Tuesday, February 28, 1984
I was pretty naive about the ways of business when I started out. Bert became my teacher. Bert was an interior decorator who started hiring me for the occasional job. Bert had a great sense of color. He was a very personable guy and a heck of a salesman. Bert was also a con man, but I didn't know that yet.
On my first job for Bert, I accompanied him to a house in Los Altos where he wanted to add some track lights. We discussed where the lights should be located, and then I told the client that I could buy the track at a discount for her. Bert grabbed me by the arm and said, "Let me talk to you for a moment." He quickly steered me out of the house and said, "Are you our of your mind? Don't you know how I make a living? A decorator doesn't get paid by the hour. I make my profit by ordering things for my clients and selling at a markup."
"Oops. Sorry," I said.
"Here's your Rule Number One: NEVER DISCUSS PRICE WITH A CLIENT."
"Okay." From then on, I deferred all discussions of cost to Bert. Bert, meanwhile, paid me by the hour, which led him to give me instructions like "Go install chair molding for Mrs. Ohler but hold down the expenses, okay?" Then I go to Mrs. Ohler and try to do a quick job, but Mrs. Ohler calls me on every shortcut - nicely - saying "Is there anything you can do about this crack over here?" So I end up doing a quality job, against Bert's wishes. Bert was an idiot that way. His mania to hold down costs made him lose his clients and his reputation - and of course it made me look bad, too (until I learned to ignore his cost-cutting suggestions).
When Bert made a mistake, such as ordering the wrong color, he'd never admit it. Instead, he'd try to sweet-talk the client into thinking it was the better color. When he failed, which was often, he had an explosive temper.
Eventually there came a day when Bert wasn't at the job and a client backed me into a corner and forced me to quote a price. Later, when I told Bert, he asked, "How much markup?"
"Ten per cent."
Bert snorted. "Thanks for nothing."
"How much is your markup?"
"Guess."
"Fifty per cent?" I really couldn't imagine such a big markup. On little items, maybe, but not on a $5000 sofa.
"One hundred per cent."
Like I said, I was naive.
Eventually, I realized that he was also doubling my wages when he charged the clients, and that if I worked independently I could increase my hourly rate by 50% and still be cheaper than what he was charging.
Bert found out that I was competing with him, working directly for his clients. It wasn't poaching in my opinion because the clients had already washed their hands of Bert, anyway. He called me to his decorator showroom - a collection that would have made Liberace drool - and foolishly I confronted him. I felt somewhat safe because, while confronting him, a fire inspector was making his rounds. Bert proceeded to read me the riot act. "After all I did for you," he kept saying. "They'd already left you," I kept saying.
The fire inspector interrupted Bert's rant to tell him to get rid of an uncapped two-gallon can of gasoline that, oddly, Bert kept beside his desk in the showroom. "For the yardman's lawnmower," he said. While smoking a cigarette Bert carried the gas can out to the rear parking lot, still reaming me about stealing his clients. He tossed the can into a dumpster while gasoline sprayed in an arc until it landed on the old furniture and shredded paper within.
Bert drew hard on his cigarette, then held it between two fingers, studying the glowing tip. He looked at me, scowling. Then he looked meaningfully at the dumpster. The message was silent, yet loud and clear.
"Bert," I said, backing away. "I'm sorry things didn't work out between us."
"Fuck you," Bert said.
I turned my back and walked away as quickly as possible without actually breaking into a run.
There was no boom, no fire, no joining of cigarette and gasoline. I'm sure that as soon as I was out of sight, Bert crushed that cigarette under his shoe. Then he went to his desk and called all my new clients, sweet-talking as only he could do.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Therapy
Friday, February 27, 1981
In the morning I remove an entire wall - the damaged exterior wall of a wooden house. It's a bearing wall, of course, but I don't install any temporary braces. As a result, the roof sags a bit while I construct the new wall with larger windows. It's a plywood shear wall, earthquake proof - and perhaps even childproof. Lifting the house, I nail the new wall into place, and then I paint it. Not bad for a morning's work.
It's a dollhouse, and I'm being paid carpenter's wages to repair it for the Children's Health Council of Palo Alto. The dollhouse is useful for the therapy they perform, but it takes abuse from children who themselves may have been abused.
A house in the morning, a railroad in the afternoon: a model train set which folds up against a wall when not in use. The folding mechanism needs beefing up, and so I beef it. The psychotherapist attaches electrodes to a child's head and measures brainwaves. It's classic biofeedback, with a train as a reward. As the child learns to control his own brainwaves, calm thoughts move the train around the track. The child learns to calm himself. Cool concept.
Repairing a dollhouse and a model train: the work calms the worker. Maybe somebody should try woodworking therapy with these kids.
Late in the afternoon, I repair the "time-out room." That's the place the Health Council doesn't like to talk about - it can be misconstrued. When a child totally loses control of himself, when you can't speak to him, when he's a danger to himself and everybody around him, you put him in the time-out room until he calms down. What's the alternative - drugs? A straightjacket? It's a padded cell with a one-way window. Unlike a prison, it's made of wood with foam padding. It's astonishing the damage an out-of-control eight-year-old can do to a room. I'm basically on retainer to keep the room repaired and functional. These are the kids who need the model train. And the dollhouse.
When I come around wearing my toolbelt with screwdrivers and chisels and pencils sticking up while a hammer is slapping my leg as I walk, all the boys - and some of the girls - stop whatever they're doing and stare. To the boys, I'm some kind of a mythical superhero with a magic toolbelt. There ought to be a comic book with somebody like me as the hero: THE CARPENTER GUY.
I'm glad I can help with my skills. And I'm glad there are some bright, tough, loving therapists who have the skills to help these kids. They are the heroes here.
In the morning I remove an entire wall - the damaged exterior wall of a wooden house. It's a bearing wall, of course, but I don't install any temporary braces. As a result, the roof sags a bit while I construct the new wall with larger windows. It's a plywood shear wall, earthquake proof - and perhaps even childproof. Lifting the house, I nail the new wall into place, and then I paint it. Not bad for a morning's work.
It's a dollhouse, and I'm being paid carpenter's wages to repair it for the Children's Health Council of Palo Alto. The dollhouse is useful for the therapy they perform, but it takes abuse from children who themselves may have been abused.
A house in the morning, a railroad in the afternoon: a model train set which folds up against a wall when not in use. The folding mechanism needs beefing up, and so I beef it. The psychotherapist attaches electrodes to a child's head and measures brainwaves. It's classic biofeedback, with a train as a reward. As the child learns to control his own brainwaves, calm thoughts move the train around the track. The child learns to calm himself. Cool concept.
Repairing a dollhouse and a model train: the work calms the worker. Maybe somebody should try woodworking therapy with these kids.
Late in the afternoon, I repair the "time-out room." That's the place the Health Council doesn't like to talk about - it can be misconstrued. When a child totally loses control of himself, when you can't speak to him, when he's a danger to himself and everybody around him, you put him in the time-out room until he calms down. What's the alternative - drugs? A straightjacket? It's a padded cell with a one-way window. Unlike a prison, it's made of wood with foam padding. It's astonishing the damage an out-of-control eight-year-old can do to a room. I'm basically on retainer to keep the room repaired and functional. These are the kids who need the model train. And the dollhouse.
When I come around wearing my toolbelt with screwdrivers and chisels and pencils sticking up while a hammer is slapping my leg as I walk, all the boys - and some of the girls - stop whatever they're doing and stare. To the boys, I'm some kind of a mythical superhero with a magic toolbelt. There ought to be a comic book with somebody like me as the hero: THE CARPENTER GUY.
I'm glad I can help with my skills. And I'm glad there are some bright, tough, loving therapists who have the skills to help these kids. They are the heroes here.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Dewey
Note: I've combined what was originally posted over three separate days - Feb 24, 25, and 26 - into one long post. It's less confusing this way:
Saturday, February 24, 1973
(After I finished college in 1969, I worked in the computer biz and wrote unpublishable novels. By 1973 I was having doubts about both career choices. In February, 1973, I took my carpentry tools out of storage.)
He had a shaggy mop of reddish-blond hair and a bushy mustache. He looked to be about my age—25. He walked into the garage where I was setting up tools and asked, "You a carpenter?"
“Sorta.” I was touching these tools for the first time in four years.
“You make furniture?”
“Sometimes,” I lied.
Which is how I got the job of building a chest of drawers. Dewey was my downstairs neighbor. We shared a stucco box that was basically a three-car garage. My wife and I lived above the garages; Dewey lived behind them.
Dewey had scavenged six drawers that somebody had left out on the street. My job was to build something - anything - that would house the six drawers. He wasn’t going to tell me how it should look because, he said, “You wouldn’t want some clown tellin’ ya what to do.”
Our garage box home was located a block from Highway 101 in a neighborhood of struggle: Cooley Avenue, East Palo Alto. We were bathed in traffic noise and there was the occasional drug-war murder, but the rent was as cheap as it ever gets in California.
Dewey had two cats: one with a limp, one with no tail. The no-tail cat liked to climb the ivy and stare into my second-floor kitchen window. One night stark naked I walked into the kitchen and saw a pair of eyes staring in at me. I told this to Dewey, who seemed to have decided to spend the afternoon in my garage, and he said, “That’s Nilsson. Yeah, he’s kinda friendly that way.”
Dewey kept a 1961 blue Chrysler in the middle garage and used it as an office. There was a two-drawer file cabinet in the back seat. He'd created and sold several posters which were popular in college dorms. He’d also published one book of sketches. Every page was a cartoonish drawing, and every image was some variation of a penis.
“Some people say I have a phallic obsession,” he said, “but I don’t know where they get that idea.” He said he had a second book ready - drawn in a different style. Then he said, “Do you mind if I talk to ya? I’ll try not to be too depressin’.”
“You’re not depressing.”
“I just killed Sinatra.”
“Who?”
“Gray cat? Limp? Fed her some downers and she went to sleep peaceful. Purrin’ till she stopped breathin’. I just buried her in that garden there.” He pointed to the house next door. “Don’t tell the girls.”
Two female graduate students - “the girls” - lived very quietly in the house next door. I wondered if one of them would try planting flowers soon, turning a spade of earth and finding a surprise.
“There’s a gallery in Frisco wants to show my stuff,” he said.
“Cool! Are they - like -?”
“Dongs? Naw. New style. I’m goin’ up there tonight. Put on my best blue jeans and all. Get the final word.”
“Good luck.”
“I quit the Post Office.”
“You were a mailman?”
“That was after I quit the clown profession. Actually, maybe mailman was the same profession, new venue. Anyway, I quit yesterday. You heard of Dewey Paints?”
“No.”
“Chain of paint stores in Denver. My father owns it. Named for me. Or me for it. Me and the stores, we both started about the same time. I’m supposed to run it when I grow up.” He laughed. “When can you make the drawer thing?”
“I have to get some wood.” Also, though I didn’t say so, I’d need to quickly study a book about furniture-making.
The next day, I began...
Sunday, February 25, 1973
I began building the cabinet for Dewey.
Woodworking soothed my soul. The street became my workshop. With the garage door open, I cut plywood on the sidewalk. The flow of life on Cooley Avenue was like an impromptu circus, and I became one of the acts. It was a neighborhood of transience. Rentals.
From a house down the street a trio emerged: Dewey, holding hands with a woman on one side and a little boy on the other. The woman was round-faced, red-haired, with shiny skin and a ready smile. She gazed up at Dewey with unabashed fondness. The boy, also red-haired, was unsteady, lurching. One of his legs was twisted. Dewey walked slowly so the boy could keep up.
In front of the garage, the woman said, “Bet you thought I was gonna invite you to stay for dinner ha ha.”
"Gotta let me go, Beep." Dewey knelt while transferring the boy’s hand to the woman. “Keep on truckin’, Beep,” Dewey said, and he tousled Beep's hair.
Woman and boy walked slowly away.
“How’d it go with the art gallery?” I asked.
“Sucked,” Dewey said. Without a glance at the cabinet I was building, he stalked around the side of the garage to his rear door.
Half a block away, boy and mother had stopped, turned around, and Beep was waving.
I waved, subbing for Dewey. With the sun at my back, all the boy could see would be my silhouette.
Holding hands, boy and mother walked into their squat little house. Next to the house was a chain link fence, and beyond the fence was the belching roaring freeway. Face it: Cooley Avenue was for the cash-impaired. For most residents, it was short-term - or so we hoped. A ramshackle purgatory.
I knew something about Beep's condition, metatarsus varus - known as pigeon toe - because I was born with that condition. Sometimes mild cases cure themselves as the body grows up. My less mild case required putting my leg in a cast (with everlasting side effects). A serious case requires surgery. Beep was a severe case.
Poverty can seem romantic when you're young, especially when you know it's temporary. When your boy needs surgery, the romance fades.
Sometime during the night I heard the clatter of glass bottles. A motor started in the garage below our bedroom. A behemoth car pulled out and drove away.
Monday, February 26, 1973
In the morning as usual, Nilsson the cat was staring into the kitchen window. On the sidewalk was a garbage can full of empty wine bottles. On top, four bottles had handmade labels which said:
I was putting the final touches on the chest of drawers when the woman with the shiny skin stepped into the garage. The boy was not with her.
“Will you feed the cat?” she said. She had a friendly smile.
“Nilsson?”
“He left it behind, didn’t he?”
“He left?”
“Gone to sell paint in Denver.”
“Yes. He left the cat.”
“It belongs to Beep. But it keeps coming back here. Which is a lot better than wandering out on the freeway.” She noticed the wine bottles in the garbage can. Wincing, she ran her fingers over them. “He really means it,” she said sadly. “Letting go.”
I drummed my fingers on the top of the cabinet. “I was building this for Dewey.”
“He couldn’t have paid you, anyway.”
“He conned me?”
“No. Please don’t think like that. Dewey is a hopeful person. That's why he was a mailman.”
"Um, how is that...?"
"He was better as a clown. Except the money part."
She contemplated the empty bottles on top of the garbage can. “Bye bye,” she whispered. “No grudges.”
I felt like a cat staring into her window.
She turned to me. “Thank you for waving to Beep,” she said.
“Oh,” I said. “Cute kid.”
“Not everybody thinks so.”
”Dewey does.”
She smiled. A sunbeam. “Bless you.” Her face became serious. "Dewey wasn't the father. Please don't think - whatever. It's never so simple."
I never saw Dewey again. In fact, after that day I don’t believe I ever saw Nilsson again. Or Mrs. Clown. I heard she moved back home to Napa County and reconciled - somewhat - with her parents. And Beep had the surgery.
Thirty-eight years later I still have that first cabinet I built. Sturdy, crude, it's stuffed with my socks and sweatshirts and in the bottom drawer, an errant blessing, one empty wine bottle with a handmade label.
Saturday, February 24, 1973
(After I finished college in 1969, I worked in the computer biz and wrote unpublishable novels. By 1973 I was having doubts about both career choices. In February, 1973, I took my carpentry tools out of storage.)
He had a shaggy mop of reddish-blond hair and a bushy mustache. He looked to be about my age—25. He walked into the garage where I was setting up tools and asked, "You a carpenter?"
“Sorta.” I was touching these tools for the first time in four years.
“You make furniture?”
“Sometimes,” I lied.
Which is how I got the job of building a chest of drawers. Dewey was my downstairs neighbor. We shared a stucco box that was basically a three-car garage. My wife and I lived above the garages; Dewey lived behind them.
Dewey had scavenged six drawers that somebody had left out on the street. My job was to build something - anything - that would house the six drawers. He wasn’t going to tell me how it should look because, he said, “You wouldn’t want some clown tellin’ ya what to do.”
Our garage box home was located a block from Highway 101 in a neighborhood of struggle: Cooley Avenue, East Palo Alto. We were bathed in traffic noise and there was the occasional drug-war murder, but the rent was as cheap as it ever gets in California.
Dewey had two cats: one with a limp, one with no tail. The no-tail cat liked to climb the ivy and stare into my second-floor kitchen window. One night stark naked I walked into the kitchen and saw a pair of eyes staring in at me. I told this to Dewey, who seemed to have decided to spend the afternoon in my garage, and he said, “That’s Nilsson. Yeah, he’s kinda friendly that way.”
Dewey kept a 1961 blue Chrysler in the middle garage and used it as an office. There was a two-drawer file cabinet in the back seat. He'd created and sold several posters which were popular in college dorms. He’d also published one book of sketches. Every page was a cartoonish drawing, and every image was some variation of a penis.
“Some people say I have a phallic obsession,” he said, “but I don’t know where they get that idea.” He said he had a second book ready - drawn in a different style. Then he said, “Do you mind if I talk to ya? I’ll try not to be too depressin’.”
“You’re not depressing.”
“I just killed Sinatra.”
“Who?”
“Gray cat? Limp? Fed her some downers and she went to sleep peaceful. Purrin’ till she stopped breathin’. I just buried her in that garden there.” He pointed to the house next door. “Don’t tell the girls.”
Two female graduate students - “the girls” - lived very quietly in the house next door. I wondered if one of them would try planting flowers soon, turning a spade of earth and finding a surprise.
“There’s a gallery in Frisco wants to show my stuff,” he said.
“Cool! Are they - like -?”
“Dongs? Naw. New style. I’m goin’ up there tonight. Put on my best blue jeans and all. Get the final word.”
“Good luck.”
“I quit the Post Office.”
“You were a mailman?”
“That was after I quit the clown profession. Actually, maybe mailman was the same profession, new venue. Anyway, I quit yesterday. You heard of Dewey Paints?”
“No.”
“Chain of paint stores in Denver. My father owns it. Named for me. Or me for it. Me and the stores, we both started about the same time. I’m supposed to run it when I grow up.” He laughed. “When can you make the drawer thing?”
“I have to get some wood.” Also, though I didn’t say so, I’d need to quickly study a book about furniture-making.
The next day, I began...
Sunday, February 25, 1973
I began building the cabinet for Dewey.
Woodworking soothed my soul. The street became my workshop. With the garage door open, I cut plywood on the sidewalk. The flow of life on Cooley Avenue was like an impromptu circus, and I became one of the acts. It was a neighborhood of transience. Rentals.
From a house down the street a trio emerged: Dewey, holding hands with a woman on one side and a little boy on the other. The woman was round-faced, red-haired, with shiny skin and a ready smile. She gazed up at Dewey with unabashed fondness. The boy, also red-haired, was unsteady, lurching. One of his legs was twisted. Dewey walked slowly so the boy could keep up.
In front of the garage, the woman said, “Bet you thought I was gonna invite you to stay for dinner ha ha.”
"Gotta let me go, Beep." Dewey knelt while transferring the boy’s hand to the woman. “Keep on truckin’, Beep,” Dewey said, and he tousled Beep's hair.
Woman and boy walked slowly away.
“How’d it go with the art gallery?” I asked.
“Sucked,” Dewey said. Without a glance at the cabinet I was building, he stalked around the side of the garage to his rear door.
Half a block away, boy and mother had stopped, turned around, and Beep was waving.
I waved, subbing for Dewey. With the sun at my back, all the boy could see would be my silhouette.
Holding hands, boy and mother walked into their squat little house. Next to the house was a chain link fence, and beyond the fence was the belching roaring freeway. Face it: Cooley Avenue was for the cash-impaired. For most residents, it was short-term - or so we hoped. A ramshackle purgatory.
I knew something about Beep's condition, metatarsus varus - known as pigeon toe - because I was born with that condition. Sometimes mild cases cure themselves as the body grows up. My less mild case required putting my leg in a cast (with everlasting side effects). A serious case requires surgery. Beep was a severe case.
Poverty can seem romantic when you're young, especially when you know it's temporary. When your boy needs surgery, the romance fades.
Sometime during the night I heard the clatter of glass bottles. A motor started in the garage below our bedroom. A behemoth car pulled out and drove away.
Monday, February 26, 1973
In the morning as usual, Nilsson the cat was staring into the kitchen window. On the sidewalk was a garbage can full of empty wine bottles. On top, four bottles had handmade labels which said:
TO OUR ESTRANGED MASTERDewey’s garage door was open. Gone was the gas hog tailfinned monster Chrysler with a file cabinet in the back seat.
FROM MRS. CLOWN AND BEEP.
I was putting the final touches on the chest of drawers when the woman with the shiny skin stepped into the garage. The boy was not with her.
“Will you feed the cat?” she said. She had a friendly smile.
“Nilsson?”
“He left it behind, didn’t he?”
“He left?”
“Gone to sell paint in Denver.”
“Yes. He left the cat.”
“It belongs to Beep. But it keeps coming back here. Which is a lot better than wandering out on the freeway.” She noticed the wine bottles in the garbage can. Wincing, she ran her fingers over them. “He really means it,” she said sadly. “Letting go.”
I drummed my fingers on the top of the cabinet. “I was building this for Dewey.”
“He couldn’t have paid you, anyway.”
“He conned me?”
“No. Please don’t think like that. Dewey is a hopeful person. That's why he was a mailman.”
"Um, how is that...?"
"He was better as a clown. Except the money part."
She contemplated the empty bottles on top of the garbage can. “Bye bye,” she whispered. “No grudges.”
I felt like a cat staring into her window.
She turned to me. “Thank you for waving to Beep,” she said.
“Oh,” I said. “Cute kid.”
“Not everybody thinks so.”
”Dewey does.”
She smiled. A sunbeam. “Bless you.” Her face became serious. "Dewey wasn't the father. Please don't think - whatever. It's never so simple."
I never saw Dewey again. In fact, after that day I don’t believe I ever saw Nilsson again. Or Mrs. Clown. I heard she moved back home to Napa County and reconciled - somewhat - with her parents. And Beep had the surgery.
Thirty-eight years later I still have that first cabinet I built. Sturdy, crude, it's stuffed with my socks and sweatshirts and in the bottom drawer, an errant blessing, one empty wine bottle with a handmade label.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Dewey, Part Two
Sunday, February 25, 1973
(I've removed this post and consolidated it with the post of February 26, which is now called, simply, Dewey.)
(I've removed this post and consolidated it with the post of February 26, which is now called, simply, Dewey.)
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Dewey, Part One
Saturday, February 24, 1973
(Note: I've removed this post and consolidated it with the post of February 26 which is now called, simply, Dewey.)
(Note: I've removed this post and consolidated it with the post of February 26 which is now called, simply, Dewey.)
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Hosed
Monday, February 23, 1987
Some days I feel like an actor in a slapstick comedy. And let me tell you, slapstick is hard work.
In deep Menlo Park, a Sunset-style house within a few blocks of the headquarters of Sunset Magazine, I’m eight minutes late for an appointment I made two weeks ago - which seems close enough to me, but Mr. Roch is outside pacing the sidewalk.
"The floor has creaky spots," Mr. Roch says. "Personally I'm not bothered, but my wife thinks the house is falling down."
Creeping on my belly through the shallow dusty crawlspace, I check the floor and foundation. It's a big house requiring lengthy creeping. I'm wearing a crawlsuit and a headlight but stupidly I forgot the dust mask.
Back in daylight, I stand up... and sneeze for a solid minute, sneeze after sneeze after sneeze, bent over with my hands on my knees, tears pouring from my eyes. Something under that house didn't agree with my nose. At last I can say, "Your house is fine. Tell your wife nothing is wrong. I could add some bracing if it would make her feel better, and as for the floor creaking there are some things I could - "
"Don't bother," he says. He pays me.
Back at my truck I reach for my keys - and they’re gone. Oh, man. They fell out somehow while I was creeping under the house. This time I'd definitely take a dust mask, but it's locked in the truck. The keys, of course, turn up in the farthest corner of the crawlspace. I emerge sneezing and filthy.
While I continue sneezing, Mr Roch sweeps me off with a broom. His wife comes out of the house. "Are you all right?"
I can't answer. The sneezes won't stop.
She asks her husband, "Should we turn the hose on him?"
I hold up my hands - please, no hose. But I continue sneezing. She squeezes the nozzle full blast: face, hair, shirt. It works. I stop sneezing.
Mrs. Roch says to her husband, "Is there anything wrong with the house?"
"No," he says. "It's fine."
"See? I told you so. Are you satisfied now? How much did that cost?"
"Forty dollars."
"Forty dollars! For nothing!"
I take off the sweatshirt. With a towel from the truck I dry my face and arms and dab at the wet T shirt. It's 9 a.m. on a cold day in February. With the heater on, I drive to the next job, Pahm.
Actually, her name is Pam but she has an intimidating British accent. Pahm wants me to "soften some angles" on her garage.
I don't understand. "Can you draw it?"
"No." She waves her hand as if it's an absurd idea. "I cahn't draw."
She explains that the corners of the garage door opening are too harsh. They are, of course, like the perpendicular corners of just about every garage. She wants me to construct something out of plywood and hang it at each corner of the garage door, sort of an archway, and it has to be done today because the painter is coming tomorrow.
I think I get it.
My shirt's still wet. I'm outside working in a cold wind. On a tray Pahm brings me hot water with lime, and a napkin. Very nice.
It's not easy drawing a big curve on a piece of plywood and then cutting it cleanly with hand tools. I make a prototype. The edges, I admit, are a little jagged. That's my contribution to this fiasco. I hang the prototype on a corner of the garage opening. As I step back to look at it, Pahm's husband Gus drives up in a Jaguar, jumps out and says, "What is that?"
I start to explain.
"It's ugly!" he shouts. Actually, I agree, and I think the entire project is insane, but before I can explain he continues: "It's not just ugly. It's unprofessional! You didn't even sand the edges. They're rough! You call yourself a carpenter?"
"It's temporary," I say. "A prototype. Next step is for your wife to look at it, and then -"
"You call yourself a carpenter?"
Pahm appears. She is no longer the hot-drink-on-a-tray-with-a-napkin Pahm. In the presence of her husband, she is a different woman. "I thought you were a carpenter," she says. "Is this up to your stahndards?" She glances at her husband. "I'm sorry," she says. "You should leave."
Gus is shouting: "You call yourself a carpenter?"
I'm gone.
Some days I feel like an actor in a slapstick comedy. And let me tell you, slapstick is hard work.
In deep Menlo Park, a Sunset-style house within a few blocks of the headquarters of Sunset Magazine, I’m eight minutes late for an appointment I made two weeks ago - which seems close enough to me, but Mr. Roch is outside pacing the sidewalk.
"The floor has creaky spots," Mr. Roch says. "Personally I'm not bothered, but my wife thinks the house is falling down."
Creeping on my belly through the shallow dusty crawlspace, I check the floor and foundation. It's a big house requiring lengthy creeping. I'm wearing a crawlsuit and a headlight but stupidly I forgot the dust mask.
Back in daylight, I stand up... and sneeze for a solid minute, sneeze after sneeze after sneeze, bent over with my hands on my knees, tears pouring from my eyes. Something under that house didn't agree with my nose. At last I can say, "Your house is fine. Tell your wife nothing is wrong. I could add some bracing if it would make her feel better, and as for the floor creaking there are some things I could - "
"Don't bother," he says. He pays me.
Back at my truck I reach for my keys - and they’re gone. Oh, man. They fell out somehow while I was creeping under the house. This time I'd definitely take a dust mask, but it's locked in the truck. The keys, of course, turn up in the farthest corner of the crawlspace. I emerge sneezing and filthy.
While I continue sneezing, Mr Roch sweeps me off with a broom. His wife comes out of the house. "Are you all right?"
I can't answer. The sneezes won't stop.
She asks her husband, "Should we turn the hose on him?"
I hold up my hands - please, no hose. But I continue sneezing. She squeezes the nozzle full blast: face, hair, shirt. It works. I stop sneezing.
Mrs. Roch says to her husband, "Is there anything wrong with the house?"
"No," he says. "It's fine."
"See? I told you so. Are you satisfied now? How much did that cost?"
"Forty dollars."
"Forty dollars! For nothing!"
I take off the sweatshirt. With a towel from the truck I dry my face and arms and dab at the wet T shirt. It's 9 a.m. on a cold day in February. With the heater on, I drive to the next job, Pahm.
Actually, her name is Pam but she has an intimidating British accent. Pahm wants me to "soften some angles" on her garage.
I don't understand. "Can you draw it?"
"No." She waves her hand as if it's an absurd idea. "I cahn't draw."
She explains that the corners of the garage door opening are too harsh. They are, of course, like the perpendicular corners of just about every garage. She wants me to construct something out of plywood and hang it at each corner of the garage door, sort of an archway, and it has to be done today because the painter is coming tomorrow.
I think I get it.
My shirt's still wet. I'm outside working in a cold wind. On a tray Pahm brings me hot water with lime, and a napkin. Very nice.
It's not easy drawing a big curve on a piece of plywood and then cutting it cleanly with hand tools. I make a prototype. The edges, I admit, are a little jagged. That's my contribution to this fiasco. I hang the prototype on a corner of the garage opening. As I step back to look at it, Pahm's husband Gus drives up in a Jaguar, jumps out and says, "What is that?"
I start to explain.
"It's ugly!" he shouts. Actually, I agree, and I think the entire project is insane, but before I can explain he continues: "It's not just ugly. It's unprofessional! You didn't even sand the edges. They're rough! You call yourself a carpenter?"
"It's temporary," I say. "A prototype. Next step is for your wife to look at it, and then -"
"You call yourself a carpenter?"
Pahm appears. She is no longer the hot-drink-on-a-tray-with-a-napkin Pahm. In the presence of her husband, she is a different woman. "I thought you were a carpenter," she says. "Is this up to your stahndards?" She glances at her husband. "I'm sorry," she says. "You should leave."
Gus is shouting: "You call yourself a carpenter?"
I'm gone.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Do You Believe In Miracles?
Friday, February 22, 1980
A tree falls, shutting off electric power for a section of town. A young man has been waiting for just such an opportunity.
The young man and his family are living - sort of camping out - in the shell of a house that is under construction. He wants to move incoming electric power lines from a temporary power pole to the new permanent service entrance of the house that is still under construction. For various tawdry reasons (saving money, avoiding bureaucracy, beating the Man), the young father wants to move the wires himself.
The young man could rewire a temporary conduit from the temporary power pole to the house - or he could simply move those overhead wires. A bootleg. It's sort of a tradition in this town. And today, he gets his chance.
Climbing a ladder, he attaches rope to the 3 incoming wires and then disconnects them from the temporary weatherhead. Next, standing on the roof, he pulls the rope and the wires to the new permanent weatherhead. He's 20 feet above the ground. Using split-bolt connectors, he attaches 2 of the wires. It's more difficult than he expected. Split-bolts aren't the ideal connectors for this situation. You need 3 hands to do this job: one to hold the wires, one to hold the split-bolt, one to tighten the nut.
How much time has passed? He really should have clocked it. What if the power is restored while he's connecting the final wire? First a jolt, then he'll fall 20 feet. He's wearing an old pair of gloves - leather, damp, fingers partly shredded. Basically useless.
The sun is setting, casting the last dusty shafts of light among the trunks of the redwoods. He's kneeling on wet shingles. Inside the house, his wife is lighting lanterns while his kids are playing with the dog.
His hands are shaking.
PG&E linemen connect live wires all the time. They have the knowledge, the tools, the experience, the safety equipment. With damp worn-out gloves, kneeling on wet shingles, the young man is electric bait. How much time is left? He could climb down the ladder, bring up a plastic sheet to kneel on, drive a half hour to a store for better gloves - or he could just fucking do it. Attach the wire and be done with it.
One difference between young people and old people is that young people don't believe they can die. On this February 22, 1980, the young man is 32 years old.
He just fucking does it.
As he's wrapping black 3M electrical tape around the final split bolt, he hears a radio. Lights go on in the house next door.
He beat it by 5 seconds.
By 5 seconds a stupid young fool avoided a pathetic death.
Now his entire body is shivering. Cautiously, humbly, he finishes wrapping the connection with tape. He's just become an old person.
Indoors after dinner the 1980 Winter Olympics are on television. Tonight, the USA ice hockey team is playing the USSR. The Soviets, of course, are expected to win. They always have; they always will.
Cuddled on the sofa they watch - dog, kids, wife, and the not-so-young man. That thrilling hockey game comes to be known as the Miracle on Ice, in which a bunch of USA kids beat a tough and seasoned Soviet team. But in one man's life, it was the lesser of two miracles that day.
A tree falls, shutting off electric power for a section of town. A young man has been waiting for just such an opportunity.
The young man and his family are living - sort of camping out - in the shell of a house that is under construction. He wants to move incoming electric power lines from a temporary power pole to the new permanent service entrance of the house that is still under construction. For various tawdry reasons (saving money, avoiding bureaucracy, beating the Man), the young father wants to move the wires himself.
The young man could rewire a temporary conduit from the temporary power pole to the house - or he could simply move those overhead wires. A bootleg. It's sort of a tradition in this town. And today, he gets his chance.
Climbing a ladder, he attaches rope to the 3 incoming wires and then disconnects them from the temporary weatherhead. Next, standing on the roof, he pulls the rope and the wires to the new permanent weatherhead. He's 20 feet above the ground. Using split-bolt connectors, he attaches 2 of the wires. It's more difficult than he expected. Split-bolts aren't the ideal connectors for this situation. You need 3 hands to do this job: one to hold the wires, one to hold the split-bolt, one to tighten the nut.
How much time has passed? He really should have clocked it. What if the power is restored while he's connecting the final wire? First a jolt, then he'll fall 20 feet. He's wearing an old pair of gloves - leather, damp, fingers partly shredded. Basically useless.
The sun is setting, casting the last dusty shafts of light among the trunks of the redwoods. He's kneeling on wet shingles. Inside the house, his wife is lighting lanterns while his kids are playing with the dog.
His hands are shaking.
PG&E linemen connect live wires all the time. They have the knowledge, the tools, the experience, the safety equipment. With damp worn-out gloves, kneeling on wet shingles, the young man is electric bait. How much time is left? He could climb down the ladder, bring up a plastic sheet to kneel on, drive a half hour to a store for better gloves - or he could just fucking do it. Attach the wire and be done with it.
One difference between young people and old people is that young people don't believe they can die. On this February 22, 1980, the young man is 32 years old.
He just fucking does it.
As he's wrapping black 3M electrical tape around the final split bolt, he hears a radio. Lights go on in the house next door.
He beat it by 5 seconds.
By 5 seconds a stupid young fool avoided a pathetic death.
Now his entire body is shivering. Cautiously, humbly, he finishes wrapping the connection with tape. He's just become an old person.
Indoors after dinner the 1980 Winter Olympics are on television. Tonight, the USA ice hockey team is playing the USSR. The Soviets, of course, are expected to win. They always have; they always will.
Cuddled on the sofa they watch - dog, kids, wife, and the not-so-young man. That thrilling hockey game comes to be known as the Miracle on Ice, in which a bunch of USA kids beat a tough and seasoned Soviet team. But in one man's life, it was the lesser of two miracles that day.
Monday, February 21, 2011
The Wisdom of Lightning
Saturday, February 21, 1987
Ralph has bought an old house that isn't bolted to the foundation. My job: bolt it. In the basement I count 17 spots where the mud sill should be attached to the perimeter foundation. I'll have to drill 17 holes for the anchor bolts, each hole a half inch in diameter and 5 inches deep through concrete.
For this job, I need a rotary hammer drill. I could rent one - as I've done before - or I could buy one as an investment in future work. Cash is a little tight. How often will I be called to bolt a foundation? Aren't most of them already bolted by now?
As I'm thinking, squatting on my heels in the basement, shining a flashlight on the mud sill, I'm aware that just outside the vent screen little chips of ice are bouncing on the ground. It's a sudden hail storm. And then it happens...
A blinding flash. The entire basement is alight. I feel a tingling on the soles of my feet inside my work boots. At the same time there is a deafening clap of thunder, so close and so sudden that it must have been right over the house.
Seconds later, Ralph throws open the basement door. "Holy shit!" he says. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Did it hit the house?"
"No, but it must've come close."
"I'm going out. I just got a message from above. I think I'm supposed to buy a rotary hammer drill."
Ralph shakes his head. "I'd hate to see what happens when you need to make a really important decision."
"It's usually quieter."
I go to Tooland in San Carlos and pay $250 for a Makita Rotary Hammer HR1821. I return to Ralph's basement and - wow! - it's like drilling through butter. I charge Ralph $200 for labor, so I'm out $50 for the day but I've got a great tool.
Let's jump forward...
Today is February 21, 2011. For the last 24 years I've worked the crap out of that Makita - Old Mattie - earning her worth many times over. The lightning bolt was right.
Just a week ago I was using Old Mattie when the head jammed, frozen. All those years eating concrete grit, and now she needs a new SDS chuck.
Those chucks are expensive. Should I make the repair? Which grimy old part will wear out next? Isn't it time to buy a whole new drill? I'm 63 years old. Will I stay alive - and active - for another 24 years?
I'll wait for a message.
Ralph has bought an old house that isn't bolted to the foundation. My job: bolt it. In the basement I count 17 spots where the mud sill should be attached to the perimeter foundation. I'll have to drill 17 holes for the anchor bolts, each hole a half inch in diameter and 5 inches deep through concrete.
For this job, I need a rotary hammer drill. I could rent one - as I've done before - or I could buy one as an investment in future work. Cash is a little tight. How often will I be called to bolt a foundation? Aren't most of them already bolted by now?
As I'm thinking, squatting on my heels in the basement, shining a flashlight on the mud sill, I'm aware that just outside the vent screen little chips of ice are bouncing on the ground. It's a sudden hail storm. And then it happens...
A blinding flash. The entire basement is alight. I feel a tingling on the soles of my feet inside my work boots. At the same time there is a deafening clap of thunder, so close and so sudden that it must have been right over the house.
Seconds later, Ralph throws open the basement door. "Holy shit!" he says. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Did it hit the house?"
"No, but it must've come close."
"I'm going out. I just got a message from above. I think I'm supposed to buy a rotary hammer drill."
Ralph shakes his head. "I'd hate to see what happens when you need to make a really important decision."
"It's usually quieter."
I go to Tooland in San Carlos and pay $250 for a Makita Rotary Hammer HR1821. I return to Ralph's basement and - wow! - it's like drilling through butter. I charge Ralph $200 for labor, so I'm out $50 for the day but I've got a great tool.Let's jump forward...
Today is February 21, 2011. For the last 24 years I've worked the crap out of that Makita - Old Mattie - earning her worth many times over. The lightning bolt was right.
Just a week ago I was using Old Mattie when the head jammed, frozen. All those years eating concrete grit, and now she needs a new SDS chuck.
Those chucks are expensive. Should I make the repair? Which grimy old part will wear out next? Isn't it time to buy a whole new drill? I'm 63 years old. Will I stay alive - and active - for another 24 years?
I'll wait for a message.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Atherton Okies
(Note: I've combined what what I originally posted over two separate days, February 19 and 20, into this one post. They belong together.)
Monday, February 19, 1990
It's President's Day, a holiday. Not being a president, I'm working.
The house has a FOR SALE sign out front. With two stories and a wraparound porch, it looks like an old-fashioned farmhouse except:
1) it's gigantic;
2) it's in Atherton, a town of major money; and
3) access is controlled by a security gate.
The owners are Rayette and Billy Ray. They wear sweatshirts; they're somewhat overweight; their hair is tousled. They are about as glamorous as the muffler on my truck. I like them instantly. While Billy Ray with an Okie drawl gripes on the phone about an $80 furnace repair bill, I tell Rayette that her plans to light up her kitchen will cost several thousand dollars. "Sure thang," she says without batting an eye.
I ask, "Is this to make the house more attractive to a buyer?"
"No," she says, "it's to make it more attractive to me. We're askin' a stu-oo-pid price. Maybe we'll find a stu-oo-pid buyer. Meanwhile, I'm the cook, and this kitchen is too dark."
So I begin cutting holes and running Romex. Rayette goes outside and fertilizes the lawn from a hand-pushed spreader. Billy Ray crawls under their Mercedes on his back, changing the oil. His other car is a baby-blue 1924 Cadillac.
The next time I return, nobody is home. I'm installing 14 recessed lights in the ceiling plus a couple of undercabinet fluorescents. It's mostly ladder work, but often it's easier to stand on the countertops. I like working alone. I get into the flow of the job, singing to myself a Hank Williams song - my hair's still curly and my eyes are still blue - daydreaming, running wires when suddenly I have a vision of falling - of forgetting I'm standing on a countertop, taking a step to the side - cracking my head and dying, all alone among my tools in the kitchen of some blue-collar millionaires.
A moment after this vision, somebody walks into the kitchen. Teenager, female, fat. In a glance I can tell she's totally at ease with her body. I like her instantly. I'm still standing on the countertop wearing my tool belt. My hair and clothes are powdered with gypsum dust from cutting holes in the ceiling.
She gazes up at me. "You all right?" she asks.
"Fine. Why?"
"I was studyin' upstairs? And you were singin'? And then suddenly I thought I'd better check up on you like maybe you'd electrocuted yourself."
"Amazing! I was just thinking something like that."
"I guess you stopped singin'."
"So if I'd fallen and cracked my head and my brains were oozing out on the floor, you would have held my hand and comforted me so I wouldn't die alone?"
For a few seconds, she studies me with furrowed eyebrows. "No, actually, I would've called for an ambulance."
"I appreciate that. But I guess you won't have to."
She grins. "Maybe I should call a psychiatrist?"
Wednesday, February 20, 1991
A year later, Rayette calls and asks me to do some electric work at their business, a plating company. It's a grubby-looking warehouse in the industrial section of a town that is the opposite of Atherton. Inside the air smells of chemical fumes. In one corner Rayette and Billy Ray have desks piled with papers and ringing telephones surrounded by vats containing bubbling liquids of eerie colors - chartreuse, yellow and blue. Into those strange tubs, workers are dipping electrodes and shiny metal plates. "Be careful what you touch," Rayette says.
I have a vision of accidentally placing my hand in one of those brightly colored vats and having the fingers disappear in a swirl of bubbles.
I need to stop these visions.
I repair a heater, replace a circuit breaker. Billy Ray writes out a check. On a small table like a nightstand next to his desk, the only uncluttered space in the entire warehouse, sits an enormous Bible with Billy Ray's name embossed in gold.
Billy Ray sends me back to their house on the other side of the world to repair the security gate.
The FOR SALE sign has a SOLD slapped on it. They found a stu-oo-pid buyer. Or else inflation caught up with their price.
As I'm puzzling over the gate motor, the daughter (whose name is Rayna) drives up in a dark green Jaguar with a Stanford sticker on the window. The gate is closed with the motor disconnected, so she waits. "Cracked your head yet?" she asks.
"No. Actually, I was more worried about dissolving my hand today."
"Wouldn't dissolve. But it might get plated with silver."
I point at the SOLD sign. "Where will you go?"
"Mom says for what we're gettin', we can buy a whole town in Oklahoma. We've got family there."
"What about the plating business?"
"They're givin' it to the workers. It's like givin' away a headache? Then they'll tinker with cars and putter in the garden wherever they go. That's all they want."
"And what'll you do?"
"I'll get a doctorate in chemistry. Like they did." She smiles. "It's a family tradition."
Monday, February 19, 1990
It's President's Day, a holiday. Not being a president, I'm working.
The house has a FOR SALE sign out front. With two stories and a wraparound porch, it looks like an old-fashioned farmhouse except:
1) it's gigantic;
2) it's in Atherton, a town of major money; and
3) access is controlled by a security gate.
The owners are Rayette and Billy Ray. They wear sweatshirts; they're somewhat overweight; their hair is tousled. They are about as glamorous as the muffler on my truck. I like them instantly. While Billy Ray with an Okie drawl gripes on the phone about an $80 furnace repair bill, I tell Rayette that her plans to light up her kitchen will cost several thousand dollars. "Sure thang," she says without batting an eye.
I ask, "Is this to make the house more attractive to a buyer?"
"No," she says, "it's to make it more attractive to me. We're askin' a stu-oo-pid price. Maybe we'll find a stu-oo-pid buyer. Meanwhile, I'm the cook, and this kitchen is too dark."
So I begin cutting holes and running Romex. Rayette goes outside and fertilizes the lawn from a hand-pushed spreader. Billy Ray crawls under their Mercedes on his back, changing the oil. His other car is a baby-blue 1924 Cadillac.
The next time I return, nobody is home. I'm installing 14 recessed lights in the ceiling plus a couple of undercabinet fluorescents. It's mostly ladder work, but often it's easier to stand on the countertops. I like working alone. I get into the flow of the job, singing to myself a Hank Williams song - my hair's still curly and my eyes are still blue - daydreaming, running wires when suddenly I have a vision of falling - of forgetting I'm standing on a countertop, taking a step to the side - cracking my head and dying, all alone among my tools in the kitchen of some blue-collar millionaires.
A moment after this vision, somebody walks into the kitchen. Teenager, female, fat. In a glance I can tell she's totally at ease with her body. I like her instantly. I'm still standing on the countertop wearing my tool belt. My hair and clothes are powdered with gypsum dust from cutting holes in the ceiling.
She gazes up at me. "You all right?" she asks.
"Fine. Why?"
"I was studyin' upstairs? And you were singin'? And then suddenly I thought I'd better check up on you like maybe you'd electrocuted yourself."
"Amazing! I was just thinking something like that."
"I guess you stopped singin'."
"So if I'd fallen and cracked my head and my brains were oozing out on the floor, you would have held my hand and comforted me so I wouldn't die alone?"
For a few seconds, she studies me with furrowed eyebrows. "No, actually, I would've called for an ambulance."
"I appreciate that. But I guess you won't have to."
She grins. "Maybe I should call a psychiatrist?"
Wednesday, February 20, 1991
A year later, Rayette calls and asks me to do some electric work at their business, a plating company. It's a grubby-looking warehouse in the industrial section of a town that is the opposite of Atherton. Inside the air smells of chemical fumes. In one corner Rayette and Billy Ray have desks piled with papers and ringing telephones surrounded by vats containing bubbling liquids of eerie colors - chartreuse, yellow and blue. Into those strange tubs, workers are dipping electrodes and shiny metal plates. "Be careful what you touch," Rayette says.
I have a vision of accidentally placing my hand in one of those brightly colored vats and having the fingers disappear in a swirl of bubbles.
I need to stop these visions.
I repair a heater, replace a circuit breaker. Billy Ray writes out a check. On a small table like a nightstand next to his desk, the only uncluttered space in the entire warehouse, sits an enormous Bible with Billy Ray's name embossed in gold.
Billy Ray sends me back to their house on the other side of the world to repair the security gate.
The FOR SALE sign has a SOLD slapped on it. They found a stu-oo-pid buyer. Or else inflation caught up with their price.
As I'm puzzling over the gate motor, the daughter (whose name is Rayna) drives up in a dark green Jaguar with a Stanford sticker on the window. The gate is closed with the motor disconnected, so she waits. "Cracked your head yet?" she asks.
"No. Actually, I was more worried about dissolving my hand today."
"Wouldn't dissolve. But it might get plated with silver."
I point at the SOLD sign. "Where will you go?"
"Mom says for what we're gettin', we can buy a whole town in Oklahoma. We've got family there."
"What about the plating business?"
"They're givin' it to the workers. It's like givin' away a headache? Then they'll tinker with cars and putter in the garden wherever they go. That's all they want."
"And what'll you do?"
"I'll get a doctorate in chemistry. Like they did." She smiles. "It's a family tradition."
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Atherton Okies, Part One
Monday, February 19, 1990
(Note: I've deleted this post and combined it with the one that follows, February 20. They belong together.)
(Note: I've deleted this post and combined it with the one that follows, February 20. They belong together.)
Friday, February 18, 2011
Jolly Red Bed Wheels
Thursday, February 18, 1993
I started working for Wesley in 1980 when he was 71 years old. He needed new kitchen outlets and a new doorbell. He was a professor of education, retired. Walking by my truck, he spotted on the dashboard a book of poetry by W.H. Auden. "Well, well," he said. "Do you like Auden?"
"Sometimes," I said.
"Stop all the clocks," he said.
I must have looked puzzled.
"That's one of his poems," he said.
There was a playfulness about him. Later I learned that Wesley began his career teaching high school civics and English. You somehow felt he wanted to bring out the best in you. Formal but friendly, rigorous but generous, knowledgeable but open-minded, he was the teacher we all wish we had had.
After he paid me by check, as I was leaving, his wife Eleanor stuffed a five dollar bill in my hand.
In 1991 Eleanor called me to their house. Wesley was ill, and she wanted me to put wheels under their bed. I don't know why. I didn't ask. I'd like to imagine a happy couple frolicking on a rolling bed, but I'm sure the reason was more grim. Wesley was now 82 years old, and from the sound of his cough you knew he was dying.
Then on this day in 1993 I get a call from Eleanor: "We'd like you to take the wheels off the bed." Again, I don't ask why. Their house now looks more like a medical facility than a home. Eleanor and Wesley both seem cheerful and sharp-minded, though as Eleanor says, "There's been a lot of stress." Wesley has to stop for breath, wheezing ineffectively, after taking a step. Eleanor now uses a cane.
"I'd like you to build a window box," Eleanor says. "Then Wesley could look out and see flowers."
We make plans. I remove the bed wheels and don't charge for the labor.
That night, Eleanor calls. "I guess we won't need the window box."
"I'm so sorry."
"It isn't over yet."
In fact, it wasn't over for another three years. But I never saw them again.
Some people, though you meet them only briefly, touch you with a lasting spirit.
Auden wrote:
Those wheels remain in my basement. They are four inches in diameter, heavy-duty, and colored a jolly bright red. I don't know what to do with them. Maybe when I'm 82 and my wife is 81, I'll put those wondrous wheels on our bed, and we'll roll into the waiting night.
I started working for Wesley in 1980 when he was 71 years old. He needed new kitchen outlets and a new doorbell. He was a professor of education, retired. Walking by my truck, he spotted on the dashboard a book of poetry by W.H. Auden. "Well, well," he said. "Do you like Auden?"
"Sometimes," I said.
"Stop all the clocks," he said.
I must have looked puzzled.
"That's one of his poems," he said.
There was a playfulness about him. Later I learned that Wesley began his career teaching high school civics and English. You somehow felt he wanted to bring out the best in you. Formal but friendly, rigorous but generous, knowledgeable but open-minded, he was the teacher we all wish we had had.
After he paid me by check, as I was leaving, his wife Eleanor stuffed a five dollar bill in my hand.
In 1991 Eleanor called me to their house. Wesley was ill, and she wanted me to put wheels under their bed. I don't know why. I didn't ask. I'd like to imagine a happy couple frolicking on a rolling bed, but I'm sure the reason was more grim. Wesley was now 82 years old, and from the sound of his cough you knew he was dying.
Then on this day in 1993 I get a call from Eleanor: "We'd like you to take the wheels off the bed." Again, I don't ask why. Their house now looks more like a medical facility than a home. Eleanor and Wesley both seem cheerful and sharp-minded, though as Eleanor says, "There's been a lot of stress." Wesley has to stop for breath, wheezing ineffectively, after taking a step. Eleanor now uses a cane.
"I'd like you to build a window box," Eleanor says. "Then Wesley could look out and see flowers."
We make plans. I remove the bed wheels and don't charge for the labor.
That night, Eleanor calls. "I guess we won't need the window box."
"I'm so sorry."
"It isn't over yet."
In fact, it wasn't over for another three years. But I never saw them again.
Some people, though you meet them only briefly, touch you with a lasting spirit.
Auden wrote:
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,That second line is so awful, I assume the poem is a joke. But serious people quote it all the time. Somewhere, I imagine, Wesley is laughing. Perhaps Auden is, too.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Those wheels remain in my basement. They are four inches in diameter, heavy-duty, and colored a jolly bright red. I don't know what to do with them. Maybe when I'm 82 and my wife is 81, I'll put those wondrous wheels on our bed, and we'll roll into the waiting night.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Alfredo
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
At 7 a.m. on a cold morning I meet Alfredo. We stand on the narrow road looking up at a hillside. I explain what I need: a trench, 20 feet long, 4 feet deep, 16 inches wide. The trench must follow the contour of the hillside. I need it today. Then tomorrow, I need the trench filled with drain rock.
There's no practical access for a tractor, and anyway the hill is too steep. The trench must be dug by hand.
"How much you want to pay?" Alfredo asks.
Alfredo is from Mexico. He is a legal resident of the USA. A big man with a couple of gold teeth, he speaks limited English with a Mexican accent. In my town (La Honda), he's the go-to guy for a job like this. Sometimes he does the work himself. For digging, he says he'll "get some people." We settle on a price. Then I leave.
At 5 p.m. I return. There is a perfect ditch in the hillside. I check the measurements, and it is exactly right. The sides of the ditch go straight down with no narrowing toward the bottom. Somebody - probably, several somebodies - working with shovels on a slippery hillside have lifted and moved all that water-soaked clay, leaving edges slick and precise as if cut with a knife.
Sometimes hiring Alfredo is like pushing a button. A third-world button.
The next morning I assemble drainage pipe in mucky mud. A dump truck drops 4 yards of drain rock in a pile at the side of the road. Now the pile must be carried 15 feet up the hill.
Alfredo arrives with two men in his truck. He speaks to the men in Spanish. With a wheelbarrow and two shovels they begin hauling the rock up the hill.
I don't ask if the men are legal residents. It's best not to ask. What I know is that Alfredo can round them up on a moment's notice even if they don't have telephones or permanent addresses, and he will make sure they do the work promptly and well.
A few hours later I return. The men are gone, the ditch is filled. Alfredo, alone this time, drives up in his truck, a nearly-new Ford F150. I count out $400. I probably could have negotiated a lower price but didn't try. At this price Alfredo will make a fair profit and the diggers will receive a fair wage. Families will be fed.
Alfredo has a wife who cleans houses. They have raised 3 children who have married and moved away. They are honest, friendly, hard-working people.
"Nice truck," I say.
Alfredo pats the fender. He smiles with pride. "In Mexico," he says, "all I had was a burro."
(Note: I met Alfredo Ponce, the subject of this blog post, a couple of years after creating the character named Alfredo in my novel CLEAR HEART. Yes, there are similarities. Sometimes life resembles art.)
At 7 a.m. on a cold morning I meet Alfredo. We stand on the narrow road looking up at a hillside. I explain what I need: a trench, 20 feet long, 4 feet deep, 16 inches wide. The trench must follow the contour of the hillside. I need it today. Then tomorrow, I need the trench filled with drain rock.
There's no practical access for a tractor, and anyway the hill is too steep. The trench must be dug by hand.
"How much you want to pay?" Alfredo asks.
Alfredo is from Mexico. He is a legal resident of the USA. A big man with a couple of gold teeth, he speaks limited English with a Mexican accent. In my town (La Honda), he's the go-to guy for a job like this. Sometimes he does the work himself. For digging, he says he'll "get some people." We settle on a price. Then I leave.
At 5 p.m. I return. There is a perfect ditch in the hillside. I check the measurements, and it is exactly right. The sides of the ditch go straight down with no narrowing toward the bottom. Somebody - probably, several somebodies - working with shovels on a slippery hillside have lifted and moved all that water-soaked clay, leaving edges slick and precise as if cut with a knife.
Sometimes hiring Alfredo is like pushing a button. A third-world button.
The next morning I assemble drainage pipe in mucky mud. A dump truck drops 4 yards of drain rock in a pile at the side of the road. Now the pile must be carried 15 feet up the hill.
Alfredo arrives with two men in his truck. He speaks to the men in Spanish. With a wheelbarrow and two shovels they begin hauling the rock up the hill.
I don't ask if the men are legal residents. It's best not to ask. What I know is that Alfredo can round them up on a moment's notice even if they don't have telephones or permanent addresses, and he will make sure they do the work promptly and well.
A few hours later I return. The men are gone, the ditch is filled. Alfredo, alone this time, drives up in his truck, a nearly-new Ford F150. I count out $400. I probably could have negotiated a lower price but didn't try. At this price Alfredo will make a fair profit and the diggers will receive a fair wage. Families will be fed.
Alfredo has a wife who cleans houses. They have raised 3 children who have married and moved away. They are honest, friendly, hard-working people.
"Nice truck," I say.
Alfredo pats the fender. He smiles with pride. "In Mexico," he says, "all I had was a burro."
(Note: I met Alfredo Ponce, the subject of this blog post, a couple of years after creating the character named Alfredo in my novel CLEAR HEART. Yes, there are similarities. Sometimes life resembles art.)
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Montgomery Ward Cottage
Saturday, February 16, 1980
The landlady warned us: "That's the fertile cabin."
"We'll take it," I said.
So in 1973 my wife and I moved into one of the landlady's four rental cottages. For the next seven years my weekend job was to keep those cabins from collapse. They were located on an acre next to San Francisquito Creek and the Stanford University Golf Course. Here's ours:
The joists were sitting directly on the ground. There was a hole in the bathroom floor covered by a borrowed highway sign (SPEED LIMIT 45) and another by the entry (BEGIN SCENIC ROUTE). Unrestrained by earthquake straps, the water heater next to the kitchen table would wobble, sloshing whenever you walked nearby while the exhaust vent would fall out of the wall if you slammed the kitchen door. Periodically you had to scrape mildew off the ceiling. There were four electric outlets—total. Mice ran merrily along the baseboards. Strange insects crawled out of damp walls. At night you could hear the termites. There was a constant smell of wet wood.
To us it was paradise. My wife and I spent seven happy years while creating—the landlady was correct—two children, the most recent of a long line of babies conceived therein.
My daughter was actually born in the back yard of this cottage under a pine tree lit by a full moon (unintentionally, I might add—but that's a story for another day). I have the fondest memories of this place, though a building inspector would see nothing but disaster.
We childproofed but otherwise left it as is—after all, we didn't own it. The property was far too valuable to justify maintaining dwellings that had been ordered from a Montgomery Ward catalog. They had been delivered in pieces and constructed over a few weekends, the 1940's equivalent of single-wides, cheap little rural nests.
Gradually through the years, suburbia had engulfed the little enclave.
Eventually the landlady died and the property was bought by a real estate developer. In February of 1980, just days after I moved the last of our belongings to our new house in La Honda, here is what happened to that cottage:
That's my son playing in the dirt where he used to share a bedroom with my daughter. Behind him is the pine tree under which my daughter was born. Just out of the photo sits a big yellow Caterpillar D9 bulldozer.
On that acre they built seven McMansions. I wonder if any of them proved to be as fecund as our little cabin.
The landlady warned us: "That's the fertile cabin."
"We'll take it," I said.
So in 1973 my wife and I moved into one of the landlady's four rental cottages. For the next seven years my weekend job was to keep those cabins from collapse. They were located on an acre next to San Francisquito Creek and the Stanford University Golf Course. Here's ours:
The joists were sitting directly on the ground. There was a hole in the bathroom floor covered by a borrowed highway sign (SPEED LIMIT 45) and another by the entry (BEGIN SCENIC ROUTE). Unrestrained by earthquake straps, the water heater next to the kitchen table would wobble, sloshing whenever you walked nearby while the exhaust vent would fall out of the wall if you slammed the kitchen door. Periodically you had to scrape mildew off the ceiling. There were four electric outlets—total. Mice ran merrily along the baseboards. Strange insects crawled out of damp walls. At night you could hear the termites. There was a constant smell of wet wood.
To us it was paradise. My wife and I spent seven happy years while creating—the landlady was correct—two children, the most recent of a long line of babies conceived therein.
My daughter was actually born in the back yard of this cottage under a pine tree lit by a full moon (unintentionally, I might add—but that's a story for another day). I have the fondest memories of this place, though a building inspector would see nothing but disaster.
We childproofed but otherwise left it as is—after all, we didn't own it. The property was far too valuable to justify maintaining dwellings that had been ordered from a Montgomery Ward catalog. They had been delivered in pieces and constructed over a few weekends, the 1940's equivalent of single-wides, cheap little rural nests.
Gradually through the years, suburbia had engulfed the little enclave.
Eventually the landlady died and the property was bought by a real estate developer. In February of 1980, just days after I moved the last of our belongings to our new house in La Honda, here is what happened to that cottage:
That's my son playing in the dirt where he used to share a bedroom with my daughter. Behind him is the pine tree under which my daughter was born. Just out of the photo sits a big yellow Caterpillar D9 bulldozer.
On that acre they built seven McMansions. I wonder if any of them proved to be as fecund as our little cabin.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Price Tags
Wednesday, February 15, 1984
It's a tony strip of shops in downtown Saratoga. Parked at the meters are Jaguar, Bentley, Mercedes—and my truck. I'm installing cabinets in an Italian designer clothing store . For most of the job I'm alone with the saleswoman, whose name is Marzia. In four and a half hours, exactly three customers enter the shop. The first is a woman who examines a skirt and then asks, "Why aren't there any price tags?"
"Just ask," Marzia says.
"Okay, how much is this skirt?"
"Eight hundred and twenty dollars."
The woman walks out.
About two hours later, a man and woman enter together. The man is pasty, overweight, and is wearing short pants that reveal half of his hairy thighs. The woman is skinny, braless, slightly awkward like a teenager.
Marzia greets them. She seems to know the man.
Tentatively, the young woman holds up a blouse. The man shakes his head.
Marzia suggests another blouse. The man shakes his head.
He rejects every piece of clothing suggested by either Marzia or his nervous companion. Not once does he ask about the price. Finally he grabs a short skirt and a very thin top. "These," he says.
The young woman stares at the floor. "All right," she says.
Marzia rings them up. Nine hundred and ninety dollars.
The couple leaves, the woman clinging to the man's arm. Neither one of them looks remotely happy.
When they are gone I say, "I'm afraid to ask if that was his daughter."
Marzia sighs. "He comes here about once a week. Different women." She shakes her head. "That wasn't shopping. That was foreplay." She frowns. "And what comes after won't be fun."
It's a tony strip of shops in downtown Saratoga. Parked at the meters are Jaguar, Bentley, Mercedes—and my truck. I'm installing cabinets in an Italian designer clothing store . For most of the job I'm alone with the saleswoman, whose name is Marzia. In four and a half hours, exactly three customers enter the shop. The first is a woman who examines a skirt and then asks, "Why aren't there any price tags?"
"Just ask," Marzia says.
"Okay, how much is this skirt?"
"Eight hundred and twenty dollars."
The woman walks out.
About two hours later, a man and woman enter together. The man is pasty, overweight, and is wearing short pants that reveal half of his hairy thighs. The woman is skinny, braless, slightly awkward like a teenager.
Marzia greets them. She seems to know the man.
Tentatively, the young woman holds up a blouse. The man shakes his head.
Marzia suggests another blouse. The man shakes his head.
He rejects every piece of clothing suggested by either Marzia or his nervous companion. Not once does he ask about the price. Finally he grabs a short skirt and a very thin top. "These," he says.
The young woman stares at the floor. "All right," she says.
Marzia rings them up. Nine hundred and ninety dollars.
The couple leaves, the woman clinging to the man's arm. Neither one of them looks remotely happy.
When they are gone I say, "I'm afraid to ask if that was his daughter."
Marzia sighs. "He comes here about once a week. Different women." She shakes her head. "That wasn't shopping. That was foreplay." She frowns. "And what comes after won't be fun."
Monday, February 14, 2011
Edward Bulwer-Lytton and Radioactive Sex
Monday, February 14, 2005
I've worked with a lot of decorators over the years, but Isabella is the only one I've stayed with long term. I respect her. She's blond and cute and sometimes, when she goofs up, she says "I'm having a blond day." But she's no bimbo. We've worked together off and on for twenty years.
Today I meet Isabella at a spiffy new house in Cupertino to discuss some lighting. Isabella prepares me: "It's an unusual situation. The wife works and makes millions. The hubby stays home and plays with toys." Inside the house, first thing you see is a billiard table and giant model trains.
Featured on the mantle over the fireplace is an oil painting, a landscape in the old English style. Cows, a creek, fluffy clouds, peasant girls with creamy skin and ringlet hair. Engraved on a brass plate at the bottom of the frame is:
After the engraved "Bulwer," somebody has carefully hand-printed the letter "L."
Wearing my toolbelt over raggedy shorts, I study the painting and say, "I didn't know Bulwer-Lytton was a painter."
Hubby gives an amused little chuckle. "It's Bulwer," he says. Hubby has a British accent.
"In 1842 it was Bulwer. Edward George Bulwer. He changed his name in 1844, after his mother died. His mother was a Lytton."
"Are you quite sure?"
"I studied him in college. He was the 'dark and stormy night' writer, always over the top. Like this painting. It has to be him. How many Edward G. Bulwers could there be in England in 1842?"
"What did he write?"
"Pelham. Godolphin. The Last Days of Pompeii. Come to think of it, The Last Days of Pompeii was inspired by a painting. And here you have a painting by Bulwer-Lytton in the style of Gainsborough. I've always loved Gainsborough."
"Who was Gainsborough?"
"Thomas Gainsborough. You know - the English painter? He did those wonderful romantic old landscapes in the eighteenth century. And here a hundred years later is Bulwer-Lytton, a writer, imitating - "
Isabella coughs.
I stop, look around, and realize that hubby is frowning mightily.
Outside, Isabella says, "Well, you blew that job. You showed him up."
"I'm sorry. I was excited. I liked the painting."
"Stay here. I'll go in and do damage control."
Isabella is a charmer. I wait in my truck.
Isabella returns. "You got the job. In the future, act like an electrician. Okay?"
"As long as you act like a decorator."
"Okay."
Isabella has no filter. It's part of her charm. We make an odd team. I always wonder what clients make of us. Being British, this client in particular might have a problem getting used to Isabella—and to California culture in general where no topic is too personal to share.
We return to the house and take measurements for the lights. Isabella chats with the hubby for a few minutes. He has the sniffles. Blowing his nose, apologizing, he says he hopes he won't infect anybody. Isabella says she won't catch it — she never comes down with a cold because she gargles with hydrogen peroxide. Every day.
Even after twenty years of collaboration, Isabella constantly surprises me. I ask, "Does gargling with peroxide work against other diseases, too?"
"Like what?"
"Oh, I don't know, bubonic plague maybe?"
"I've never caught it." Isabella laughs. "So I guess it works."
Hubby observes with a proper British stiff-lipped smile.
Which somehow reminds me: I mention to Isabella that a mutual acquaintance, very dear to both of us, just found out she has breast cancer. A workaholic, she quit her job, had surgery, and is now undergoing radiation.
"That's what happens," Isabella says. "Cancer gets your attention real fast. I should know."
Hubby says, "Oh no! Oh dear. I hope you're all right."
"Oh, it's not me. I'm fine. George — my husband — has prostate cancer."
"I'm so sorry," hubby says.
"All men get it. You will, too." Isabella goes inward for a moment, closing her eyes, shaking her blond curly hair. She opens her eyes. "George had the seed treatment, you know, where they plant radioactive seeds. Now he's radioactive down there. It kind of makes me think twice about having sex."
It's my turn to cough.
Isabella puts her hand to her mouth. "We've got our measurements," she says. "We'll be in touch."
"I'm sure you will," hubby says.
***Note: After some research, I suspect the brass plate denoted ownership by Bulwer-Lytton, not artistry. The painter may have been Frederick Walker, but I'm just speculating.
I've worked with a lot of decorators over the years, but Isabella is the only one I've stayed with long term. I respect her. She's blond and cute and sometimes, when she goofs up, she says "I'm having a blond day." But she's no bimbo. We've worked together off and on for twenty years.
Today I meet Isabella at a spiffy new house in Cupertino to discuss some lighting. Isabella prepares me: "It's an unusual situation. The wife works and makes millions. The hubby stays home and plays with toys." Inside the house, first thing you see is a billiard table and giant model trains.
Featured on the mantle over the fireplace is an oil painting, a landscape in the old English style. Cows, a creek, fluffy clouds, peasant girls with creamy skin and ringlet hair. Engraved on a brass plate at the bottom of the frame is:
Edward G Bulwer
1842
Wearing my toolbelt over raggedy shorts, I study the painting and say, "I didn't know Bulwer-Lytton was a painter."
Hubby gives an amused little chuckle. "It's Bulwer," he says. Hubby has a British accent.
"In 1842 it was Bulwer. Edward George Bulwer. He changed his name in 1844, after his mother died. His mother was a Lytton."
"Are you quite sure?"
"I studied him in college. He was the 'dark and stormy night' writer, always over the top. Like this painting. It has to be him. How many Edward G. Bulwers could there be in England in 1842?"
"What did he write?"
"Pelham. Godolphin. The Last Days of Pompeii. Come to think of it, The Last Days of Pompeii was inspired by a painting. And here you have a painting by Bulwer-Lytton in the style of Gainsborough. I've always loved Gainsborough."
"Who was Gainsborough?"
"Thomas Gainsborough. You know - the English painter? He did those wonderful romantic old landscapes in the eighteenth century. And here a hundred years later is Bulwer-Lytton, a writer, imitating - "
Isabella coughs.
I stop, look around, and realize that hubby is frowning mightily.
Outside, Isabella says, "Well, you blew that job. You showed him up."
"I'm sorry. I was excited. I liked the painting."
"Stay here. I'll go in and do damage control."
Isabella is a charmer. I wait in my truck.
Isabella returns. "You got the job. In the future, act like an electrician. Okay?"
"As long as you act like a decorator."
"Okay."
Isabella has no filter. It's part of her charm. We make an odd team. I always wonder what clients make of us. Being British, this client in particular might have a problem getting used to Isabella—and to California culture in general where no topic is too personal to share.
We return to the house and take measurements for the lights. Isabella chats with the hubby for a few minutes. He has the sniffles. Blowing his nose, apologizing, he says he hopes he won't infect anybody. Isabella says she won't catch it — she never comes down with a cold because she gargles with hydrogen peroxide. Every day.
Even after twenty years of collaboration, Isabella constantly surprises me. I ask, "Does gargling with peroxide work against other diseases, too?"
"Like what?"
"Oh, I don't know, bubonic plague maybe?"
"I've never caught it." Isabella laughs. "So I guess it works."
Hubby observes with a proper British stiff-lipped smile.
Which somehow reminds me: I mention to Isabella that a mutual acquaintance, very dear to both of us, just found out she has breast cancer. A workaholic, she quit her job, had surgery, and is now undergoing radiation.
"That's what happens," Isabella says. "Cancer gets your attention real fast. I should know."
Hubby says, "Oh no! Oh dear. I hope you're all right."
"Oh, it's not me. I'm fine. George — my husband — has prostate cancer."
"I'm so sorry," hubby says.
"All men get it. You will, too." Isabella goes inward for a moment, closing her eyes, shaking her blond curly hair. She opens her eyes. "George had the seed treatment, you know, where they plant radioactive seeds. Now he's radioactive down there. It kind of makes me think twice about having sex."
It's my turn to cough.
Isabella puts her hand to her mouth. "We've got our measurements," she says. "We'll be in touch."
"I'm sure you will," hubby says.
***Note: After some research, I suspect the brass plate denoted ownership by Bulwer-Lytton, not artistry. The painter may have been Frederick Walker, but I'm just speculating.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Breaking Waves
Friday, February 13, 1997
Mike is an engineer at a company that makes disk drives. He's a big guy, ex-football player, square of jaw and wide of shoulder. He bought a townhouse in Santa Clara and hired a decorator - Isabella - who hired me to spiff the place up a bit.
Isabella told Mike he needed a work of art to "energize" the dining room. She then made the mistake of letting Mike choose the art. He bought a gigantic painting of waves breaking over rocks under a moody sky. Framed, it weighed 80 pounds. My job was to hang it and install low voltage lighting to display it. Dramatic lighting.
I was just cleaning up when Mike came home accompanied by a splendid young woman who, you knew in a glance, was fresh and smart and clearly smitten. She was gazing at the breaking waves while Mike set the table with a bottle of wine, a sourdough baguette, a bowl of cherries and a dark chocolate cake. "How do you like the painting?" Mike asked.
"Nice lighting," she said.
Today Mike calls me back to the townhouse. A couple of years have passed. The painting, still nicely lit, remains on the wall. The home seems clean and barely lived in with no sign of female habitation. Mike, looking more than two years older, meets me in a rush and tells me he's working 18 hour days. He says, "I should have noticed sooner, but there's water running down the inside of the kitchen wall whenever it rains. Okay?"
On a ladder I have to remove long strips of Masonite siding. A two-man job. I'm working alone.
I trace the water back to some bad flashing around second-floor windows. There's rot. Worse than rot. Termites are everywhere. I call Mike. "I can fix the flashing," I say, "but you need an exterminator."
"Who do you recommend?"
"It depends on what you want. There are a lot of environmentally friendly companies that use different techniques. Like, there's one that uses microwaves, and there's one that—"
"I want lethal poison. Toxic, high-hazard nuclear waste would be okay. I want them dead."
In less than an hour, I've got Izzie the Exterminator out there to take a look. Izzie says, "Santa Clara used to have the greatest fruit orchards in the world. And you know what lived under those fruit trees? Termites. Now the farms are gone, but the termites are still underground, just waiting."
Tomorrow Izzie will come back, dig trenches around the perimeter of the house, fill the trenches with lethal toxic industrial-strength poison, and cover them. Mike will be very happy.
I soak a couple of rotten 2 by 4's with Copper Green (deadly stuff), install sister studs beside the rotten ones, redo the flashing, flick termites off with my fingers, and spread bounteous caulk around the window. During intermittent sprinkles of rain I re-nail the siding. Gusts of wet wind try to whip the long strips of Masonite out of my hands. Again I'm doing a two-man job, working alone, enjoying the rhythm: lift, whack a nail, whack another. Move the ladder, lift, whack, whack.
A physical challenge. A test of strength and skill. Ladder work can exhaust you. Muscles are shaking.
I finish in darkness. Sore, tired, I feel good about this day, the same satisfied feeling you get after climbing a mountain.
Mike returns. Standing together in the back yard amid concrete-and-Masonite suburbia, we stare at the completed wall. Rushes of wind flap our clothing and roar in our ears. Raindrops strike our skin like pebbles. Wet moody clouds are blowing overhead playing hide-and-seek with the moon.
Inside through the window where it is cozy and quiet, I see the painting bathed in warm light. The art may be a cliché, but clichés come from truth, from trying to express the inexpressible, the relentless force of nature.
"Good job," Mike says. "So I'll have no more problems?"
"For a while."
Mike is an engineer at a company that makes disk drives. He's a big guy, ex-football player, square of jaw and wide of shoulder. He bought a townhouse in Santa Clara and hired a decorator - Isabella - who hired me to spiff the place up a bit.
Isabella told Mike he needed a work of art to "energize" the dining room. She then made the mistake of letting Mike choose the art. He bought a gigantic painting of waves breaking over rocks under a moody sky. Framed, it weighed 80 pounds. My job was to hang it and install low voltage lighting to display it. Dramatic lighting.
I was just cleaning up when Mike came home accompanied by a splendid young woman who, you knew in a glance, was fresh and smart and clearly smitten. She was gazing at the breaking waves while Mike set the table with a bottle of wine, a sourdough baguette, a bowl of cherries and a dark chocolate cake. "How do you like the painting?" Mike asked.
"Nice lighting," she said.
Today Mike calls me back to the townhouse. A couple of years have passed. The painting, still nicely lit, remains on the wall. The home seems clean and barely lived in with no sign of female habitation. Mike, looking more than two years older, meets me in a rush and tells me he's working 18 hour days. He says, "I should have noticed sooner, but there's water running down the inside of the kitchen wall whenever it rains. Okay?"
On a ladder I have to remove long strips of Masonite siding. A two-man job. I'm working alone.
I trace the water back to some bad flashing around second-floor windows. There's rot. Worse than rot. Termites are everywhere. I call Mike. "I can fix the flashing," I say, "but you need an exterminator."
"Who do you recommend?"
"It depends on what you want. There are a lot of environmentally friendly companies that use different techniques. Like, there's one that uses microwaves, and there's one that—"
"I want lethal poison. Toxic, high-hazard nuclear waste would be okay. I want them dead."
In less than an hour, I've got Izzie the Exterminator out there to take a look. Izzie says, "Santa Clara used to have the greatest fruit orchards in the world. And you know what lived under those fruit trees? Termites. Now the farms are gone, but the termites are still underground, just waiting."
Tomorrow Izzie will come back, dig trenches around the perimeter of the house, fill the trenches with lethal toxic industrial-strength poison, and cover them. Mike will be very happy.
I soak a couple of rotten 2 by 4's with Copper Green (deadly stuff), install sister studs beside the rotten ones, redo the flashing, flick termites off with my fingers, and spread bounteous caulk around the window. During intermittent sprinkles of rain I re-nail the siding. Gusts of wet wind try to whip the long strips of Masonite out of my hands. Again I'm doing a two-man job, working alone, enjoying the rhythm: lift, whack a nail, whack another. Move the ladder, lift, whack, whack.
A physical challenge. A test of strength and skill. Ladder work can exhaust you. Muscles are shaking.
I finish in darkness. Sore, tired, I feel good about this day, the same satisfied feeling you get after climbing a mountain.
Mike returns. Standing together in the back yard amid concrete-and-Masonite suburbia, we stare at the completed wall. Rushes of wind flap our clothing and roar in our ears. Raindrops strike our skin like pebbles. Wet moody clouds are blowing overhead playing hide-and-seek with the moon.
Inside through the window where it is cozy and quiet, I see the painting bathed in warm light. The art may be a cliché, but clichés come from truth, from trying to express the inexpressible, the relentless force of nature.
"Good job," Mike says. "So I'll have no more problems?"
"For a while."
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Craftsman 1/4 x 8 Inch Slot-head Screwdriver, Melted
There's something inherently funny about screwdrivers. As bananas are to fruit, screwdrivers are to tools. The latent twelve-year-old in all of us wants to giggle. Let's get over that.
Okay. Now you can say what you will about Sears power tools (it's a whole 'nother subject), but the Craftsman people make darn good hand tools. Like my Craftsman 1/4 x 8 inch slotted screwdriver. Easy grip, precise head, solid construction. It takes a while, but like a faithful friend you come to appreciate a sturdy screwdriver, especially when you're forced to grab some substitute with a point that's rounded or a grip that doesn't fit a human hand or a shaft that comes loose.
Yesterday, I melted my trusty friend inside an accidentally energized circuit breaker panel box.
I always heard that Sears guarantees its Craftsman screwdrivers for life.
Today out shopping with the kids, I stop at Sears in Mountain View and bring in my poor old Craftsman 1/4 x 8 inch slot-head. It looks like I ran it through an experiment involving nuclear fission. I expect them to laugh me out of the store. Instead the salesman, without comment, hands me a brand new one.
It's true! They actually guarantee for life, even if you use it like an idiot. What suckers.
As long as we're in the store, we pick up two pairs of soccer shoes, a leotard, a yo-yo, a graphing calculator, a set of spark plugs, a floor pillow, a gas barbecue grill, and ten pounds of laundry detergent.
(Bear in mind, this happened in 1989. I don't know if Sears still has that guarantee; but if they don't, they should. And though slot heads are less common today, I've still got that same old driver in my toolbelt.)
Friday, February 11, 2011
Screwdriver, Melted
Saturday, February 11, 1989
Jack wants me to wire an illegal rental he's building behind his house in Mountain View. He's a Lockheed space engineer on medical disability. I get the sense that the disability is in the psychological realm. Like, he's half crazy. It's in the eyes.
He wants a bid, but I tell him I can only do this on a time and materials basis at forty dollars an hour. Cash.
He seems stunned. "I've never paid forty dollars an hour to anybody in my entire life."
I don't budge. I'm not cutting my rates on an illegal job for a crazy man. He shakes his head and paws his boots along the gravel and finally agrees. Good. I need the money.
As I work, Jack loosens up. He tells me his two boys, now at UC Berkeley, want to be an artist and a bass guitarist. "All that schooling." He shakes his head.
It's a cold day. I'm wearing three shirts plus a hooded sweatshirt. Metal is frigid to the touch as I open his electric panel and flip the main switch. Then stupidly without testing for voltage, I insert a screwdriver and - ZAP! FLASH!
The screwdriver smokes, half melted. An ozone smell.
That could’ve been my finger smoking, half melted. Or my heart. The circuit breaker was defective - it didn’t turn off. I push it again. This time it clicks off - but later, when I try to push it on, it won’t go. Jack has to go to Orchard Supply Hardware and pay $99 for a new Zinsco 100 amp CB, which doesn’t please him. "That's a dollar an ampere," he says incredulously.
That's two dollars a year for my life, I'm thinking. Never trust a switch. Test, then touch.
The day never warms. In fact, it gets colder. A raw wind. I crawl under the house pulling wires. I drill holes, drive staples, climb ladders. Freezing fingers strip the insulation, twist the copper. To stay warm I work fast, but even so it's a 12 hour day. I have a vision of my father, shaking his head. All that schooling.
No regrets. You make your choices.
It's $480 for labor, $120 (rounding down) for materials. Jack says, "I'm going to deduct a hundred dollars for that circuit breaker."
I say, "It was already busted or else it would've shut down the first time I flipped it. That thing could've killed me."
"The hell you say."
"Jack, I'm getting pissed."
Still, he hesitates.
I say, "You'd better hope nobody tells the Mountain View Building Department what you're doing here. An anonymous tip. That's all it takes."
Jack rubs his chin. His eyes dart about. Then he counts out six Ben Franklins.
Some jobs you like. Some, you bear. Some days, it's a tough world. And you're part of it.
Jack wants me to wire an illegal rental he's building behind his house in Mountain View. He's a Lockheed space engineer on medical disability. I get the sense that the disability is in the psychological realm. Like, he's half crazy. It's in the eyes.
He wants a bid, but I tell him I can only do this on a time and materials basis at forty dollars an hour. Cash.
He seems stunned. "I've never paid forty dollars an hour to anybody in my entire life."
I don't budge. I'm not cutting my rates on an illegal job for a crazy man. He shakes his head and paws his boots along the gravel and finally agrees. Good. I need the money.
As I work, Jack loosens up. He tells me his two boys, now at UC Berkeley, want to be an artist and a bass guitarist. "All that schooling." He shakes his head.
It's a cold day. I'm wearing three shirts plus a hooded sweatshirt. Metal is frigid to the touch as I open his electric panel and flip the main switch. Then stupidly without testing for voltage, I insert a screwdriver and - ZAP! FLASH!
The screwdriver smokes, half melted. An ozone smell.
That could’ve been my finger smoking, half melted. Or my heart. The circuit breaker was defective - it didn’t turn off. I push it again. This time it clicks off - but later, when I try to push it on, it won’t go. Jack has to go to Orchard Supply Hardware and pay $99 for a new Zinsco 100 amp CB, which doesn’t please him. "That's a dollar an ampere," he says incredulously.
That's two dollars a year for my life, I'm thinking. Never trust a switch. Test, then touch.
The day never warms. In fact, it gets colder. A raw wind. I crawl under the house pulling wires. I drill holes, drive staples, climb ladders. Freezing fingers strip the insulation, twist the copper. To stay warm I work fast, but even so it's a 12 hour day. I have a vision of my father, shaking his head. All that schooling.
No regrets. You make your choices.
It's $480 for labor, $120 (rounding down) for materials. Jack says, "I'm going to deduct a hundred dollars for that circuit breaker."
I say, "It was already busted or else it would've shut down the first time I flipped it. That thing could've killed me."
"The hell you say."
"Jack, I'm getting pissed."
Still, he hesitates.
I say, "You'd better hope nobody tells the Mountain View Building Department what you're doing here. An anonymous tip. That's all it takes."
Jack rubs his chin. His eyes dart about. Then he counts out six Ben Franklins.
Some jobs you like. Some, you bear. Some days, it's a tough world. And you're part of it.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Journey
Tuesday, February 10, 1987
The apartment manager calls me: "I've got this Armenian, I can't understand a word she says. Just go there and she'll point at something. Then you fix it."
She's a gentle bent-over woman. Over the windows are curtains thick as carpets. On the walls and floor are rugs of exquisite design with woven patterns of a dragon, an eagle, a serpent. She points at the baseboard heater. Folding her arms over her chest, she shivers. "Okay," I say. "I get it."
Her posture is like an upside down question mark. Smiling, she has to strain her neck to look up at me. Draped over her shoulders is a lovely knitted shawl. A rough, swelling scar like a dried fig crosses one cheek from her eye to her jaw.
You get the sense that the world has run roughshod over this woman, and yet still she is sweet.
As I study the thermostat, I feel a nudge on my arm. She's pushing a tray of baklava and apricots at me. "Take," she says.
In a minute she's back again with a tiny cup of coffee. "Take," she says. The brew is so thick, if you turned the cup over, I think the coffee would not splash but shatter.
She points at a light switch. "Open," she says.
I turn on the light. She's right - now I can see what I'm doing. My brain is exploding with caffeine and sugar. My belly is grinding like a coffee mill.
An hour later, the heater is fixed. She takes my hand between both of hers. Beaming, she nods her head, thanking me with her eyes.
Then, opening the door, I return to America.
The apartment manager calls me: "I've got this Armenian, I can't understand a word she says. Just go there and she'll point at something. Then you fix it."
She's a gentle bent-over woman. Over the windows are curtains thick as carpets. On the walls and floor are rugs of exquisite design with woven patterns of a dragon, an eagle, a serpent. She points at the baseboard heater. Folding her arms over her chest, she shivers. "Okay," I say. "I get it."
Her posture is like an upside down question mark. Smiling, she has to strain her neck to look up at me. Draped over her shoulders is a lovely knitted shawl. A rough, swelling scar like a dried fig crosses one cheek from her eye to her jaw.
You get the sense that the world has run roughshod over this woman, and yet still she is sweet.
As I study the thermostat, I feel a nudge on my arm. She's pushing a tray of baklava and apricots at me. "Take," she says.
In a minute she's back again with a tiny cup of coffee. "Take," she says. The brew is so thick, if you turned the cup over, I think the coffee would not splash but shatter.
She points at a light switch. "Open," she says.
I turn on the light. She's right - now I can see what I'm doing. My brain is exploding with caffeine and sugar. My belly is grinding like a coffee mill.
An hour later, the heater is fixed. She takes my hand between both of hers. Beaming, she nods her head, thanking me with her eyes.
Then, opening the door, I return to America.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Amelia (They wanna feel ya)
Monday, February 9, 1987
Amelia is an attractive woman with a muscular body. In her garage she parks 6 Kawasaki motorcycles and a Chevy van. She races, weekends, for fun. Weekdays she's a vice president in charge of sales at a large pharmaceutical company.
Amelia was one of my first clients back in 1977 when I was charging $7 an hour. She was a single mother with a run-down house and a 5-year-old boy. My hourly rate - and her career - have grown through the years. So has her son, Lyle, age 15.
Today I'm replacing a bedroom door. Amelia explains that she had to kick the door open when Lyle "went into a snit and wouldn't come out."
Amelia makes quick decisions - about opening a door, about shopping, remodeling, relationships. "Let's get rid of that fireplace." Or, "Let's turn that wall into a window."
I asked Amelia once what was the best thing about racing dirt bikes - was it the danger? The difficulty? The dirt?
"Winning," she said.
For a couple years now, Amelia has had a boyfriend named Dave. Dave is in his forties, slightly heavy, and has two children who are in custody of his ex-wife. Dave is the go-getter kind of guy who when playing poker would bet everything on a pretty good hand. Silicon Valley is full of people who don't fear failure, which is why it's such a great incubator for start-up companies. You hear the success stories. Bear in mind that the Valley is littered with people who have failed big-time.
When Dave met Amelia, he had a good job and a big house in Los Altos, where he lived by himself. He was the hard-charging type, and Amelia was the prize. Then a year ago Dave sold the house to start a business. He called it an "information" business, but he was coy about the details.
He went bankrupt. Right now he lives out of his car, a 1976 Toyota Corolla with a back seat full of clothing. Mostly, he hangs out at Amelia's house.
There's nothing coy about Amelia. She says what she thinks, and what she thinks is never subtle. At this moment she's peeved at Dave for losing his house.
Dave points out that he didn't "lose" his house, he sold it.
Amelia says "You know what I'm talking about."
Amelia's son Lyle says, "She's talking about the fact that you're a loser."
"Hey!" Amelia says.
I hear and see everything from where I'm replacing the door to Lyle's bedroom. Amelia, Lyle, and Dave are having lunch.
Dave frowns at Amelia and says, "You're supposed to be the tone monitor."
"I am," Amelia says. "I just monitored."
Dave says, "You're too soft on him."
Amelia says, "You know, Dave, sometimes you really irritate me. I hate the way you chew food."
Dave says, "What's wrong with the way I chew food?"
Lyle says, "You smack."
"That's right," Amelia says. "That's exactly it. You smack."
Dave says, "Where's the tone monitor now?"
Amelia says, "You really are a loser, you know that? I want you out of here."
Dave drives away.
I finish hanging the new door. Somewhat nervously I tell Amelia that I've raised my rates again, now charging $40 an hour.
"Oh good," Amelia says. "I always felt guilty about how little I was paying you.”
Amelia is soft in good places and firm in good places where no man will hold her for long. But many will try.
Amelia is an attractive woman with a muscular body. In her garage she parks 6 Kawasaki motorcycles and a Chevy van. She races, weekends, for fun. Weekdays she's a vice president in charge of sales at a large pharmaceutical company.
Amelia was one of my first clients back in 1977 when I was charging $7 an hour. She was a single mother with a run-down house and a 5-year-old boy. My hourly rate - and her career - have grown through the years. So has her son, Lyle, age 15.
Today I'm replacing a bedroom door. Amelia explains that she had to kick the door open when Lyle "went into a snit and wouldn't come out."
Amelia makes quick decisions - about opening a door, about shopping, remodeling, relationships. "Let's get rid of that fireplace." Or, "Let's turn that wall into a window."
I asked Amelia once what was the best thing about racing dirt bikes - was it the danger? The difficulty? The dirt?
"Winning," she said.
For a couple years now, Amelia has had a boyfriend named Dave. Dave is in his forties, slightly heavy, and has two children who are in custody of his ex-wife. Dave is the go-getter kind of guy who when playing poker would bet everything on a pretty good hand. Silicon Valley is full of people who don't fear failure, which is why it's such a great incubator for start-up companies. You hear the success stories. Bear in mind that the Valley is littered with people who have failed big-time.
When Dave met Amelia, he had a good job and a big house in Los Altos, where he lived by himself. He was the hard-charging type, and Amelia was the prize. Then a year ago Dave sold the house to start a business. He called it an "information" business, but he was coy about the details.
He went bankrupt. Right now he lives out of his car, a 1976 Toyota Corolla with a back seat full of clothing. Mostly, he hangs out at Amelia's house.
There's nothing coy about Amelia. She says what she thinks, and what she thinks is never subtle. At this moment she's peeved at Dave for losing his house.
Dave points out that he didn't "lose" his house, he sold it.
Amelia says "You know what I'm talking about."
Amelia's son Lyle says, "She's talking about the fact that you're a loser."
"Hey!" Amelia says.
I hear and see everything from where I'm replacing the door to Lyle's bedroom. Amelia, Lyle, and Dave are having lunch.
Dave frowns at Amelia and says, "You're supposed to be the tone monitor."
"I am," Amelia says. "I just monitored."
Dave says, "You're too soft on him."
Amelia says, "You know, Dave, sometimes you really irritate me. I hate the way you chew food."
Dave says, "What's wrong with the way I chew food?"
Lyle says, "You smack."
"That's right," Amelia says. "That's exactly it. You smack."
Dave says, "Where's the tone monitor now?"
Amelia says, "You really are a loser, you know that? I want you out of here."
Dave drives away.
I finish hanging the new door. Somewhat nervously I tell Amelia that I've raised my rates again, now charging $40 an hour.
"Oh good," Amelia says. "I always felt guilty about how little I was paying you.”
Amelia is soft in good places and firm in good places where no man will hold her for long. But many will try.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Fact and Fiction
Wednesday, February 8, 1984
Mrs. Goldstein was a golden client. She had the pride of "discovering" me and she bragged to all her friends. Her big new house in Sharon Heights was built by a crook, and I was the savior. With her and her friends I was fully employed for a while.
One day - this day, February 8, 1984 - she asks me how I got started. It's the basic Jewish mother question: "What's a smart young man like you doing in a line of work like this?" She's a kind, friendly woman. So I end up telling her my whole life story, how with three novels published I still need to support myself doing construction jobs and that, most of the time, I love this work.
She asks, "Where can I buy your books?"
"They're out of print," I say.
"Don't you have any? Could I buy one from you?"
"The problem is, whenever one of my clients reads one of my books, they never hire me again."
"Why?"
"They think the stories are true. I write in the first person, and they believe that the main character is me. And they would not allow that character to work in their house."
"Then you must be a very good writer if you make them believe that. Don't worry. I used to teach English. I know what fiction is."
There's no stopping Mrs. Goldstein. Reluctantly, I give her a copy of Famous Potatoes.
She never calls me again.
Mrs. Goldstein was a golden client. She had the pride of "discovering" me and she bragged to all her friends. Her big new house in Sharon Heights was built by a crook, and I was the savior. With her and her friends I was fully employed for a while.
One day - this day, February 8, 1984 - she asks me how I got started. It's the basic Jewish mother question: "What's a smart young man like you doing in a line of work like this?" She's a kind, friendly woman. So I end up telling her my whole life story, how with three novels published I still need to support myself doing construction jobs and that, most of the time, I love this work.
She asks, "Where can I buy your books?"
"They're out of print," I say.
"Don't you have any? Could I buy one from you?"
"The problem is, whenever one of my clients reads one of my books, they never hire me again."
"Why?"
"They think the stories are true. I write in the first person, and they believe that the main character is me. And they would not allow that character to work in their house."
"Then you must be a very good writer if you make them believe that. Don't worry. I used to teach English. I know what fiction is."
There's no stopping Mrs. Goldstein. Reluctantly, I give her a copy of Famous Potatoes.
She never calls me again.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Love Affair
Saturday, February 7, 1987
I was an easy target. Just one look - the firm curve of her body, the trim of her tail - and then the purr of power when I rode her - she seduced me. After a couple of furtive, impulsive meetings I realized that quite simply I was in love. With a truck. And I must have the one I love.
And so on this day in 1987, after work, a day of hanging doors and running Romex in Mountain View, I took my wife out to dinner. After the meal, we strolled briefly in the fresh springlike evening, the air heavy with the scent of life bursting forth under a bright half moon. I confessed that I was in love with a Ford Ranger V-6 but assured my wife that I still loved her too - though in a different way.
My wife understood.
I've been a Ford guy ever since. I worked that first Ranger to death, so in 1999 I bought another, which I still use to this day. She'll outlive me. Her body may creak at the joints, but still she holds everything I need and she keeps me on a steady path.
And so on this day in 1987, after work, a day of hanging doors and running Romex in Mountain View, I took my wife out to dinner. After the meal, we strolled briefly in the fresh springlike evening, the air heavy with the scent of life bursting forth under a bright half moon. I confessed that I was in love with a Ford Ranger V-6 but assured my wife that I still loved her too - though in a different way.
My wife understood.
I've been a Ford guy ever since. I worked that first Ranger to death, so in 1999 I bought another, which I still use to this day. She'll outlive me. Her body may creak at the joints, but still she holds everything I need and she keeps me on a steady path.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Good Labor
Saturday, February 6, 1988
The crawl space is 18 inches max. Do not touch the rat traps at the entry. Do not read the Termite Treatment list of poisons.
You have to squeeze under 14 inch flexible heat ducts, crushing them as you pass. Fiberglass batts are sagging down from between the joists, clinging to your crawl suit. You creep through 30 feet of dust while brown recluse spiders watch your every move. Daddy longlegs tremble as you pass. You wear a headlamp and shove wrenches ahead of you, dragging your body over nails and broken glass. You can only hope the wires draping across the dirt are well-insulated or low voltage or dead. Spiderwebs wrap your face.
A large puddle has formed under the bathtub where you must work. You lie in it. The drain is next to a post on a concrete pier, leaving only a fraction of the work space you need. Into frozen couplings you shoot Liquid Wrench and breath the toxic fumes. You twist your body into strange positions, seeking leverage with the wrench. With the entire weight of a poorly-built house above, you pray the San Andreas Fault doesn't deliver the Big One today. In California, there are no atheists in crawl spaces.
You need a different part; you creep out; you creep back in. It's amazing what muscles you use, how winded you get, just by creeping. It's amazing how long it takes. Creeping could be an Olympic event.
On your way out, you try to fluff the heat vents you crushed on the way in. At last you emerge, strip off your crawlsuit, and dry yourself with a towel you keep in the truck. Then inside the bathroom, making the difficult transition from big body work to small, like a buffalo washing wine glasses, you carefully install the trim.
After 4 hours, with the utmost competence in a difficult spot you have replaced one bathtub drain.
Howard, the homeowner, returns as you're on your knees wiping some grease stains from the enamel, tidying up. Standing above you and the tub, he looks down. "Haven't you started yet?"
It's just a simple bathtub with a simple drain, and it looks just as it did before.
"Yes," you say. "I'm done."
You go on to the next house, the next job.
The crawl space is 18 inches max. Do not touch the rat traps at the entry. Do not read the Termite Treatment list of poisons.
You have to squeeze under 14 inch flexible heat ducts, crushing them as you pass. Fiberglass batts are sagging down from between the joists, clinging to your crawl suit. You creep through 30 feet of dust while brown recluse spiders watch your every move. Daddy longlegs tremble as you pass. You wear a headlamp and shove wrenches ahead of you, dragging your body over nails and broken glass. You can only hope the wires draping across the dirt are well-insulated or low voltage or dead. Spiderwebs wrap your face.
A large puddle has formed under the bathtub where you must work. You lie in it. The drain is next to a post on a concrete pier, leaving only a fraction of the work space you need. Into frozen couplings you shoot Liquid Wrench and breath the toxic fumes. You twist your body into strange positions, seeking leverage with the wrench. With the entire weight of a poorly-built house above, you pray the San Andreas Fault doesn't deliver the Big One today. In California, there are no atheists in crawl spaces.
You need a different part; you creep out; you creep back in. It's amazing what muscles you use, how winded you get, just by creeping. It's amazing how long it takes. Creeping could be an Olympic event.
On your way out, you try to fluff the heat vents you crushed on the way in. At last you emerge, strip off your crawlsuit, and dry yourself with a towel you keep in the truck. Then inside the bathroom, making the difficult transition from big body work to small, like a buffalo washing wine glasses, you carefully install the trim.
After 4 hours, with the utmost competence in a difficult spot you have replaced one bathtub drain.
Howard, the homeowner, returns as you're on your knees wiping some grease stains from the enamel, tidying up. Standing above you and the tub, he looks down. "Haven't you started yet?"
It's just a simple bathtub with a simple drain, and it looks just as it did before.
"Yes," you say. "I'm done."
You go on to the next house, the next job.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Two Seconds
Monday, February 5, 1996
It all happens in less than two seconds. Maybe one and a half seconds. I'm checking out a leaky skylight. At such a shallow pitch I can walk upright over the roll roofing. A sheen of algae or something glistens on the wet surface when without warning I enter the 6 stages of construction panic:
I have a friend, Norm, who's a roofer. Norm's father was a roofer before him. Norm says his father once slid off a roof standing up, exactly as I almost did. His father landed upright on his feet. He broke both ankles. Worst thing was, he was working alone. It was about 7 hours before anyone found him.
I was working alone. It was over in less than two seconds. I was lucky. Very lucky.
It all happens in less than two seconds. Maybe one and a half seconds. I'm checking out a leaky skylight. At such a shallow pitch I can walk upright over the roll roofing. A sheen of algae or something glistens on the wet surface when without warning I enter the 6 stages of construction panic:
1. Confusion: What is happening?
2. Realization: Oh. I'm sliding down the roof, standing upright like I'm skiing.
3. Fear: HOLY SHIT!!! I'M ABOUT TO SLIDE OFF THE ROOF!!!
4. Reaction: How do I stop? Grab something? There's nothing to grab. Fall on my butt? Before I can do anything there is
5. Luck: At the very edge of the roof, toes on the gutter, I stop.
6. Adrenaline: Too late, it hits. Heart pounding, I stare at the concrete ten feet below, my next stop if the toes hadn't caught the gutter.
I have a friend, Norm, who's a roofer. Norm's father was a roofer before him. Norm says his father once slid off a roof standing up, exactly as I almost did. His father landed upright on his feet. He broke both ankles. Worst thing was, he was working alone. It was about 7 hours before anyone found him.
I was working alone. It was over in less than two seconds. I was lucky. Very lucky.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Horse Sense
Wednesday, February 4, 1987
Mrs. Wise is a spry and frugal 76-year-old who has lived in Portola Valley since before it was a town. She had the good luck to own a small ranch and the good sense to sell strategic pieces of what is now one of the wealthiest towns in the USA. She lives alone. She maintains an immaculate house and yard. She has selective bad hearing.
She shows me her garage and says she wants to install a washer and dryer "if it doesn't cost too much."
I quote a price.
She says, "That's too much."
We are standing in the garage. I give Mrs. Wise my card, turn to go -- and a white horse sticks his head through the open garage window. Shaking his head, the horse mutters something in horse talk.
"All right," Mrs. Wise says. "You've got the job."
While I work, Mrs. Wise digs in the garden and sweeps the floor and feeds the horse and fills the water trough and drags two garbage cans down the driveway and complains about how feeble she is.
I finish the installation. She pays me. As I'm loading my truck, she says, "You're not going to leave me with that dripping faucet are you?" She's pointing to a hose bibb.
I try to explain that the hose has nothing to do with the work I've performed, but I'll be happy to make the repair. Suddenly her hearing has gone very bad. The horse nuzzles apologetically at my back pocket.
In five minutes, I've fixed the hose faucet.
No charge for that. It isn't worth the hassle.
And she knows it.
Mrs. Wise is a spry and frugal 76-year-old who has lived in Portola Valley since before it was a town. She had the good luck to own a small ranch and the good sense to sell strategic pieces of what is now one of the wealthiest towns in the USA. She lives alone. She maintains an immaculate house and yard. She has selective bad hearing.
She shows me her garage and says she wants to install a washer and dryer "if it doesn't cost too much."
I quote a price.
She says, "That's too much."
We are standing in the garage. I give Mrs. Wise my card, turn to go -- and a white horse sticks his head through the open garage window. Shaking his head, the horse mutters something in horse talk.
"All right," Mrs. Wise says. "You've got the job."
While I work, Mrs. Wise digs in the garden and sweeps the floor and feeds the horse and fills the water trough and drags two garbage cans down the driveway and complains about how feeble she is.
I finish the installation. She pays me. As I'm loading my truck, she says, "You're not going to leave me with that dripping faucet are you?" She's pointing to a hose bibb.
I try to explain that the hose has nothing to do with the work I've performed, but I'll be happy to make the repair. Suddenly her hearing has gone very bad. The horse nuzzles apologetically at my back pocket.
In five minutes, I've fixed the hose faucet.
No charge for that. It isn't worth the hassle.
And she knows it.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Irritating Psychology
Monday, February 3, 1986
John is a small bald man with a permanent look of irritation on his face. Or maybe he's just irritated at me because, after parking my truck in front of his house, stepping out of the cab, I plunged my left foot into a mud puddle - and my right foot into dog shit. I'm a bit irritated, too. This day can only get better, I'm thinking. I'm a cup-half-full kind of guy.
John is a psychologist. His office is at the side of his house. A redheaded woman is outside the door of the office, pacing, glancing at her watch. John ignores her. He has a dog, a black lab, running loose in the yard and out into the street chasing cars.
This is Portola Valley, a highly regulated town. In Portola Valley you are not allowed to have a medical business attached to your house. You are not allowed to have an unfenced dog, nor to let your dog chase cars. You are required to pick up your dog's shit.
John admonishes me to remove my shoes, which I would have done anyway. He admits me into his living room where there is a grapefruit-size hole in the ceiling. He wants me to patch it.
"What happened?" I ask.
"You don't have to know that," John says, looking irritated.
On the wall is a large painting of an old woman, completely naked, standing in the ballet position known as efface derriere. The painting is, uh, anatomically detailed. On the old woman's face, staring right at you (or the painter) is a look of extreme irritation.
I go back to my truck for tools. John goes to his office where the redheaded woman is still standing outside the door. She says, “John, I just want you to know that I’m really angry about this. I planned my whole day around this appointment and now it’s too late.”
John looks irritated. He says, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“NO I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!”
From the sidelines, I almost cheer.
Then, unfortunately, the woman goes into his office. I guess she's going to talk about it. Returning to John's living room, watched by a painting, I patch the ceiling.
John is a small bald man with a permanent look of irritation on his face. Or maybe he's just irritated at me because, after parking my truck in front of his house, stepping out of the cab, I plunged my left foot into a mud puddle - and my right foot into dog shit. I'm a bit irritated, too. This day can only get better, I'm thinking. I'm a cup-half-full kind of guy.
John is a psychologist. His office is at the side of his house. A redheaded woman is outside the door of the office, pacing, glancing at her watch. John ignores her. He has a dog, a black lab, running loose in the yard and out into the street chasing cars.
This is Portola Valley, a highly regulated town. In Portola Valley you are not allowed to have a medical business attached to your house. You are not allowed to have an unfenced dog, nor to let your dog chase cars. You are required to pick up your dog's shit.
John admonishes me to remove my shoes, which I would have done anyway. He admits me into his living room where there is a grapefruit-size hole in the ceiling. He wants me to patch it.
"What happened?" I ask.
"You don't have to know that," John says, looking irritated.
On the wall is a large painting of an old woman, completely naked, standing in the ballet position known as efface derriere. The painting is, uh, anatomically detailed. On the old woman's face, staring right at you (or the painter) is a look of extreme irritation.
I go back to my truck for tools. John goes to his office where the redheaded woman is still standing outside the door. She says, “John, I just want you to know that I’m really angry about this. I planned my whole day around this appointment and now it’s too late.”
John looks irritated. He says, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“NO I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!”
From the sidelines, I almost cheer.
Then, unfortunately, the woman goes into his office. I guess she's going to talk about it. Returning to John's living room, watched by a painting, I patch the ceiling.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Accidental Psychology
Tuesday, February 2, 1988
Wilma lives in Santa Cruz but has a house in La Honda. Today she calls me and says, "My tenant is a bit of a whiner. He's complaining about toilet odors. Will you fix it?"
I'm expecting something like a bad seal between toilet and floor. A one hour job, a $1 wax gasket.
At the rental house I find a tenant named Gary who's caring for an infant while his wife is working. He leads me to a pretty little bathroom and a stench of sewage coming, oddly, from the wall. It won't be such a little job. I try to call Wilma but she's not there. She said, "Fix it." Meanwhile Gary is fussing that the odors are possibly poisoning the baby.
When I start a job, I hate to stop. So I tear an exploratory hole in the wall and find a crumbling, crusty 4 inch cast iron vent. Again I call Wilma; again no answer. Gary says he doesn't mind the mess and he wants those odors gone right now. I rip out more wall, cut out the pipe and replace it with ABS plastic and a no-hub joint. The bathroom now looks totally raped.
I really should've talked to Wilma before I did all that.
In the evening I finally reach Wilma and say, "This is the kind of phone call I hate to make."
I hear an intake of breath. "Is Gary going to sue? He's the type. Oh I knew it was the septic tank. This'll be thousands of dollars, right?"
"No, actually, it was the vent pipe." I explain that the odors are gone but I still need to repair the wall and replace the roof jack. "It'll be about six hundred dollars."
"Oh thank heavens!"
Unwittingly, I used the right approach. A trashed bathroom, a $600 plumbing repair, and she's happy about it.
Wilma lives in Santa Cruz but has a house in La Honda. Today she calls me and says, "My tenant is a bit of a whiner. He's complaining about toilet odors. Will you fix it?"
I'm expecting something like a bad seal between toilet and floor. A one hour job, a $1 wax gasket.
At the rental house I find a tenant named Gary who's caring for an infant while his wife is working. He leads me to a pretty little bathroom and a stench of sewage coming, oddly, from the wall. It won't be such a little job. I try to call Wilma but she's not there. She said, "Fix it." Meanwhile Gary is fussing that the odors are possibly poisoning the baby.
When I start a job, I hate to stop. So I tear an exploratory hole in the wall and find a crumbling, crusty 4 inch cast iron vent. Again I call Wilma; again no answer. Gary says he doesn't mind the mess and he wants those odors gone right now. I rip out more wall, cut out the pipe and replace it with ABS plastic and a no-hub joint. The bathroom now looks totally raped.
I really should've talked to Wilma before I did all that.
In the evening I finally reach Wilma and say, "This is the kind of phone call I hate to make."
I hear an intake of breath. "Is Gary going to sue? He's the type. Oh I knew it was the septic tank. This'll be thousands of dollars, right?"
"No, actually, it was the vent pipe." I explain that the odors are gone but I still need to repair the wall and replace the roof jack. "It'll be about six hundred dollars."
"Oh thank heavens!"
Unwittingly, I used the right approach. A trashed bathroom, a $600 plumbing repair, and she's happy about it.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Hugging Bill Ash
Tuesday, February 1, 1994
Today's job isn't for money. I'm to make a pedestal to raise Bill Ash's bed.
Bill has cancer. Surgery removed most of the tumors that were wrapped around his innards but could not touch the one wrapped around his aorta. He's about my age, and I'm 46. Life isn't fair.
Bill is a La Honda poet who has a day job as a nuclear physicist running the Stanford Linear Accelerator. He loves bad puns and good rhymes. During a head lice epidemic in La Honda (and there is always a head lice epidemic in La Honda), Bill attended a Halloween party at the La Honda school dressed as a head louse. The principal told Bill the costume was "in poor taste." "He has no sense of humor," Bill explained.
Bill would roll up his sleeves and help me mix concrete when I was building a new entry at his house. I've attended the weddings of Bill's children. His daughters Terri and Debra babysat for my kids. I employed his son Richard for construction labor. (There's more Bill Ash here.)
La Honda has always been considered a hillbilly address by the people who live "over the hill" in the Silicon Valley. Bill gave us creditability. In spite of his education he never pulled rank in a discussion and would rather talk football, anyway. It has been said that Bill would suffer fools gladly - unless they were defensive coaches for the 49ers.
Today Bill looks pale and frail. The cancer is squeezing his heart. I'm no good at emotional support, but I can make repairs. It's a guy thing. Instead of hugging, I raise his bed.
Today's job isn't for money. I'm to make a pedestal to raise Bill Ash's bed.
Bill has cancer. Surgery removed most of the tumors that were wrapped around his innards but could not touch the one wrapped around his aorta. He's about my age, and I'm 46. Life isn't fair.
Bill is a La Honda poet who has a day job as a nuclear physicist running the Stanford Linear Accelerator. He loves bad puns and good rhymes. During a head lice epidemic in La Honda (and there is always a head lice epidemic in La Honda), Bill attended a Halloween party at the La Honda school dressed as a head louse. The principal told Bill the costume was "in poor taste." "He has no sense of humor," Bill explained.
Bill would roll up his sleeves and help me mix concrete when I was building a new entry at his house. I've attended the weddings of Bill's children. His daughters Terri and Debra babysat for my kids. I employed his son Richard for construction labor. (There's more Bill Ash here.)
La Honda has always been considered a hillbilly address by the people who live "over the hill" in the Silicon Valley. Bill gave us creditability. In spite of his education he never pulled rank in a discussion and would rather talk football, anyway. It has been said that Bill would suffer fools gladly - unless they were defensive coaches for the 49ers.
Today Bill looks pale and frail. The cancer is squeezing his heart. I'm no good at emotional support, but I can make repairs. It's a guy thing. Instead of hugging, I raise his bed.
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