CANDY APPLE RED

Candy Apple Red

1/21/11

* This is a continuation of "You're Overqualified" 

I have to pull the time sequencing together some more, but for now, assume that what follows below is several days  to a week later, and on the day before the final "Allstate interview."
I wake up, go to work, have lunch with the carpenter, drive back to the train station and have a crude conversation, then drive  home in my own car while listening to Victory at Sea and/or  singing "She'll be coming round the Mountain" and making up verses like:




He'll be working for the big Insurance company when he comes
He'll be working for the big Insurance company when he comes
And he'll be making all kinds of money 
and buying flowers for his baby etc etc.




Pathetic right? But that's pretty much how things went leading up to yet another job rejection.


And sorry for the scattered pieces. But it will all be pulled together at some point. I just gotta write it first. And don't get all crazy about the details yet, because it is not finished. At some point it will need an outside editor though. But I'm open to suggestions. 

It was cold when we awoke the next morning. My wife always kept the heat low at night, and even though the house was supposed to remain at a steady 65 degrees, there were cold spots in the house, and the bedroom always seemed especially cold.

During the Winter, unlike the rest of the year, Star would sleep with us on top of the bed, trying to take advantage of as much of our body warmth as she could. It was larger, queen- sized bed,  but  with Star sleeping between the two of us, there was not much room to spare for turning or tossing during the night, which had become my specialty-perhaps because of the stress I was under.

My wife put on her robe and slippers, and went downstairs to turn up the thermostat, and let Star out back to poop and pee. I took a shower in the meantime, and, after I finished, and while I was getting dressed in my painting clothes,  my wife took her turn in the shower, and started getting ready for her workday as well.

I went to the kitchen and put the coffee pot on. It was my favorite type of fast-brewing coffee pot,-an electric percolator made by Farberware. The coffee always came out hot and, as I preferreed to make it, strong. I always found the sound of the coffee perking in the morning to be comforting,  while I got ready for my day. If I woke up still feeling a little tired, the pot's steamy laboring gave me that extra little bit of incentive to push myself to get moving as well. 

After about 10 minutes, my wife joined me in the kitchen, and we had coffee and toast together. I took our lunches,that had been prepared and placed in paper bags the night before-- usually- sandwiches with a piece of fruit--out of the refrigerator, and placed them on the counter, along with my thermos, which I had filled with leftover coffee from the pot.

I put on my coat and went outside to start our two cars, so that they would be warmed up when it was time to leave. It was still dark outside, and I had that vague but familiar mortal feeling that came from being up very early on a deathly still and very cold winter morning. It was a lonely feeling, and made me shiver slightly, no matter how warmly I was bundled up.

But the feeling would always pass in a moment, and when I came back inside, my wife was adjusting the thermostat once  again, slightly lower, but still warm enough for Star, who would be alone in the house for most of the day, except when our neighbor, Martha, would stop by at noon with her Yellow Lab, Scoober, for a visit. 

“I gotta leave a little earlier today.” I said. “We’re working in East Hampton so I have to allow for an extra 20 minutes to get there."

My wife didn’t reply. She seemed a little downcast, and she started washing the few dishes in the sink, along with the coffee pot.

“Can you feed Star?” she asked.  “Mix some soft food in with her regular food, she likes it better that way.”

“OK. “ I said. And as I took the bag of food out of the pantry I said:

“I can’t stop thinking about the interview tomorrow. Can you believe it? I’ll going to be going to work in the other direction pretty soon.”

My wife was quiet.

“You OK?” I asked.

She remained quiet and I asked again, and then she looked up and smiled weakly.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. You don’t think I’m gonna get the job?”

“No, she said,. That’s not it. It’s not that.” And she shook her head slightly.  I just hope it does the trick for us.”

“Does the trick?” I asked. “What about everythig we talked about?  I thought we were both on the same page, and we agreed that it was a big step in the right direction?”

“I know it is.” She said, But it’s still a low level clerk's job. People that don’t go to College do it.”

“That’s not true," I said. The job posting specifically said: "College Degree Required.”

“Not required, preferred” she corrected me. College Degree Preferred. They can still  hire people from within that have worked their way up from sales or the mail room or whatever.”

“No, I think that’s wrong.” I said. But I’ll look at the want ad again.  But why do you doubt the whole thing now? After evcrything we talked about? It’s worlds apart from painting. So that’s a huge improvement right there, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, she said. I don’t doubt you. But I keep thinking about those Student Loans. They’re over 160 thousand dollars you know. I can’t come to grips with a number that high. I think we are in very serious financial trouble.”

“Serious trouble?” I asked. What are you talking about? Have you been talking to your sister again?”

“No” she said. But I’ve beeen thinking about the whole thing, and you’re getting this job is not going to change things much. You won’t be making much more money, and you will still have the loan payments.”

But I can defer, I said. I can always keep deferring until things things get better and I’m making more money. We talked about all that, remember?"

"Yes I know," she said. "But when you defer, the loans just keep getting bigger and bigger, and we get deeper and deeper into debt, and I’m getting really worried about it. It's very serious. And I don't care what anybody says. ANY debt is never 'Good Debt', not even Student Loan debt."

“Yes, but what about this Allstate job?” I asked. I thought you were just as happy about it as I am? Did you change your mind about it?  You know I can work my way up and make more as time goes on.”

"I know, I know." she said. “It’s a good start. And you won’t be swinging a paintbrush with a bunch of dirtbags, I agree, but you’re still going to be just a Claims Officer, and were else can you move up from there?"

I paused at this question. All of my thinking over the past several years had actually become very limited. All I could think about was overcoming the seemingly impossible first hurdle of simply getting the job, and never had any ideas or plans for what lay beyond.

“Look.” I said. Let me get the job first. Then we can talk some more. Let’s just not jinx oureslves yet. We gotta start somewhere right?”

She nodded.

“You have faith in me, don’t you baby?” I asked. I put my arms around her, and started singing lightly:

When I take you out tonight with me,

Let me tell you how it’s going to be....

It was from the Rogers and Hammerstein musical, Oaklahoma that we both loved to watch so much together. She started to laugh, and wiggled her way out of my embrace and jabbed me lightly on the chest with both fists, and said demandingly:

“You’d better take me out when you get some money Buster!  and in that Surry in a Hurry with the fringe on the top!”

I laughed. “You mean, don't Hurry in the Surry!”  And we both laughed some more.

“It will be fine” I said yet again, and reassuringly. First things first. Let me focus on the interview tomorrow. OK?’

She nodded, and said: "OK”

I held out my hand and said: "Deal?”

“Deal” she replied, and we shook hands, and both chuckled again.

I looked at the clock. “Shit. I gotta go. I’m sorry. Can you finish feeding Star for me?”

She nodded and said: “Wear your scarf."

“It’s in the car.” I replied as I kissed her and turned towards the front door; and as I was leaving, and crossing the front yard towards my car, she called to me:

“Hey! Does it really have a team of snow white horses?”

I turned and laughed, and started to sing again: "One’s like snow, the other’s more like Meeeelk!”

From here I go to East Hampton to work. Have Lunch and listen to the father-son story about the corvette etc.

 ______________________________________________________________

………..our conversation had noticeably slowed when the carpenter entered the garage. He was gripping a heavy black lunch box of an older design, so solid in its appearance that it almost seemed to be made of cast iron. I learned later that the carpenter’s name was John.


‘He’s a large, loud, overfed and sloppy man’ , I couldn’t help thinking as John sat down with a heavy grunt on top of his tool chest which, like his lunch box, was old and rusty.


He opened his lunchbox, and spread the white butcher paper that his deli sandwich was wrapped in over the lid of a five gallon plastic spackle bucket, the way a professor might spread papers on a podium before delivering a lecture.


He looked around the garage at Larry, my Boss, and Brad (the transient co-worker), and barely seemed to glance at me.


The carpenter then raised his long meatball-sub sandwich, and jammed the end of it—almost violently—into his mouth.


Red tomato sauce squeezed from the corners of his mouth and the edges of the roll. Some of it dumped onto his shirt and the floor. Larry, good natured as ever, continued smiling, taking small sips of coffee from his thermos cup.


A white sports car—a Camaro-zoomed past in front of the house with a loud roar.


“That’s a nice car” I commented. Larry nodded, and Brad the transient said: “You Betcha!”


'Another regional phrase from wherever the hell he came from,' I thought. 'People don’t say: “You Betcha” very often on Long Island.


With his cheeks over stuffed, and his dull grey eyes bulging with satisfaction, the Carpenter continued eating. His mouth never seemed to close. He seemed to take no notice of our having said anything. Strangely though, I felt that by this omission he was concentrating all of his attention on me.


I thought later that my youth and apparent inexperience must have offended him somehow. I did look young. Maybe he thought I was a lot younger.


Looking at Larry he said: “Let me tell you a story about when I was a kid.” My Dad was a builder, and I used to work for him when I was a kid. So one year I wanted a car. My credit sucked and I didn’t have shit for money, and I wanted a new car bad. So I go up to my father and I say: “Dad: Dad I wanna new car. Can you Co-sign for me for a new car?" And my dad just looks at me and says:


“Is your Dick long enough to reach your asshole?”


Thinking this was a punchline to a crude joke, I started a timid grin. But seeing that the carpenter had merely paused so that he could swallow, and that nobody else was grinning, I stopped smiling.


The carpenter continued:………”and I just looked at my Dad and I says to myself: What the Fuck is he talkin’about?” So I say “ No!” And then my father goes: “Well then get the Fuck outta here! And don’t bother me!”


The Carpenter paused again for another bite. I knew enough by now not to interrupt, so I waited for him to continue.


“A year later I go back to my Dad and I said to him again I said: Dad I wanna new car” and my Dad goes:


“Is- your- Dick- long- enough- to- reach- your- asshole?” (The carpenter pronounced this last very slowly and distinctly)


And, after another pause, the carpenter again continued:


"And then I said No! And Then my Dad goes: “Well then get the fuck outta here and don’t bother me!”


After another pause and a long, silent belch, the carpenter resumed: “So then. So then a year after that I go back to my Dad, and I was a little older now and I thought I was smart or something, and I go back to my Dad and I go: “Dad I wanna new car: and my Dad asks again: “Is your Dick long enough to reach your Asshole?” And this time I wasn’t going to fall for that line and I go “Yeah!”
and then my Dad says:


“We’ll then go Fuck yourself, and get the Fuck outta here, and don't bother me!"


And then I left to go. And I thought: “What the Fuck!” That Fuckin Bastard. Because of him I’m never going to have anything but a Fuckin’ piece of used shit for a car!”


Another Pause


“A couple of weeks later my father yells at me one day: “Hey you lazy Fuckin’ little Cocksucker, get me that Fuckin Framin hammer Outta the Garage!”


Another bite and what seemed like a more meaningful pause.


He continued: ‘Framing hammer?’ I thought. There’s no fuckin framing goin on as Far as I know. What kind of shit is he planning now? “And I went out in the garage to go get it….and…….there was a brand new custom Candy Apple Red Corvette with sparkle paint with a big huge red bow tied around the middle of it. My father had taken out one-third of all my paychecks every week for three years and bought it for me. And there it was!”


The carpenter glanced over at me for the first time, and I shrank at this slightly. The story was concluded, and there was about five seconds of silence in the garage. Even Brad the Transient, who had probably said and heard everything vile under the sun was startled into a momentary loss for comment. But Brad finally did nod at John sort of sagely and with his head tilted to his left side—the way one might nod towards the pulpit after a moving sermon. After all, especially in Brad’s case or as I strongly suspected, lack thereof, how many more sacred things are there in the world than filial devotion, or a father’s devotion to his son?


Larry was smiling as always, although his smile was noticeably more strained. He seemed to realize that some sort of gesture of acknowledgement of the Carpenter’s story was in order, however trivial, so he soothingly said: “Aw that’s nice!”


I stared blankly at Larry’s paint splattered hands. I wanted to laugh nervously, but the harsh and almost angry tone in which the story was told, and the stern expression on the Carpenter’s face as he continued stuffing his engorged loaf into his mouth deterred me.


Later, when we were working alone afterwards and without Brad, Larry smiled and said, in reference to the Carpenter: “Oooh he’s rough.”


And for some reason the story scared me at the time, and I still can’t help thinking that somehow a rape was involved, though I’m not exactly sure how, or who the victim was.


Later in the day, I made some mental calculations in my head with a fraction of an estimated paycheck over a three year period, taking some economic variables and things like that into account. When I approached my Boss Larry where he was painting in the cellar, and told him that John’s numbers didn’t seem to add up, Larry laughed hysterically. That puzzled me. Especially the way Larry laughed even harder when I added:



“Gee. The professors in College never talked like that.”

__________________________________________________


* This is a cut-and-paste "Quickie"Post.

Originally I had titled it: John The Profane, or "Filial Devotion" but I later discovered that "Profane" is a Surname. So I'm not sure what to title it actually. Don't want to offend any members of the Profane clan or tribe, you know.

I had it on my blog before, and had removed it. I figured it was a poor effort. But it does fit in with my storyline. Especially the punchline. Based on a real experience, I actually wrote this one when in College, or soon after, but before Law School.

It is a continuation of my post from last week, which is Part 5 called: You're Overqualified"
But I'll give it all a go over and organize it, and work it over, and bridge the gap or make the transition between Part 5 and this one.

The trinity aspect of this story is fun. Kind of like a Grimms tale with things in threes etc. Very Archetypal with deep human roots.

Next comes a return home and a wrap-up of the Allstate interview saga.


Then the flashbacks. The Brad Stories. The stripper stories maybe.  And the Student Debt of course.


And if anyone has questions-please ask.




And, at the risk of too much clutter, but Speaking of Trinities:

"The only thing worse than being talked about, is not being talked about"

                                                            Rousseau to Lord Byron-Paris-1877