electrolytes.
It's not up to us to decide what's right and wrong. Oh no sir.
No sir.
There is a standard for measuring what is right and what is wrong. And that standard is the infallible word of God.
Husbands drew their wives closer and the wives leaned forward and nodded.
Marriage ought to be held to the absolute standard of the Bible. And the Bible says, cover to cover, that marriage is between one man and one woman! Couldn't be clearer.
Except, of course, for all the polygamy. But we all overlooked that minor detail because he was quickly making another much farther-reaching point. A point so big and manly and important that it made monogamy and polygamy look like identical twin sisters. It was a point that brought to light a view that was shearly opposed everything the bible stood for. This magnanimous point was that God hated to see the gays getting married. The speaker strode back and forth across the stage like a lion. You can't say that men marrying men is okay these days because... because... because, he whispered, truth is relative. No my friends, he roared, truth is not relative! The camera cut to a rear shot. You could see the battery pack for the wireless microphone tucked into the back of his jeans. This guy was high tech, yet resourceful. Smart enough to not draw attention to just how high tech and yet resourceful he was.
I think I would like to meet a relativist, briefly. A really prime candidate. One who actually does think that something we universally consider unthinkable here and now is actually okay and maybe even the right thing to do in a different land and a different time. I don't know... take genocide for example? I don't know of ANYONE who would even try to cobble together an argument that says, under these circumstances, it's okay to go ahead and wipe out an entire ethnicity, or race. The whole thing. Every man woman and child.
I'm being facetious. Of course I have met relativists. The speaker was one. He believed the Bible literally. That means that when an Israeli general ordered his men to kill children, it was okay for his men to do so. According to the general, this was God's will and that made it right. But if a soldier received that order today, even with the general's assurance that it was God's idea in the first place, I'm sure the speaker would object. I hope. If he would object, then that's relativism if I ever saw it. Am I wrong? It seems like the people who complain about relativism are generally predisposed to just that.
Or am I just picking low fruit?
I happened to see a televangelist the other day. It was the day of the election and behind the speaker there were giant cardboard cutouts of the Democratic ass and the Republican elephant, implying a reasonably balanced perspective. At any rate, I thought it had to do with what was going on at that moment. I normally don't watch televangelists but I thought I would give him the benefit of the doubt.
As usual the speaker was rather charismatic, delivering highly abstract messages in crisp 40-second sound bites. The perfect format for an in depth theological analysis. He was giving us an overview of the political landscape right now. He spread his arms apart to show the two sides, also making himself appear much bigger as he stretched the ability of his shirt to remain tucked neatly into his jeans. We were at war, he said. It was truth versus relativism.
I was hooked. Not only did I consider myself a member of the studio audience, I was already very familiar with the two sides, having been steeped in pop-evangelical-culture at youth group in Maine. Truth was obviously the side to be on. Relativism appeared sexy at first, but was quickly revealed to be a brain-fart. It was a philosophy that said something may be right for person A, and wrong for B. Therefore truth is relative. It's like this, the speaker said, Professor Fuzzyface comes into the classroom and hands out a multiple-choice test. Each question has four possible answers, but don't worry. None of them are wrong. That's relativism!
This drew quiet applause and knowing chuckles. Oh those relativists. We had all been avoiding them for years.
In reality, he asserted, it's not like that at all. Truth is absolute and tied to God. God is truth. The Bible is the only source of pure, unadulterated truth. It's got electrolytes.
Electrolytes.
It's not up to us to decide what's right and wrong. Oh no sir.
No sir.
There is a standard for measuring what is right and what is wrong. And that standard is the infallible word of God.
Husbands drew their wives closer and the wives leaned forward and nodded.
Marriage ought to be held to the absolute standard of the Bible. And the Bible says, cover to cover, that marriage is between one man and one woman! Couldn't be clearer.
Except, of course, for all the polygamy. But we all overlooked that minor detail because he was quickly making another much farther-reaching point. A point so big and manly and important that it made monogamy and polygamy look like identical twin sisters. It was a point that brought to light a view that was shearly opposed everything the bible stood for. This magnanimous point was that God hated to see the gays getting married. The speaker strode back and forth across the stage like a lion. You can't say that men marrying men is okay these days because... because... because, he whispered, truth is relative. No my friends, he roared, truth is not relative! The camera cut to a rear shot. You could see the battery pack for the wireless microphone tucked into the back of his jeans. This guy was high tech, yet resourceful. Smart enough to not draw attention to just how high tech and yet resourceful he was.
I think I would like to meet a relativist, briefly. A really prime candidate. One who actually does think that something we universally consider unthinkable here and now is actually okay and maybe even the right thing to do in a different land and a different time. I don't know... take genocide for example? I don't know of ANYONE who would even try to cobble together an argument that says, under these circumstances, it's okay to go ahead and wipe out an entire ethnicity, or race. The whole thing. Every man woman and child.
I'm being facetious. Of course I have met relativists. The speaker was one. He believed the Bible literally. That means that when an Israeli general ordered his men to kill children, it was okay for his men to do so. According to the general, this was God's will and that made it right. But if a soldier received that order today, even with the general's assurance that it was God's idea in the first place, I'm sure the speaker would object. I hope. If he would object, then that's relativism if I ever saw it. Am I wrong? It seems like the people who complain about relativism are generally predisposed to just that.
Or am I just picking low fruit?
Monday, October 13, 2008
The Egalitariate
Oscar considered his Hummer to be his inner sanctum. It was there he felt most in touch with the mysterious essence of his being. Every man must have a private sanctum, he thought. If they don't, they should get one.
He had had the windows tinted. All of them, even the front two and windshield were like a cop's sunglasses. He had to pay a fine of $250 in order to tint the front ones and the windshield, but he hardly cared. That was the price of two tanks of gas.
He took advantage of his privacy at this point to use his cell phone the way God intended: held to the ear and without fear of being pulled over.
"You got the job?" he said. "Terrific! Where? - Hold on." He was speaking with his soon-to-be-fiance, Nancy. He let the phone drop from his hand so he could grip the large steering wheel with both hands as his giant tires turned a stray dog into a squirt of jelly.
"Where? Seylene's?" He didn't know or recognize the place of business. "Of course, fantastic."
He planned to ask for her hand in marriage that very night at Terhune Orchard. Amidst the sleeping flocks of geese and millions of flashing green fireflies, he would kneel down and present his $30,000 diamond ring. It was the most beautiful thing he could think of.
He said goodbye and fell to rehearsing a small speech he had prepared for the event. "I want an egalitarian marriage. That's the plan here. The goal. Perfect equality between me and you. Husband and wife splitting - no sharing - everything, right down the middle. That includes income, childcare, everything." This speech always made him excited. How could she say no, he wondered. It was a sure thing.
Later that night, he found himself at the restaurant Pad Thai, instead of Terhune Orchard, as he had expected. The little ring box pressed relentlessly against his leg under the table.
"Thanks for coming here," said Nancy. She wore plastic flip flops from two years ago.
He adjusted his chair. "No problem."
"You're upset."
"Seylene's is a lingerie shop? You're selling lingerie?"
"Bras." She changed the way she was sitting in her seat before continuing. "It's very important for a woman to have a bra that fits. If she looks better, she feels better - what?"
He used the cloth napkin to wipe the dry corner of his mouth. "Nothing." He didn't like the fact that she was wearing the tight shorts that said Abercrombie and Fitch across her ass. He wondered if that's what she wore to work.
"I'm helping women to feel better. Besides, it's a lot more money. I can make, like, what I used to make in a day, in like, four hours!"
The waiter filled their glasses with ice water. Oscar raised his hand for attention. "Leave the pitcher, please." He turned back to Nancy. "You're promoting a feminine ideal."
"No I'm not!"
"Whatever." The light came through the leaves and the glass of the window so that they were part shadowed and part illuminated. The sun struck the window in such a way that nobody could see them from outside. The place was not very full. Not many people knew about Pad Thai, even though it was right there on Nassau Street.
"Have you ever heard the story of the overflowing tea?"
"No." The waiter had not brought them anything to much on. Nothing to whet their appetite. She pinched the hem of her shorts and tugged, straightening them down her legs.
He picked up the glass pitcher. "There's this student and a wise man. The student starts asking him all these questions but the wise man just sits there. Doesn't say a thing."
She looked at the pitcher. The sweat trickled down his knuckles and a drop hung from the bottom one. A prism.
"Finally the student says, 'Can you hear me?' and he says, 'Pour me some tea.'" He held the ring box tight in his pocket, through the fabric of his pants. "So she starts pouring," and he threaded the water from the pitcher to top off her already full glass, which quickly overfilled.
"What are you doing?"
"Soon the tea started to spill onto the table and onto the floor."
She looked around to see if people were staring. Nobody noticed. The water crept into her lap, soaked beneath her underwear. "Stop it, please!" She squirmed a little and sounded scared. "I don't...."
"And soon there was no more tea and the student asked, 'What's your point?' and the wise man said, 'When the cup is full, it cannot hold more. So it is with you. First you must empty yourself before you can receive knowledge.'"
She scooted away from the table.
"Now you're upset, babe. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I...." She took off her thick green sweater and laid it across her lap. "I don't feel well."
"Well that's just fine." He let go of the ring box and it remained slightly ajar. The hinge was slightly damaged.
"I'm sorry, I've been feeling bad all day. It must be my period."
"No, it's not your fault, hun. I'll make you something at home." They stood up and she tied her sweatshirt around her waist, hiding the wet spot.
The waiter approached them with his hands together. "You're leaving? Is everything okay?"
Oscar bit his lip and looked at Nancy's sweater. "Everything's fine. We're not feeling well is all." The waiter looked also.
They walked down the street and came to her car first. It was a Honda Civic. "I'll drive you to your car," she said.
"Thanks."
The seat was too far forward so he reached down to adjust it.
"It's broken," she said.
He spread his legs as wide as the car would allow and pushed himself into the seat. "Do you really need to go home? or can I show you something?" There was still time to make it to Terhune.
"I guess."
"I want to take you somewhere special tonight." The sun was below the buildings. It shined into their eyes as they came near the Municipal Parking Garage. "Pull over here. Wait for me."
He came out driving his Hummer and pulled up behind her, slowly. She was on the phone and didn't notice him there so he kept inching closer until he tapped the trunk with his bumper. This startled her and she pulled her phone away as if it had become a wasp. She put her car into gear and waited for him to back up. He laughed even though he didn't want to. He bit his lip, but laughed more.
He didn't move because she could easily pull into traffic by turning sharp and moving ahead. By now he had forgotten about Terhune.
She put her car back into park and got out. She walked slowly to his door and waited to be acknowledged. She had to look up and he knew she could not see him. He smiled and waited. She could not see the dog's blood on the passenger side fender, either.
She tapped the glass and he continued to smile. Then he put the phone to his ear and let the window down. He looked at her.
She didn't want to embarrass him so she made it sound like a joke. "You boxed me in, you dope."
He made his eyes big, like he was embarrassed and fumbled to put his vehicle into reverse while maintaining the phone on his cheek. He blocked his mouth from the receiver and whispered, "Sorry."
He had had the windows tinted. All of them, even the front two and windshield were like a cop's sunglasses. He had to pay a fine of $250 in order to tint the front ones and the windshield, but he hardly cared. That was the price of two tanks of gas.
He took advantage of his privacy at this point to use his cell phone the way God intended: held to the ear and without fear of being pulled over.
"You got the job?" he said. "Terrific! Where? - Hold on." He was speaking with his soon-to-be-fiance, Nancy. He let the phone drop from his hand so he could grip the large steering wheel with both hands as his giant tires turned a stray dog into a squirt of jelly.
"Where? Seylene's?" He didn't know or recognize the place of business. "Of course, fantastic."
He planned to ask for her hand in marriage that very night at Terhune Orchard. Amidst the sleeping flocks of geese and millions of flashing green fireflies, he would kneel down and present his $30,000 diamond ring. It was the most beautiful thing he could think of.
He said goodbye and fell to rehearsing a small speech he had prepared for the event. "I want an egalitarian marriage. That's the plan here. The goal. Perfect equality between me and you. Husband and wife splitting - no sharing - everything, right down the middle. That includes income, childcare, everything." This speech always made him excited. How could she say no, he wondered. It was a sure thing.
Later that night, he found himself at the restaurant Pad Thai, instead of Terhune Orchard, as he had expected. The little ring box pressed relentlessly against his leg under the table.
"Thanks for coming here," said Nancy. She wore plastic flip flops from two years ago.
He adjusted his chair. "No problem."
"You're upset."
"Seylene's is a lingerie shop? You're selling lingerie?"
"Bras." She changed the way she was sitting in her seat before continuing. "It's very important for a woman to have a bra that fits. If she looks better, she feels better - what?"
He used the cloth napkin to wipe the dry corner of his mouth. "Nothing." He didn't like the fact that she was wearing the tight shorts that said Abercrombie and Fitch across her ass. He wondered if that's what she wore to work.
"I'm helping women to feel better. Besides, it's a lot more money. I can make, like, what I used to make in a day, in like, four hours!"
The waiter filled their glasses with ice water. Oscar raised his hand for attention. "Leave the pitcher, please." He turned back to Nancy. "You're promoting a feminine ideal."
"No I'm not!"
"Whatever." The light came through the leaves and the glass of the window so that they were part shadowed and part illuminated. The sun struck the window in such a way that nobody could see them from outside. The place was not very full. Not many people knew about Pad Thai, even though it was right there on Nassau Street.
"Have you ever heard the story of the overflowing tea?"
"No." The waiter had not brought them anything to much on. Nothing to whet their appetite. She pinched the hem of her shorts and tugged, straightening them down her legs.
He picked up the glass pitcher. "There's this student and a wise man. The student starts asking him all these questions but the wise man just sits there. Doesn't say a thing."
She looked at the pitcher. The sweat trickled down his knuckles and a drop hung from the bottom one. A prism.
"Finally the student says, 'Can you hear me?' and he says, 'Pour me some tea.'" He held the ring box tight in his pocket, through the fabric of his pants. "So she starts pouring," and he threaded the water from the pitcher to top off her already full glass, which quickly overfilled.
"What are you doing?"
"Soon the tea started to spill onto the table and onto the floor."
She looked around to see if people were staring. Nobody noticed. The water crept into her lap, soaked beneath her underwear. "Stop it, please!" She squirmed a little and sounded scared. "I don't...."
"And soon there was no more tea and the student asked, 'What's your point?' and the wise man said, 'When the cup is full, it cannot hold more. So it is with you. First you must empty yourself before you can receive knowledge.'"
She scooted away from the table.
"Now you're upset, babe. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I...." She took off her thick green sweater and laid it across her lap. "I don't feel well."
"Well that's just fine." He let go of the ring box and it remained slightly ajar. The hinge was slightly damaged.
"I'm sorry, I've been feeling bad all day. It must be my period."
"No, it's not your fault, hun. I'll make you something at home." They stood up and she tied her sweatshirt around her waist, hiding the wet spot.
The waiter approached them with his hands together. "You're leaving? Is everything okay?"
Oscar bit his lip and looked at Nancy's sweater. "Everything's fine. We're not feeling well is all." The waiter looked also.
They walked down the street and came to her car first. It was a Honda Civic. "I'll drive you to your car," she said.
"Thanks."
The seat was too far forward so he reached down to adjust it.
"It's broken," she said.
He spread his legs as wide as the car would allow and pushed himself into the seat. "Do you really need to go home? or can I show you something?" There was still time to make it to Terhune.
"I guess."
"I want to take you somewhere special tonight." The sun was below the buildings. It shined into their eyes as they came near the Municipal Parking Garage. "Pull over here. Wait for me."
He came out driving his Hummer and pulled up behind her, slowly. She was on the phone and didn't notice him there so he kept inching closer until he tapped the trunk with his bumper. This startled her and she pulled her phone away as if it had become a wasp. She put her car into gear and waited for him to back up. He laughed even though he didn't want to. He bit his lip, but laughed more.
He didn't move because she could easily pull into traffic by turning sharp and moving ahead. By now he had forgotten about Terhune.
She put her car back into park and got out. She walked slowly to his door and waited to be acknowledged. She had to look up and he knew she could not see him. He smiled and waited. She could not see the dog's blood on the passenger side fender, either.
She tapped the glass and he continued to smile. Then he put the phone to his ear and let the window down. He looked at her.
She didn't want to embarrass him so she made it sound like a joke. "You boxed me in, you dope."
He made his eyes big, like he was embarrassed and fumbled to put his vehicle into reverse while maintaining the phone on his cheek. He blocked his mouth from the receiver and whispered, "Sorry."
Sunday, October 12, 2008
THE SAFETY OF BEING A COMPANY MAN
Rick is the new lead carpenter who thinks his alcoholism is a big secret. I go out front while he’s reading the paper in his truck and I hang back by the spruce tree in the yard with the low branches and watch him not move. He won’t see me until I’m close. He makes up excuses to visit his truck every half hour or so. He says he needs to consult the blueprints about the layout, or he needs a certain tool. On a real bad day, he’ll come out and say he needs a break to get away from the job. It’s like an adventure, almost, pretending that I know a secret.
It’s been an hour since lunch ended and Mike, the old carpenter, is waiting behind the house, sitting in an upturned wheelbarrow and he's on his fifth cigaret since we stopped working. He’s not the lead of this job, so he can’t bring himself to Rick’s truck to let him know break is up. That would be getting in his face and Mike is a very reasonable man. He calls to me, “Over to Haddon Ave, he took a whole day putting in three pieces of trim.” I turn to show that I heard him. “Another time, three days installing one door. He just moves too slow.” That Rick shuffles around all the time on elephant feet trying not to make a sound. “He’s going to get fired any day now for total lack of performance.”
Mike trained me. We work at a good pace, when we work and we are masters of the fifteen-minute break, the coffee run, the five-minute rest. But it’s okay when it’s us because we know when the boss is coming, when to jump up and grab a tool. That Rick is just flat out drunk all the time.
“Forget about him, Aaron. We got to get something done! Mark’s on his way.” Mike is never wrong because he’s probably a psychic. So I have to make a choice, which will decide Rick’s fate.
I come out from behind the wide spruce tree and approach his truck, not knowing what to say, hoping he will notice me before I have to say anything. I don't want any trouble with him – I’m just an assistant – but I care to see a man keep his job. He’s got responsibilities and all that. I walk straight to the driver’s side door and give the window two quick taps and about face before he sees me. Before he knows I noticed the beer can nestled between his legs as he slept. He jerked to life as if a ghost jumped out in front of him.
I report back to Mike exactly what I saw.
“Passed out drunk, you mean,” he says.
I nod and laugh but I also take a step back. I’m not on anyone’s side here.
Mike tightens his eyes and lips, searching. “Should have called Mark, get him over here so he could've seen that.”
It’s not my place to defend Rick. Besides, anything I could say would be slapped away like some kid's hands. If there’s one thing I know, it’s where my place is.
Rick comes around the corner while Mike and I are still waiting, doing nothing. “What’s up?” he says. “I told you I was going to sleep at lunchtime.” He sounds annoyed, like it was his right to do so.
I pull my hammer out and set a roofing nail in a wrinkle in the Tyvek house wrap. Of course you can’t nail down a wrinkle in that stuff. It’s just to pass the time. Rick waits, trying to get me to look at him, but then understands and walks very slowly over to the sawhorses where he will proceed to cut sheathing.
When he’s halfway there he stops and turns around, scratching his bloated belly. “I don’t know what it is. I just feel like shit today. Just total shit. Can’t seem to get it together and I don’t know how to describe it either. It’s—I just feel like… ah, shit.” I don't want to, but I have to admit that I kind of believe him. Now that he's in the light I can see that the whites of his eyes are yellow and the pale areas of his arms are almost green, like bad sweat stains. He reaches for his waist, but he is not wearing his tool belt. It is sitting under a sawhorse across the yard. “My brother had two heart attacks and a stroke in the same week and he says with all my symptoms I’m a prime candidate.” As he floats slowly over discarded pieces of two by fours and plywood I smell not just the beer on his breath, but underneath that there is whiskey. Completely undermines anything he has to say. If I felt any sympathy for him, it's evaporated now. I look away and set two more roofing nails.
*
First thing in the morning, I wait alone in the skeletal addition until Rick is half an hour late. June in Collingswood, New Jersey is muggy, hot, hard to breathe in. My old jeans stick to my legs as I step up into the doorway. There will be stairs here soon, but I accept it as it is for now. You have to be able to do that in order not to go crazy. Hauling your leg up twenty six inches in the air every time you come inside to work is a good argument against becoming a carpenter. Especially since you have to do it about forty-five times a day. I wait around for a few minutes until I get this feeling like the boss might show up, like maybe my psychic skills are kicking in. I hop back down and walk out front and see that Rick waiting in his gray truck, looking like he spent the night right there. I figure he's sleeping, but right away he sees me, steps out, hitching his pants, clearing his throat, brushing his nose. His gray snaggly mustache covers both lips and when he lets out a breath it makes a tired whispering sound. That whispering sound is there when he talks too, clinging to the ends of his words, like he suddenly took on a chronic condition. “I have to be honest with you, Aaron, I was hoping you wouldn’t show up today. I was going to wait around a little longer and go home cause I feel worse today than I did yesterday.” I wouldn't doubt him, but there's something in his eyes. He doesn't look at me. He's looking at my spruce tree, inspecting it.
“If you’re not feeling well, maybe you should go on home and rest.”
He rocks back and forth several times to show his adamance. “No. No… no,” he says. “Let’s grab some tools. I got the saw here in the box and the gun and air hose. I’ll get them if you can grab the cord and, and… and maybe the radio.” And then he circles twice like a tired dog before reaching into the bed of his truck.
“Can’t forget the radio!”
He unclips his cord and drops the clip, which looks just like one half of a pair of handcuffs. He pauses a moment to gather his strength and then chucks the hundred foot yellow cord into the air. It tumbles into a heap a few feet away on the plywood floor. He curses it out with such heat that I start to feel vulnerable. Little spit crystals fly from his mouth. But of course, he’s talking to the cord and not me, so I shouldn't worry. Then he proceeds to pull the cord, tightening the giant knot until he has enough slack to reach the sawhorses.
Plugging the radio in would come next and he is holding it in one hand, but instead of plugging in, he searches, turning different ways, not finding what he needs. “Do you mind setting up by yourself this once?”
“Not at all.” I can feel a great big explanation coming on so I settle onto the windowsill, getting comfortable.
He puts his hands on his hips and leans forward a little to show he’s serious as an old horse, and honest. “It’s just I feel even worse than I did yesterday — I almost turned round on my way in, but I just need the money, you know? And I didn’t have your number.”
At this, I know he’s lying because there is no way this old drunk has a cell phone. I jump down and I reach into my jeans pocket. “I’ll call you right now so you can save my number.” I don’t have a cell phone either, but it doesn’t matter because I just know he's a born liar.
He draws his hands up and he turns his head away like I'm about to hit him with a bat. “I don’t even know how to do that! I just keep the phone numbers in my notebook here and dial them in. I guess I’m old fashioned and slow, but it’s what I know.” He sounds so solid, but he is a quick, slippery one.
Slowly, I withdraw my hand and I feel I’ve made my point. I look him in the eyes and nod to show that I know something is up with him, and that I don’t like it.
He sets the radio on the floor as if he means to come back to it later. “I hate to do this to you,” he says, “but I need to head up to McDonald’s and find a bathroom. I just—I never felt this bad before and I only just started feeling this way a few weeks ago. I should probably see a doctor, but I don’t know how I’d pay for it.” He laughs. “I guess my real problem is I need money and I have to work for it. That’s why I’m here in the first place on a Saturday!"
I can't stand how polished this guy is so I bend down for the radio. “You don’t have to explain all this, man, you gotta do what you gotta do.”
“Yeah,” he says, “I know. I’d rather be home in bed the way I’m feeling.”
Of course.
He shuffles around for a while on those boots that must be three sizes too big for him. They squash out like his feet are made of jello. I uncover the air compressor and wheel it backwards over hard dried mud. I bring it to the outlet but when I plug it in it does not kick on. It means the air was not drained last night and the problem is that the moisture inside will slowly rust through the tank. I don’t mention this because of course he knows. He already told me, weeks ago, about the one he owned before this one that suffered a massive hole. He showed me with his hands how big the hole was, and he laughed about it. So telling him would only instigate another long and obvious explanation.
He breaks into a coughing fit that lasts about one whole minute. He doubles over and I can hear the death rattle in his lungs and smell the old rotten whiskey. When he’s finished, he leans his hand on the windowsill, catching his breath. “I’m sorry. I do need to go back home right now. Maybe I should see a doctor, except I just don’t know how I’m gonna’ pay for it.”
I reluctantly unscrew the plug to let the old wet air hiss out. “Emergency room might see you for free.”
“But I’d end up waiting round for hours with sick people all round me, and sick children. I hate to see dying kids. I’m really screwing up your day here. Sorry 'bout that. I wanted to call you on my way in and tell you but I just need the money you know?”
The pressurized air sputters as the rusty water finds its way from deep within the tank. A puddle of fine silty sludge spreads itself out like a giant spider squished on the floor. “That’s why I ride a bicycle,” I say, trying to brighten the mood.
He laughs, which brings on another coughing attack. He ends this one by trying to send a glorious arch of phlegm through the empty window hole. It doesn't make it, though. In fact, it dribbles down his brown flannel shirt. He looks down at it embarrassed and smears it around with his hand.
I can't stand to watch him do that so I try to find something to do. “You’d better go on home.” But then he reminds me of a porcupine. Not in the bristly way, but in the way that they have no idea they are lethal. Makes them friendly and goofy so you kind of like them. So I snicker at the glistening trickle line running down his shirt, which makes him snicker back.
“I’ll see you here Monday unless we hear from Mark. Just so you know, I’m putting four hours on my time card. Guys like Mark have all the money in the world. He won’t even question four hours.”
“Four hours it is,” I say as I unplug the compressor and start winding the cords back up. “See a doctor!” I don’t normally condone padding your hours, but just this once, it seems like it's almost for a good reason.
*
Monday morning the studs are damp enough to see the moisture but not enough to feel when I slide my finger across the grain. Drops hang in neat rows stuck to the bottoms of the warped ceiling rafters. The air is cool and nice to breathe as it smells like churned mud. Mike measures the spacing of the studs that Rick has been working on. “What is he doing?” he says.
“Is he here yet?”
“I talked to Mark this morning. He said he passed out in his truck Saturday, on the road. Cirrhosis, I'm betting.”
I don't mean to sound insensitive, but the day must go on. “He wanted all the studs to line up when you look through the walls. He used to do that when he worked down the shore.” I don't mean to defend the guy. If he messed everything up, there are natural consequences.
“That might be a nice trick, but nothing is on layout. Sheetrock will be a fucking nightmare.”
My boots click in a wide shallow puddle that formed on the floor last night. The rusty spot is still there, dry under the water.
Mike continues checking other walls, pulling from the corners, then from random studs. He has two cigarets in his mouth at once, which is a feat I’ve never conceived. “Notice anything unusual,” he says, “besides these walls?”
I pretend I don't hear him as I slosh the water with the side of my boot.
“That’s like to happen when you start drinking first thing in the morning.”
I sink a nail in the middle of the rusty spot and pull it to drain the water. At least I tried to help him.
*
Friday comes and it’s hot as hell again. I have a gallon of water sweating on the new steps. The boss said Rick might come around to collect his last check and his tools. Meanwhile, Mike and I are there mainly to keep an eye on the sheetrockers. Mike distrusts the little bastards as apparently they only speak Spanish. But he says he’s nervous because the roof isn’t shingled yet and it might rain again soon. He doesn’t want to come in on a Saturday to do roofing. Last thing in the world he wants is to do it today, up there with no shade, sitting on the black shingles. “If it rains on their drywall, you think they’ll come out and fix the damage?” He asks, red faced, with an unlit cigaret hanging from his lips. “I doubt it, the lazy bastards.”
At the end of the day, maybe three or three-thirty, this girl comes out behind the addition where Mike is flattening out the Tyvek with a slap stapler. It sounds like a drum inside the addition, where the sheetrockers are working and where I am sweeping. Of course Mike knows you can’t get rid of the wrinkles that way. He’s the one who told me so.
“Is one of you Aaron?” asks the girl.
I stop sweeping and respectfully yell over the slapstapling that I’m him.
She says, “I’m Rick’s daughter. He’s out in my van and he wanted to know if you could measure his compressor to see if it can fit in the back of my van?”
The van has Tennessee plates and there’s a baby inside, sleeping in a car seat. Rick’s up front with the door open, talking quietly with Mike. It’s mostly his whispers that I hear, which drown out the baby's little puffs. I measure the space behind the back seat and the whole van smells like liquor. Stinks too like a sick fart and the heat is doing us no favors with the windows rolled up and the bright sun lasering through. I call Mike to help lift the compressor. As soon as it fits Mike takes off back to the addition because he suspects the boss is about to show up any minute with our checks. I don’t worry about the boss, though. I stand outside Rick’s door, showing basic human compassion. “Did you get the message I left on your phone?”
“I don’t even know how to check my own goddamn messages!”
I was banking on him saying that, as there is no message waiting for him. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m so weak I couldn’t stand up right now if I had to. I tried to make it out back to see you myself, but I only made it halfway up the drive and I had to turn back. That’s why I had to send Becky there. She's my daughter.” He’s lost some weight in the arms and chest. I can see the dark wet patches growing around his armpits and on his chest as we speak. Eyes yellow as ever, he kind of stares at the windshield.
“That’s too bad.”
He scratches his shoulder. “Do you know if Mark’s going to be here soon? He’s got my check.” He pauses to catch his breath. “And we need to leave.”
“Any minute.” At any rate, it's probably impossible for him to continue working the way he looks. But I want to encourage him to think positive. “What do you think you’ll do next?”
“Die,” he says, without hesitation. He puts one hand just below his belt and the other at the top of his chest. “A week, maybe a month. I’m full of cancer here to here.” He slowly rolls his head and looks upward. “Becky, can’t we turn on the AC?” She ignores him.
“That’s a tough one.”
The baby wakes up, starts looking at me and moving its arms and feet in these wild rotations, all at once. It’s got beads of sweat running down its little head and red face. The daughter is leaning behind the baby with her knees on the floor just inside the side door. She’s trying to find something inside a paper bag.
“I’m selling all my tools and everything to move in with Becky down in Tennessee. We got to get started on that tonight cause she has to get right back to work and it’s a nine-hour drive. I just thank God I have such a good daughter.” He lifts his hand over his shoulder like he's reaching for her noble hand. Nothing but air.
I smile at Becky and then look down when she makes eye contact because she looks furious. Whatever she was looking for in that bag, she sure can’t find it.
“Do you know what kind of cancer it is?” I ask.
“Pancreatic,” he says. “One of the worst kinds.”
His daughter throws the bag against the air compressor and something hard inside makes a loud noise. “Yeah…" she says, "pancreatic cancer.”
I say goodbye and head back to work. I stand next to Mike, who is watching the sheetrockers. Much to our surprise, they already have most of it done and show no signs of slowing down. "They’re made for this heat," says Mike. I know that’s a highly racist comment, but I can’t afford to correct him on it. As fast as the boy, about fourteen years old, can carry a sheet the men wearing stilts nail it up and wait for the next one. Apparently, Rick knew what he was doing with the studs. Suddenly Mike picks up a broom and starts sweeping the floor where I already swept it. "Mark's coming."
“Looks like you got things under control,” I say to Mike.
I walk back out front and hide again behind my spruce tree and watch as the boss pulls up next to the van so his truck is boldly in the wrong lane. He hands an envelope through his window and the daughter takes it and tucks it in the corner where the dash meets the windshield. Then the boss hands over another envelope and the daughter looks surprised. I hear her thank him in a high-pitched voice.
Then the boss’s white truck pulls up the drive and onto the lawn on the other side of the house from me. He doesn't see me, or else he would have waved by now. When he’s behind the house, I slowly make my way back to the addition to meet him and Mike and to receive my check.
The boss is standing next to Mike, who is still holding the broom and they are both facing the addition with all their attention on the sheetrockers. They are both short men and slightly overweight. If they changed shirts, they might pass for each other. They are too far away and speaking far too quietly for me to hear but I can see that the boss doesn’t have any more envelopes in his hands and neither does Mike. Without any warning, Mike walks away and lights a cigaret as the boss is still talking. I hear Mike say, “Jesus Christ!” interrupting the boss and ending their little talk.
Then the boss comes over to me. He can’t pay us this week. Doesn’t have the cash, which is how he usually pays us. Of course I can wait a few days, I tell him.
Mike throws his cigaret with his whole arm, quickly gathers up some of his tools and hurries past us. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself!” he says to the boss. “I got kids, you know.” He throws his tools into the back of his truck and speeds out of the neighborhood. I can hear his motor racing long after it is out of view. Then I notice a couple of squirrels chasing each other in my old spruce and I wonder how exactly they know what their little feet are going to grab onto every time they take a step. They just keep ratcheting their way around and around, screeching their horny little hearts out.
“He has kids?” I ask.
The boss shrugs and makes his way back to his gleaming white truck and I call after him, “I’ll finish cleaning up here, then,” and he waves over his shoulder.
“No, just go home Aaron.” He climbs into his truck and fiddles with his visor. Of course I won’t leave him. I’m loyal to the end and I want him to know that. I’m a company man.
The sheetrockers are already working on the little odd shaped pieces as I round up the rest of Mike’s tools. I figure I’m the last guy working for the boss now and wonder if I shouldn’t ask for a raise. It felt good to hear Mike say that to the boss. To go fuck himself. It was good for him but I would never say anything like that. I wouldn’t know what to do next. I wonder how Mike knew to say that, and what to do next. And then next and next. He knows those things the same way he knows the boss is coming, because he's got to be a psychic, or something. And right now, I wonder what he is doing. Probably driving home to his wife... and kids.
When I have all the tools piled up in the corner of the room, the sheetrockers take off, walking, and then the boss leaves close behind them following magnetically in his truck out the driveway. I go over to my bicycle and walk it across the grass. “Go fuck yourself,” I whisper. But of course I don’t mean anything by that. I’m just saying it to see if I can’t feel what Mike felt and it feels dangerous, even whispering it. I know it’s reasonably safe to say these things when there is no one else around, but I just can't imagine myself actually saying that. It would be like jumping off a huge cliff without knowing if there's water below, or a crowded highway. I can only say it now because I am the last one here at the addition.
It’s been an hour since lunch ended and Mike, the old carpenter, is waiting behind the house, sitting in an upturned wheelbarrow and he's on his fifth cigaret since we stopped working. He’s not the lead of this job, so he can’t bring himself to Rick’s truck to let him know break is up. That would be getting in his face and Mike is a very reasonable man. He calls to me, “Over to Haddon Ave, he took a whole day putting in three pieces of trim.” I turn to show that I heard him. “Another time, three days installing one door. He just moves too slow.” That Rick shuffles around all the time on elephant feet trying not to make a sound. “He’s going to get fired any day now for total lack of performance.”
Mike trained me. We work at a good pace, when we work and we are masters of the fifteen-minute break, the coffee run, the five-minute rest. But it’s okay when it’s us because we know when the boss is coming, when to jump up and grab a tool. That Rick is just flat out drunk all the time.
“Forget about him, Aaron. We got to get something done! Mark’s on his way.” Mike is never wrong because he’s probably a psychic. So I have to make a choice, which will decide Rick’s fate.
I come out from behind the wide spruce tree and approach his truck, not knowing what to say, hoping he will notice me before I have to say anything. I don't want any trouble with him – I’m just an assistant – but I care to see a man keep his job. He’s got responsibilities and all that. I walk straight to the driver’s side door and give the window two quick taps and about face before he sees me. Before he knows I noticed the beer can nestled between his legs as he slept. He jerked to life as if a ghost jumped out in front of him.
I report back to Mike exactly what I saw.
“Passed out drunk, you mean,” he says.
I nod and laugh but I also take a step back. I’m not on anyone’s side here.
Mike tightens his eyes and lips, searching. “Should have called Mark, get him over here so he could've seen that.”
It’s not my place to defend Rick. Besides, anything I could say would be slapped away like some kid's hands. If there’s one thing I know, it’s where my place is.
Rick comes around the corner while Mike and I are still waiting, doing nothing. “What’s up?” he says. “I told you I was going to sleep at lunchtime.” He sounds annoyed, like it was his right to do so.
I pull my hammer out and set a roofing nail in a wrinkle in the Tyvek house wrap. Of course you can’t nail down a wrinkle in that stuff. It’s just to pass the time. Rick waits, trying to get me to look at him, but then understands and walks very slowly over to the sawhorses where he will proceed to cut sheathing.
When he’s halfway there he stops and turns around, scratching his bloated belly. “I don’t know what it is. I just feel like shit today. Just total shit. Can’t seem to get it together and I don’t know how to describe it either. It’s—I just feel like… ah, shit.” I don't want to, but I have to admit that I kind of believe him. Now that he's in the light I can see that the whites of his eyes are yellow and the pale areas of his arms are almost green, like bad sweat stains. He reaches for his waist, but he is not wearing his tool belt. It is sitting under a sawhorse across the yard. “My brother had two heart attacks and a stroke in the same week and he says with all my symptoms I’m a prime candidate.” As he floats slowly over discarded pieces of two by fours and plywood I smell not just the beer on his breath, but underneath that there is whiskey. Completely undermines anything he has to say. If I felt any sympathy for him, it's evaporated now. I look away and set two more roofing nails.
*
First thing in the morning, I wait alone in the skeletal addition until Rick is half an hour late. June in Collingswood, New Jersey is muggy, hot, hard to breathe in. My old jeans stick to my legs as I step up into the doorway. There will be stairs here soon, but I accept it as it is for now. You have to be able to do that in order not to go crazy. Hauling your leg up twenty six inches in the air every time you come inside to work is a good argument against becoming a carpenter. Especially since you have to do it about forty-five times a day. I wait around for a few minutes until I get this feeling like the boss might show up, like maybe my psychic skills are kicking in. I hop back down and walk out front and see that Rick waiting in his gray truck, looking like he spent the night right there. I figure he's sleeping, but right away he sees me, steps out, hitching his pants, clearing his throat, brushing his nose. His gray snaggly mustache covers both lips and when he lets out a breath it makes a tired whispering sound. That whispering sound is there when he talks too, clinging to the ends of his words, like he suddenly took on a chronic condition. “I have to be honest with you, Aaron, I was hoping you wouldn’t show up today. I was going to wait around a little longer and go home cause I feel worse today than I did yesterday.” I wouldn't doubt him, but there's something in his eyes. He doesn't look at me. He's looking at my spruce tree, inspecting it.
“If you’re not feeling well, maybe you should go on home and rest.”
He rocks back and forth several times to show his adamance. “No. No… no,” he says. “Let’s grab some tools. I got the saw here in the box and the gun and air hose. I’ll get them if you can grab the cord and, and… and maybe the radio.” And then he circles twice like a tired dog before reaching into the bed of his truck.
“Can’t forget the radio!”
He unclips his cord and drops the clip, which looks just like one half of a pair of handcuffs. He pauses a moment to gather his strength and then chucks the hundred foot yellow cord into the air. It tumbles into a heap a few feet away on the plywood floor. He curses it out with such heat that I start to feel vulnerable. Little spit crystals fly from his mouth. But of course, he’s talking to the cord and not me, so I shouldn't worry. Then he proceeds to pull the cord, tightening the giant knot until he has enough slack to reach the sawhorses.
Plugging the radio in would come next and he is holding it in one hand, but instead of plugging in, he searches, turning different ways, not finding what he needs. “Do you mind setting up by yourself this once?”
“Not at all.” I can feel a great big explanation coming on so I settle onto the windowsill, getting comfortable.
He puts his hands on his hips and leans forward a little to show he’s serious as an old horse, and honest. “It’s just I feel even worse than I did yesterday — I almost turned round on my way in, but I just need the money, you know? And I didn’t have your number.”
At this, I know he’s lying because there is no way this old drunk has a cell phone. I jump down and I reach into my jeans pocket. “I’ll call you right now so you can save my number.” I don’t have a cell phone either, but it doesn’t matter because I just know he's a born liar.
He draws his hands up and he turns his head away like I'm about to hit him with a bat. “I don’t even know how to do that! I just keep the phone numbers in my notebook here and dial them in. I guess I’m old fashioned and slow, but it’s what I know.” He sounds so solid, but he is a quick, slippery one.
Slowly, I withdraw my hand and I feel I’ve made my point. I look him in the eyes and nod to show that I know something is up with him, and that I don’t like it.
He sets the radio on the floor as if he means to come back to it later. “I hate to do this to you,” he says, “but I need to head up to McDonald’s and find a bathroom. I just—I never felt this bad before and I only just started feeling this way a few weeks ago. I should probably see a doctor, but I don’t know how I’d pay for it.” He laughs. “I guess my real problem is I need money and I have to work for it. That’s why I’m here in the first place on a Saturday!"
I can't stand how polished this guy is so I bend down for the radio. “You don’t have to explain all this, man, you gotta do what you gotta do.”
“Yeah,” he says, “I know. I’d rather be home in bed the way I’m feeling.”
Of course.
He shuffles around for a while on those boots that must be three sizes too big for him. They squash out like his feet are made of jello. I uncover the air compressor and wheel it backwards over hard dried mud. I bring it to the outlet but when I plug it in it does not kick on. It means the air was not drained last night and the problem is that the moisture inside will slowly rust through the tank. I don’t mention this because of course he knows. He already told me, weeks ago, about the one he owned before this one that suffered a massive hole. He showed me with his hands how big the hole was, and he laughed about it. So telling him would only instigate another long and obvious explanation.
He breaks into a coughing fit that lasts about one whole minute. He doubles over and I can hear the death rattle in his lungs and smell the old rotten whiskey. When he’s finished, he leans his hand on the windowsill, catching his breath. “I’m sorry. I do need to go back home right now. Maybe I should see a doctor, except I just don’t know how I’m gonna’ pay for it.”
I reluctantly unscrew the plug to let the old wet air hiss out. “Emergency room might see you for free.”
“But I’d end up waiting round for hours with sick people all round me, and sick children. I hate to see dying kids. I’m really screwing up your day here. Sorry 'bout that. I wanted to call you on my way in and tell you but I just need the money you know?”
The pressurized air sputters as the rusty water finds its way from deep within the tank. A puddle of fine silty sludge spreads itself out like a giant spider squished on the floor. “That’s why I ride a bicycle,” I say, trying to brighten the mood.
He laughs, which brings on another coughing attack. He ends this one by trying to send a glorious arch of phlegm through the empty window hole. It doesn't make it, though. In fact, it dribbles down his brown flannel shirt. He looks down at it embarrassed and smears it around with his hand.
I can't stand to watch him do that so I try to find something to do. “You’d better go on home.” But then he reminds me of a porcupine. Not in the bristly way, but in the way that they have no idea they are lethal. Makes them friendly and goofy so you kind of like them. So I snicker at the glistening trickle line running down his shirt, which makes him snicker back.
“I’ll see you here Monday unless we hear from Mark. Just so you know, I’m putting four hours on my time card. Guys like Mark have all the money in the world. He won’t even question four hours.”
“Four hours it is,” I say as I unplug the compressor and start winding the cords back up. “See a doctor!” I don’t normally condone padding your hours, but just this once, it seems like it's almost for a good reason.
*
Monday morning the studs are damp enough to see the moisture but not enough to feel when I slide my finger across the grain. Drops hang in neat rows stuck to the bottoms of the warped ceiling rafters. The air is cool and nice to breathe as it smells like churned mud. Mike measures the spacing of the studs that Rick has been working on. “What is he doing?” he says.
“Is he here yet?”
“I talked to Mark this morning. He said he passed out in his truck Saturday, on the road. Cirrhosis, I'm betting.”
I don't mean to sound insensitive, but the day must go on. “He wanted all the studs to line up when you look through the walls. He used to do that when he worked down the shore.” I don't mean to defend the guy. If he messed everything up, there are natural consequences.
“That might be a nice trick, but nothing is on layout. Sheetrock will be a fucking nightmare.”
My boots click in a wide shallow puddle that formed on the floor last night. The rusty spot is still there, dry under the water.
Mike continues checking other walls, pulling from the corners, then from random studs. He has two cigarets in his mouth at once, which is a feat I’ve never conceived. “Notice anything unusual,” he says, “besides these walls?”
I pretend I don't hear him as I slosh the water with the side of my boot.
“That’s like to happen when you start drinking first thing in the morning.”
I sink a nail in the middle of the rusty spot and pull it to drain the water. At least I tried to help him.
*
Friday comes and it’s hot as hell again. I have a gallon of water sweating on the new steps. The boss said Rick might come around to collect his last check and his tools. Meanwhile, Mike and I are there mainly to keep an eye on the sheetrockers. Mike distrusts the little bastards as apparently they only speak Spanish. But he says he’s nervous because the roof isn’t shingled yet and it might rain again soon. He doesn’t want to come in on a Saturday to do roofing. Last thing in the world he wants is to do it today, up there with no shade, sitting on the black shingles. “If it rains on their drywall, you think they’ll come out and fix the damage?” He asks, red faced, with an unlit cigaret hanging from his lips. “I doubt it, the lazy bastards.”
At the end of the day, maybe three or three-thirty, this girl comes out behind the addition where Mike is flattening out the Tyvek with a slap stapler. It sounds like a drum inside the addition, where the sheetrockers are working and where I am sweeping. Of course Mike knows you can’t get rid of the wrinkles that way. He’s the one who told me so.
“Is one of you Aaron?” asks the girl.
I stop sweeping and respectfully yell over the slapstapling that I’m him.
She says, “I’m Rick’s daughter. He’s out in my van and he wanted to know if you could measure his compressor to see if it can fit in the back of my van?”
The van has Tennessee plates and there’s a baby inside, sleeping in a car seat. Rick’s up front with the door open, talking quietly with Mike. It’s mostly his whispers that I hear, which drown out the baby's little puffs. I measure the space behind the back seat and the whole van smells like liquor. Stinks too like a sick fart and the heat is doing us no favors with the windows rolled up and the bright sun lasering through. I call Mike to help lift the compressor. As soon as it fits Mike takes off back to the addition because he suspects the boss is about to show up any minute with our checks. I don’t worry about the boss, though. I stand outside Rick’s door, showing basic human compassion. “Did you get the message I left on your phone?”
“I don’t even know how to check my own goddamn messages!”
I was banking on him saying that, as there is no message waiting for him. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m so weak I couldn’t stand up right now if I had to. I tried to make it out back to see you myself, but I only made it halfway up the drive and I had to turn back. That’s why I had to send Becky there. She's my daughter.” He’s lost some weight in the arms and chest. I can see the dark wet patches growing around his armpits and on his chest as we speak. Eyes yellow as ever, he kind of stares at the windshield.
“That’s too bad.”
He scratches his shoulder. “Do you know if Mark’s going to be here soon? He’s got my check.” He pauses to catch his breath. “And we need to leave.”
“Any minute.” At any rate, it's probably impossible for him to continue working the way he looks. But I want to encourage him to think positive. “What do you think you’ll do next?”
“Die,” he says, without hesitation. He puts one hand just below his belt and the other at the top of his chest. “A week, maybe a month. I’m full of cancer here to here.” He slowly rolls his head and looks upward. “Becky, can’t we turn on the AC?” She ignores him.
“That’s a tough one.”
The baby wakes up, starts looking at me and moving its arms and feet in these wild rotations, all at once. It’s got beads of sweat running down its little head and red face. The daughter is leaning behind the baby with her knees on the floor just inside the side door. She’s trying to find something inside a paper bag.
“I’m selling all my tools and everything to move in with Becky down in Tennessee. We got to get started on that tonight cause she has to get right back to work and it’s a nine-hour drive. I just thank God I have such a good daughter.” He lifts his hand over his shoulder like he's reaching for her noble hand. Nothing but air.
I smile at Becky and then look down when she makes eye contact because she looks furious. Whatever she was looking for in that bag, she sure can’t find it.
“Do you know what kind of cancer it is?” I ask.
“Pancreatic,” he says. “One of the worst kinds.”
His daughter throws the bag against the air compressor and something hard inside makes a loud noise. “Yeah…" she says, "pancreatic cancer.”
I say goodbye and head back to work. I stand next to Mike, who is watching the sheetrockers. Much to our surprise, they already have most of it done and show no signs of slowing down. "They’re made for this heat," says Mike. I know that’s a highly racist comment, but I can’t afford to correct him on it. As fast as the boy, about fourteen years old, can carry a sheet the men wearing stilts nail it up and wait for the next one. Apparently, Rick knew what he was doing with the studs. Suddenly Mike picks up a broom and starts sweeping the floor where I already swept it. "Mark's coming."
“Looks like you got things under control,” I say to Mike.
I walk back out front and hide again behind my spruce tree and watch as the boss pulls up next to the van so his truck is boldly in the wrong lane. He hands an envelope through his window and the daughter takes it and tucks it in the corner where the dash meets the windshield. Then the boss hands over another envelope and the daughter looks surprised. I hear her thank him in a high-pitched voice.
Then the boss’s white truck pulls up the drive and onto the lawn on the other side of the house from me. He doesn't see me, or else he would have waved by now. When he’s behind the house, I slowly make my way back to the addition to meet him and Mike and to receive my check.
The boss is standing next to Mike, who is still holding the broom and they are both facing the addition with all their attention on the sheetrockers. They are both short men and slightly overweight. If they changed shirts, they might pass for each other. They are too far away and speaking far too quietly for me to hear but I can see that the boss doesn’t have any more envelopes in his hands and neither does Mike. Without any warning, Mike walks away and lights a cigaret as the boss is still talking. I hear Mike say, “Jesus Christ!” interrupting the boss and ending their little talk.
Then the boss comes over to me. He can’t pay us this week. Doesn’t have the cash, which is how he usually pays us. Of course I can wait a few days, I tell him.
Mike throws his cigaret with his whole arm, quickly gathers up some of his tools and hurries past us. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself!” he says to the boss. “I got kids, you know.” He throws his tools into the back of his truck and speeds out of the neighborhood. I can hear his motor racing long after it is out of view. Then I notice a couple of squirrels chasing each other in my old spruce and I wonder how exactly they know what their little feet are going to grab onto every time they take a step. They just keep ratcheting their way around and around, screeching their horny little hearts out.
“He has kids?” I ask.
The boss shrugs and makes his way back to his gleaming white truck and I call after him, “I’ll finish cleaning up here, then,” and he waves over his shoulder.
“No, just go home Aaron.” He climbs into his truck and fiddles with his visor. Of course I won’t leave him. I’m loyal to the end and I want him to know that. I’m a company man.
The sheetrockers are already working on the little odd shaped pieces as I round up the rest of Mike’s tools. I figure I’m the last guy working for the boss now and wonder if I shouldn’t ask for a raise. It felt good to hear Mike say that to the boss. To go fuck himself. It was good for him but I would never say anything like that. I wouldn’t know what to do next. I wonder how Mike knew to say that, and what to do next. And then next and next. He knows those things the same way he knows the boss is coming, because he's got to be a psychic, or something. And right now, I wonder what he is doing. Probably driving home to his wife... and kids.
When I have all the tools piled up in the corner of the room, the sheetrockers take off, walking, and then the boss leaves close behind them following magnetically in his truck out the driveway. I go over to my bicycle and walk it across the grass. “Go fuck yourself,” I whisper. But of course I don’t mean anything by that. I’m just saying it to see if I can’t feel what Mike felt and it feels dangerous, even whispering it. I know it’s reasonably safe to say these things when there is no one else around, but I just can't imagine myself actually saying that. It would be like jumping off a huge cliff without knowing if there's water below, or a crowded highway. I can only say it now because I am the last one here at the addition.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
The Germ Girl
Jan walked down the aisle. Her back pack bumped against some of the seats that she passed. She wondered if she was disrupting these passengers’ trips too much. She had spilled coffee into her backpack a few days ago. It smelled bad by now. The other passengers could probably smell it. They probably had a bad impression of her. The train moved like waves over bigger swells. She steadied up by grabbing the brown plastic handle on one of the seats. Thousands of germs bit on to her skin. She wanted to not use the hand any more until she washed it.
She sat down next to a boy wearing a black suit. She knew that it only looked black to her. In reality it was very dark blue. The boy probably did important business at a bank. He spoke into his little phone about another boy named Stew. Jan tried to ignore the boy’s side of the conversation because it was not her business. However, trying to ignore it only gave her super sonic hearing. Stew had screwed up the internal audit. The boy in the dark blue suit wasn’t going to take any heat for what Stew did. He would call Stew and get to the bottom of things.
The boy in the black suit calmed down and said goodbye. He hung up the phone and leaned back. He moved his arms and his head around. He folded up the little phone and set it carefully on the leather bag in his lap. He looked like he might be starting to have a heart attack. Jan knew CPR from long ago. In Girl Scouts they made her learn it on a dummy. She knew the mouth to mouth part. If the boy in the black suit needed it, she would have to go ahead and give it to him and not think about it. She should not have had to think about it. She thought about it anyway.
Heart attacks had nothing to do with obstructions in the throat. She could pound on his chest and use his little phone to call the 911 number. She would have to call information first to make sure. She would dial 411 first and speak to a computer about her city and state. Then to someone who sounded like a different computer. Then Jan’s voice would be recorded. Her recorded voice would bring a sterile ambulance. The sterile ambulance would take the boy away and make it okay again. Thinking about this made her start to calm down.
Soon the train hesitated. That meant it would stop soon. The boy collected his coat and briefcase. Jan let him get by. He left his little phone on the seat and Jan thought she had better reach it to him. She reached for it, but saw the part that had touched his face. She didn’t want to touch that. The boy headed down the aisle. When the train stopped, he stepped onto the platform. Jan saw him start to feel through his bag and his pockets. He looked at Jan through the window and she stared back at him, wondering if he could see through the glare. She did not think he could see her at all.
She sat down next to a boy wearing a black suit. She knew that it only looked black to her. In reality it was very dark blue. The boy probably did important business at a bank. He spoke into his little phone about another boy named Stew. Jan tried to ignore the boy’s side of the conversation because it was not her business. However, trying to ignore it only gave her super sonic hearing. Stew had screwed up the internal audit. The boy in the dark blue suit wasn’t going to take any heat for what Stew did. He would call Stew and get to the bottom of things.
The boy in the black suit calmed down and said goodbye. He hung up the phone and leaned back. He moved his arms and his head around. He folded up the little phone and set it carefully on the leather bag in his lap. He looked like he might be starting to have a heart attack. Jan knew CPR from long ago. In Girl Scouts they made her learn it on a dummy. She knew the mouth to mouth part. If the boy in the black suit needed it, she would have to go ahead and give it to him and not think about it. She should not have had to think about it. She thought about it anyway.
Heart attacks had nothing to do with obstructions in the throat. She could pound on his chest and use his little phone to call the 911 number. She would have to call information first to make sure. She would dial 411 first and speak to a computer about her city and state. Then to someone who sounded like a different computer. Then Jan’s voice would be recorded. Her recorded voice would bring a sterile ambulance. The sterile ambulance would take the boy away and make it okay again. Thinking about this made her start to calm down.
Soon the train hesitated. That meant it would stop soon. The boy collected his coat and briefcase. Jan let him get by. He left his little phone on the seat and Jan thought she had better reach it to him. She reached for it, but saw the part that had touched his face. She didn’t want to touch that. The boy headed down the aisle. When the train stopped, he stepped onto the platform. Jan saw him start to feel through his bag and his pockets. He looked at Jan through the window and she stared back at him, wondering if he could see through the glare. She did not think he could see her at all.
Monday, June 30, 2008
The Courier
Dennis was this eager young guy trying to start his own business. He had made a pledge to himself to do anything it took to make his business successful. His business consisted of him delivering groceries by himself on his bicycle. The only problem, as far as his business went, was that even with the high gas prices, trucks could still do his job cheaper and faster.
Early on in the short life span of his business he gained one solid, reliable customer named Stanley. Stanley weighed some 1,200 pounds and by the time he and Dennis hooked up, he couldn't leave his bed. Dennis had to roll his bike right into the man's bedroom and line up the brown paper bags on T.V. trays that were all within arms reach for Stanley.
Stanley ate mostly Snickers bars and potato chips. He drank nothing but two liter bottles of Coke, almost in a single chug (not that Dennis ever witnessed these feats). Dennis found the man very mysterious because he never left any evidence of having consumed food. No candy bar wrappers. No empty potato chip bags. No scent of defecation in the room.
There was plenty of body odor though, in the room. Stuck on the third floor, and with no air conditioner, Stanley spent most of his time in a state of sweltering agony.
"Say Dennis?" he finally said one day. It was the first verbal communication he had ever initiated with Dennis. All his grocery lists were notes scribbled and left on one of the tables. "Could I pay you to put in that air conditioner, maybe, next time you come around?" His voice was amazingly soft and delicate, almost like a girl's voice. It sounded like he had saved his voice since he was five years old.
"Sure, man," said Dennis, hoisting the last paper bag into place. The temperature at that moment was 120 degrees Fahrenheit. Dennis had decided not to do or say anything, until now, about the heat because he did not want to risk embarrassing his best customer. In fact, he worried that Stanley would soon become his only customer, as nobody seemed to care for his service.
He certainly questioned the ethicacy of delivering so much junk food to such a fat man. But he only allowed that doubt to surface briefly from time to time. If he were to seriously consider stopping the practice, he would have had to abandon his work completely.
He believed that if the business could just take off he would be able to do all sorts of good things. Especially for all the Stanleys out there.
Of course he could have lifted the air conditioner into place. It wasn't very big, and he had installed similar units many times before. It would have taken him five minutes, but he decided to do it next time because he wanted to appear busy. As soon as the last bag was in place, he said thank you and asked if there was anything else he could do.
Stanley tightened his lips and indicated a second note on one of the tables. In the center of the note was scrawled:
Please discretely pick up Ms. Julie, from her front steps on the 500 block of South Street.
"Why don't you just call a cab?"
*
Stanley started to worry. It hadn't occurred to him to call a cab because he had forgotten all about them. Dennis was his only point of contact with the outside world. Before Dennis came along, it was his neighbor, Eve, who checked in on him every other day. She was 96 years old when she died the week before. The last thing she did before she croaked was navigate her electric scooter down to the sidewalk and return with one of Dennis's fliers. She set it on Stanley's stomach facing him so he could read it before she returned to her apartment where she thudded out of her scooter and made no more sounds.
Stanley felt incredibly stupid, having asked for such an unreasonable thing. He started breathing heavier than ever and the bottoms of his legs itched terribly. He had to pass gas quite terribly as well, but that would have certainly made things much more unbearable.
"Okay okay," said Dennis. "I was kidding."
*
Dennis could barely read the note and he tried to picture how Stanley could possibly reach the notebook (wherever he kept it) and how he could manage to write. It didn't seem like he could possibly see what he was writing.
What was he going to do with a prostitute anyway? he wondered. Julie sounded like a very blasé name for a prostitute. A little too good, almost girl next door good.
At what he thought was the appropriate block, based on his interpretation of the note, there was no girl named Julie waiting to be picked up on a bicycle. There was nobody at all on this block. If there had been anybody in sight, this block might not have filled him with so much dread and loathing. He was afraid to stay in this area, but in obedience to the pledge he had made to his fledgling business, he rode slowly up the sidewalk. This is bravery, he thought. I am very brave.
Then he heard a voice right next to his head say, "Excuse me, can you help me? Sir can you come here?"
Dennis froze because he expected to be struck in the head or shot. The voice came from behind the bars of a first story window. "I um, I need help, um, moving this T.V." said the voice. "It's really huge!" Dennis could not tell if the voice was male or female, which he found creepy.
"Can you please come inside?"
The living room was extremely small but also neat and sweet smelling. The owner of the voice moved to the center of the small room and sat almost in a yoga position, avoiding the love seat. It was a short little ugly man, wearing mascara and lipstick. His face was powdered pale and his fake mole was a little too big. He kept shifting around as if he had accidentally sat on a piece of glass, so he never quite struck the yoga position.
Dennis crossed and uncrossed his arms a few times, strategizing.
The man gave Dennis a flirtatious eye and quickly turned his head away. "It's in here," he said, climbing to his feet and then striding into the kitchen. He shot Dennis a direct eye contact look as he disappeared out of view. "I want to show you something, um, what did you say your name was?"
Dennis figured by now that there was no T.V.. Most accidents, he knew, took place in the kitchen, because of all the knives and he knew that if he were to scream due to being stabbed, nobody would much care out there in the ghost neighborhood. He did some nervous tapping with his foot. "Dennis," he said, trying to sound tough. "I didn't catch yours?"
The man cat walked out of the kitchen with his shirt already off. His chest was freshly waxed and from his back pocket he produced a business card with nothing on it but his name, number and a lavender scent. His name was Julio but as Dennis turned the card in the light, the o changed to an e and then back to an o.
Julio circled around behind him and ran his fingers across his shoulders.
"Julie?"
*
Stanley's place smelled like rotten meat. Dennis wondered if some raw bacon hadn't fallen out of reach several days ago. "You should have called a cab." The heat was like the inside of a microwave.
Of course Dennis had never delivered anything so healthy as raw bacon, which could only mean that Stanley must have died some time ago! This thought floated briefly through Dennis's mind, but it threatened to completely undermine his business agenda, forcing him to consider diversifying.
"Did somebody die in here?" Julio asked.
"He's in there," said Dennis. "He needs your help moving... a really huge air conditioner."
"You don't say." Julio sat in his yoga position with his legs crossed and his feet on top of his legs. "Can you hear that?" This time he was able to sit still.
Dennis could hear the footsteps of neighbors and a woman's voice scolding a kid or a man or a dog.
"What's dripping in there?"
"Air conditioner. Sometimes they condensate and leak all over the floor." Of course, he still hadn't installed it.
"Whatever it is, it's not my problem."
"Mine either, and I've got other jobs I need to take care of. I have responsibilities."
"I understand. I think I'll be leaving as well. This isn't what I signed up for."
Dennis squeezed his brake levers and slowly walked his bike out of the apartment.
Early on in the short life span of his business he gained one solid, reliable customer named Stanley. Stanley weighed some 1,200 pounds and by the time he and Dennis hooked up, he couldn't leave his bed. Dennis had to roll his bike right into the man's bedroom and line up the brown paper bags on T.V. trays that were all within arms reach for Stanley.
Stanley ate mostly Snickers bars and potato chips. He drank nothing but two liter bottles of Coke, almost in a single chug (not that Dennis ever witnessed these feats). Dennis found the man very mysterious because he never left any evidence of having consumed food. No candy bar wrappers. No empty potato chip bags. No scent of defecation in the room.
There was plenty of body odor though, in the room. Stuck on the third floor, and with no air conditioner, Stanley spent most of his time in a state of sweltering agony.
"Say Dennis?" he finally said one day. It was the first verbal communication he had ever initiated with Dennis. All his grocery lists were notes scribbled and left on one of the tables. "Could I pay you to put in that air conditioner, maybe, next time you come around?" His voice was amazingly soft and delicate, almost like a girl's voice. It sounded like he had saved his voice since he was five years old.
"Sure, man," said Dennis, hoisting the last paper bag into place. The temperature at that moment was 120 degrees Fahrenheit. Dennis had decided not to do or say anything, until now, about the heat because he did not want to risk embarrassing his best customer. In fact, he worried that Stanley would soon become his only customer, as nobody seemed to care for his service.
He certainly questioned the ethicacy of delivering so much junk food to such a fat man. But he only allowed that doubt to surface briefly from time to time. If he were to seriously consider stopping the practice, he would have had to abandon his work completely.
He believed that if the business could just take off he would be able to do all sorts of good things. Especially for all the Stanleys out there.
Of course he could have lifted the air conditioner into place. It wasn't very big, and he had installed similar units many times before. It would have taken him five minutes, but he decided to do it next time because he wanted to appear busy. As soon as the last bag was in place, he said thank you and asked if there was anything else he could do.
Stanley tightened his lips and indicated a second note on one of the tables. In the center of the note was scrawled:
Please discretely pick up Ms. Julie, from her front steps on the 500 block of South Street.
"Why don't you just call a cab?"
*
Stanley started to worry. It hadn't occurred to him to call a cab because he had forgotten all about them. Dennis was his only point of contact with the outside world. Before Dennis came along, it was his neighbor, Eve, who checked in on him every other day. She was 96 years old when she died the week before. The last thing she did before she croaked was navigate her electric scooter down to the sidewalk and return with one of Dennis's fliers. She set it on Stanley's stomach facing him so he could read it before she returned to her apartment where she thudded out of her scooter and made no more sounds.
Stanley felt incredibly stupid, having asked for such an unreasonable thing. He started breathing heavier than ever and the bottoms of his legs itched terribly. He had to pass gas quite terribly as well, but that would have certainly made things much more unbearable.
"Okay okay," said Dennis. "I was kidding."
*
Dennis could barely read the note and he tried to picture how Stanley could possibly reach the notebook (wherever he kept it) and how he could manage to write. It didn't seem like he could possibly see what he was writing.
What was he going to do with a prostitute anyway? he wondered. Julie sounded like a very blasé name for a prostitute. A little too good, almost girl next door good.
At what he thought was the appropriate block, based on his interpretation of the note, there was no girl named Julie waiting to be picked up on a bicycle. There was nobody at all on this block. If there had been anybody in sight, this block might not have filled him with so much dread and loathing. He was afraid to stay in this area, but in obedience to the pledge he had made to his fledgling business, he rode slowly up the sidewalk. This is bravery, he thought. I am very brave.
Then he heard a voice right next to his head say, "Excuse me, can you help me? Sir can you come here?"
Dennis froze because he expected to be struck in the head or shot. The voice came from behind the bars of a first story window. "I um, I need help, um, moving this T.V." said the voice. "It's really huge!" Dennis could not tell if the voice was male or female, which he found creepy.
"Can you please come inside?"
The living room was extremely small but also neat and sweet smelling. The owner of the voice moved to the center of the small room and sat almost in a yoga position, avoiding the love seat. It was a short little ugly man, wearing mascara and lipstick. His face was powdered pale and his fake mole was a little too big. He kept shifting around as if he had accidentally sat on a piece of glass, so he never quite struck the yoga position.
Dennis crossed and uncrossed his arms a few times, strategizing.
The man gave Dennis a flirtatious eye and quickly turned his head away. "It's in here," he said, climbing to his feet and then striding into the kitchen. He shot Dennis a direct eye contact look as he disappeared out of view. "I want to show you something, um, what did you say your name was?"
Dennis figured by now that there was no T.V.. Most accidents, he knew, took place in the kitchen, because of all the knives and he knew that if he were to scream due to being stabbed, nobody would much care out there in the ghost neighborhood. He did some nervous tapping with his foot. "Dennis," he said, trying to sound tough. "I didn't catch yours?"
The man cat walked out of the kitchen with his shirt already off. His chest was freshly waxed and from his back pocket he produced a business card with nothing on it but his name, number and a lavender scent. His name was Julio but as Dennis turned the card in the light, the o changed to an e and then back to an o.
Julio circled around behind him and ran his fingers across his shoulders.
"Julie?"
*
Stanley's place smelled like rotten meat. Dennis wondered if some raw bacon hadn't fallen out of reach several days ago. "You should have called a cab." The heat was like the inside of a microwave.
Of course Dennis had never delivered anything so healthy as raw bacon, which could only mean that Stanley must have died some time ago! This thought floated briefly through Dennis's mind, but it threatened to completely undermine his business agenda, forcing him to consider diversifying.
"Did somebody die in here?" Julio asked.
"He's in there," said Dennis. "He needs your help moving... a really huge air conditioner."
"You don't say." Julio sat in his yoga position with his legs crossed and his feet on top of his legs. "Can you hear that?" This time he was able to sit still.
Dennis could hear the footsteps of neighbors and a woman's voice scolding a kid or a man or a dog.
"What's dripping in there?"
"Air conditioner. Sometimes they condensate and leak all over the floor." Of course, he still hadn't installed it.
"Whatever it is, it's not my problem."
"Mine either, and I've got other jobs I need to take care of. I have responsibilities."
"I understand. I think I'll be leaving as well. This isn't what I signed up for."
Dennis squeezed his brake levers and slowly walked his bike out of the apartment.
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