A Decent Job At Last!
(Excerpts from my Novel: Painting Henry Ford's House
(and Other Tales of the House Painting Trade)
** I will be re-running this set of stories, and finally finishing the "Allstate Interview" storyline, putting it all in one place, and adding to it all. This blog has a lot of unfinished and disarranged material, so it is time to organize.
_________________________________________________________
Dedicated to Star.
Daddy is so Sorry, and still Loves you with all his Heart.
A decent job at last!, or so I had somewhat prematurely assumed, just as I had wrongly and naievely assumed so many, many times before.
When I applied for the Position, I felt that I would be a "Shoo-In. " After all, I had a Degree in Law.
I even had a pile of rejection letters from my failed attempts at finding employment which told me, over and over, that my resume was impressive, although we regret to inform you..........and good luck in your continued search..........
.............and my parents, who were there at my Law School graduation ceremony, were especially proud of my resume, and my Father even went so far as to tell me repeatedly that my resume was “Fantastic.”
.............and my parents, who were there at my Law School graduation ceremony, were especially proud of my resume, and my Father even went so far as to tell me repeatedly that my resume was “Fantastic.”
In spite of this, some of my many admirers and even some of my then detractors might have felt that I was aiming somewhat "Low" in seeking a job as a Commercial Claims Examiner in the regional office of a major insurance company.
But at that point in time, there was very little money coming in, other than my meager wages from work as a House Painter, and my wife's small income; and, if our fledgling marriage and household were to survive, I badly needed to secure some kind of "Real" and stable employment. And job-hunting trial- and-error, by then, was starting to show me that aiming "High" with the law degree on my resume only served to increase the height of the current pile of rejection letters.
But at that point in time, there was very little money coming in, other than my meager wages from work as a House Painter, and my wife's small income; and, if our fledgling marriage and household were to survive, I badly needed to secure some kind of "Real" and stable employment. And job-hunting trial- and-error, by then, was starting to show me that aiming "High" with the law degree on my resume only served to increase the height of the current pile of rejection letters.
"God!" I said to my Wife: "If I get this job it will change my whole life! Our lives-- I mean. It will mean that for the first time in five years we can start living again. And most of all, you can be proud of me again."
"And don’t worry about the student loans," I continued. "I know the job doesn't pay that much to start with, but when I get the job I’ll work hard to get established with the Company, and then work my way up-- and by then ……taking care of the debt will be no problem! You'll see!"
We embraced and I added: "I mean, after all, I have a Law Degree! And for this kind of a job I’m a shoo-in. They've got to want me. I can't lose! And I’ll finally be working in a place where they can appreciate having someone with a Legal Education on board. You know, the problem solving and analytical skills from Law School and all....because.…people.... in Corporations..... appreciate that. They do!"
"I know, I know," she said. "You don't have to convince me. I'm the one that helped you write the resume, remember? And I'm Always proud of you, no matter what you do. What do you think I've been telling you all this time?"
"That's true," I agreed. " Oh Honey, it is going to be so great! And how about the benefits package! There’s even dental and optical, and a 401K pension and profit sharing plan. And with a big company like Allstate there is room for growth and we can feel secure finally. You’ll see. It’s all going to finally pay off. Insurance is big business you know! "
“I’m so proud of you, she repeated. Yes. I know. We’re going to make it."
"We'll do more than just make it" I said. "And Hey! I’ll be able to get a car loan and get a decent car for a change. And I’ll commute in it….."
She came closer and I put my arms around her waist.
"......and take it to the car wash every Saturday," I continued. "And we can go shopping afterwards and stop by the fish market later and pick up some chopped clams so you can make my favorite clam sauce."
We both started laughing giddily. "And Eggplant Parmisan" I added as we giggled some more. "And homeade sourdough bread fresh from..the....oven." laughing almost too hard to finish the sentence.
Yes, it seemed like things in life were finally going to work out.
Yes, it seemed like things in life were finally going to work out.
“But don’t you go getting a big head about it.” She cautioned. Just remember, it was me that supported you all this time while you were getting on your feet.
"I won’t. I won’t” I laughed.
“And don’t you go flirting with all those girls in the office either.” She said, and started to feign a few punches at my face, which caused me to laugh even harder.
“I won’t. I won’t, Besides, I’ll have the most beautiful woman in the world waiting for me right here at home every night."
And we hugged, and our laughter continued.
"And Hey! The recruiter from the Chicago Headquarters told me that she is going to call again Next Week!"
Her eyes started to fill with tears.
"What’s the matter? " I asked.
“It’s just ….it’s just that …..it’s been so hard…." and she looked up at me with a sort of happiness that I hadn’t seen in her face for a long time.
“But from now on it’s going to get better and better” I said.
I looked around the room. “But what are we doing hanging around here? Let’s go down to the Elbow Room for some Prime Rib and celebrate!
_________________________________________________________________
Our celebration that evening at the Elbow Room Restaurant was wonderful, and we felt closer to each other than we had in several years. We had the Prime Rib, along with wine and beer, and talked enthusiastically about our plans for the future, and celebrated until it started getting late, and the waiter finally started dimming the lights, impatient for us to leave.
But I wasn't about to quit my current job just yet, so the next day I returned to my work for the local house painting company.
Now this particular company, at that time, had a contract to paint Henry Ford's House. Or, what I mean to say, is that it was the house that Henry Ford had built at one time, and used to own for a number of years. And the house couldn't have been more than fifty or sixty years old. And actually, it wasn't really a house, it was a Mansion--a large, stately structure of grand architectural design, set behind the dunes on some forty acres of oceanfront property in Southampton, Long Island. And to clarify further, the Henry Ford that used to own the house was not the Henry Ford popularly remembered for the Model T automobile. The home was built by Henry Ford's late son and likewise President of the Ford Motor Company: Henry Ford the second-best remembered perhaps, and popularly speaking, for the creation of the Edsel: a much criticised car at the time-- chiefly because many people claimed that the car's grille resembled a toilet seat. Personally, I don't understand what the fuss was all about, because the car and grille don't seem so very bad looking to me. In fact, a lot of cars of that period had similar looking grilles. Go figure.
But with respect to the property, and as I have read somewhere, Mr. Ford II had sold it during the late 1960's, or the early 1970's of the last Century . And, if I can recall correctly, I believe I also read that the Estate--ever the noble Lady, though a little neglected with respect to maintenance, was subsequently sold to someone else. But in spite of the change in ownership, the Ford family legacy and legend remained with the Mansion and what remained of the Estate in a romantic sort of way with the retention of the name "Fordune" on the front gates. (The "dune" in the name referring to the sand dunes, of course.)
As I mentioned, I worked at Fordune as one of a house painting crew during the winter of that year. It was prior to the bursting of the Real Estate bubble that everyone remembers so well. Major and elaborate renovations and improvements were underway which would nearly double the size of the already sprawling main house, and there was an indefinable air of bustle and excitement and/or expectation on the premises.
But the grandness, the stateliness, and the beauty of the estate, and the view of the Atlantic Ocean from the second story windows and balconies were the last things on my mind when I started my workday, which started at seven o'clock in the morning, and ended at 4:30PM.
Much of my work involved sanding. I sanded ceilings with a pole sander, I sanded walls with a pole sander or by hand. I sanded woodwork and joint compound/spackle, and anything else that had to be made smooth prior to priming and painting. I sanded until holes wore through the leather or canvas gloves that I was wearing at the time, and then through my fingertips and fingernails in turn, until they bled. I sanded all day. Sometimes I sanded all week. That was my job.
As a consequence of all this sanding, the air in Henry Ford's house would become full of dust; and anyone who has ever been on a construction site is well familiar with this fine white drywall dust or powder. Construction dust is claimed to be a cause of the lung disease "Mesothelioma" and there is even a Law Firm on Long Island (they advertise everywhere) that has made personal injury lawsuits involving Mesothelioma a specialty.
But to return to my work, I must confess that I was not very happy whenever I had to perform extended periods of sanding. It can become a very monotonous and disagreeable chore, during which the minutes and hours drag by slowly and almost intolerably. And there were times when I would sometimes be overwhelmed by a very dismal feeling, especially at such an early hour and on a cold winter morning, and with nothing to occupy my thoughts, and I would sometimes muse about other kinds of similar jobs that were equally or perhaps more difficult, such as coal mining, or farming.
I looked over at the three men from Guatemala that were working alongside of me. They must be happy to have their jobs, I thought. But I wondered if they felt as dismal or more dismal than I did at times. We would pause sometimes and roll our eyes--a mild and subtle way of complaining. Perhaps I was ungrateful. I should have felt pretty lucky to have a job after law School--any kind of job. It was all about trying to survive in this world at this point, after all.
Although House Painting is not one of the more difficult trades to master, the painting work I was doing at Henry Ford's house was of a superior quality commonly referred to as "High-End"-- trade Lingo meaning that many more hours and much more care was devoted to the preparation for, and subsequent application of the paint. Very labor intensive work, as I say, and for a client who is typically very well off financially, and that can afford the labor costs which, for most people, would be prohibitive.
We worked in silence. It was too early for the usual chatter. That would come in a few hours. I suspected that my Guatemalan co-workers were feeling just as down in the dumps. The other crews working on the premises: the carpenters, electricians, and stone workers outside were equally quiet, trying, just as we were, to settle down mentally after their morning coffee and a hectic and stressful commute in heavy traffic on long Island's East End.
My nose started to run as the dust started to fill the air. I put on my respirator mask-designed to filter out the harmful dust and make breathing easier.
'It's going to be another long day,' I thought, and I glanced at my watch. Twenty minutes gone. Coffee break at 10:15.
The Day Progresses
But time does inevitably pass, whether we are miserable or having fun, and at 10AM the coffee truck/roach coach with the shiny, sort of quilted and/or corrugated steel sides came down the long driveway and blew it's horn, which played the old cockroach tune: "La Cucuracha"
Very loud shouts went up from the workers all over the property: "COFFEE TRUCK!" "COFFEE TRUCK!"
One of the carpenters passed me on the stairs and said more quietly: "Hey guys. Coffee Truck's here."
It may seem silly now, but at the time, the words: "Coffee Truck," were the two most welcoming words I, and I assume most everyone else working on the construction site,could hear. "NO! No!she said, and she pushed him away teasingly while crushing her mouth against his even harder It meant that the day was breaking up a little. Energy was increasing and lunch was not too far off at 1:00PM, and after lunch, it would be mere two-and-a-half hours or so until "pack-it-up" time at 4:15PM, and then quitting time at four-thirty.
After the Coffee Break, there was more chatter from all the crews, and a few jokes. I turned my radio on, and started listening to music. Sometimes, instead of music I would listen to a conservative talk show, or the more liberal National Public Radio. It varied, depending on my mood.
On this particular day, I was working in the servant's quarters, and there was less sanding to do than usual; so I was given the task of patching some holes in the sheetrock of a downstairs bathroom wall that the electrician had made the day before.
As I was busy performing this task, I heard the heavy footsteps of the foreman-a swaggering man from Istanbul named Yusuf-- approaching from the hallway.
"Hey Cunt"! he called.
I didn't answer. It was his usual game, repeated almost every day on the job. He always called me a "Cunt" out of the hearing of the other trade crews such as the carpenters or electricians. Maybe this was out of respect for me, or maybe it was because he didn't want too many others to hear what a dick he sounded like, or both. But to his credit as a Boss, he never made insulting comments about the wife of anyone working under him, although he would occassionally make remarks about about having been with another employees mother in a sexual sense. In the name of humor of course.
"Hey!" he shouted again. "Hey Cunt!" He sounded angry about something.
A little annoyed, I answered: "What do you want?"
"You name 'da Cunt?" he inquired as he poked his head in the bathroom and leered with obvious amusement.
I just rolled my eyes. But Yusuf persisted with satisfaction: "I call, and you answer. You 'ta must name be 'da Cunt" he deduced, and his grin broadened. He had a dumb, monkeyish grin, broad enough to reveal the gaps between his front teeth, and the gaps where two of his upper molars used to be.
"Come here Bitch!" he continued, and led me into the other room to show me some nail holes in the crown molding between the wall and ceiling that had to be filled with spackle.
"Fill dese holes and put 'da measure tape ahere...." He paused when I glanced away for a moment.
"HELLO!" he shouted, thinking I wasn't paying attention.
"Yeah I hear you," I said, and I shook my head in annoyance.
"You hear me? You got de problem?" he asked with rising irritation.
"No" I said. No problem. I hear you."
"OK," he said, and continued: "You know what 'da measure tape is?" he asked with a profound, querulous expression.
I finally deduced that what he meant to say in English was "Mesh" tape, and it took a little while to clear the whole thing up, and I told him it was also known as fiberglass tape.
"I not talking Fibaglass!" he said angrily. You understand English? I get it for you."
He went out to his truck and I followed. He then gave me the roll of tape and left.
'It's a strange new parlance, I reflected. One man now calls another man a "Bitch."
This has much different implications than the term: "Son of a Bitch," an obscenity used by previous baby boomer generations. Yet the word "Bitch" is now frequently used as a sort of pronoun, one man to another--especially in the blue-collar working world.
I puzzled over this a little while. If a woman can be outraged if a man calls her a "Bitch," even in jest, how is a man supposed to feel when his Boss/Foreman says it?
'But then, I concluded, perhaps I'm getting old. A new language for a newer world. Lingo used to express dominance of one man over another. Maybe some kind of expression of a new American culture--passed down from the institutions of higher learning and now expressed in the streets. Or maybe that theory is completely wrong and the opposite is true. The new culture has started in the streets and/or prisons, and has passed upwards into the highest universities.'
But I shook my head slightly and tried to drive these thoughts out of my mind. After all, they had nothing to do with putting paint on a house--and that was all that mattered--wasn't it?
Then, for some reason, I started thinking about my student Loans again. 'Dear God I need the money,' I said to myself. 'But I feel so lost, and I think I'm going to lose my mind if I stay working in this place for too much longer. Is this where education eventually leads?
I said a silent prayer: "God. If you do exist, and you are up there somewhere listening to my thoughts, please let that Claims Adjuster job with Allstate come through for me."
_______________________________________________________
GOOD BRAIN
Later that day I returned to the main house to retrieve a tool from my plastic toolbox. The toolbox was made by Stanley, and I had purchased it at Home Depot because it was on sale, and cheap at $19.99
I opened the plywood, temporary front door that the carpenters had put in place while the permanent front door was being manufactured. That door was to be custom made in Oak.
As I ascended the front staircase, still under construction, I had to step carefully around the hunched form of the Carpenter who was installing it’s final features, such as a curving Red Oak banister to later be held up by straight, painted square pine spindles.
A nice guy I thought. An artist. Or at least a good craftsman. Though I had to admit that he was humming along to "Gimme Shelter" in an idiotic and simple manner. He squinted as he took a measurement with what looked like a complicated variation of a Compass. He then marked off his measurements on the steps with a pencil.
A nice guy I thought. An artist. Or at least a good craftsman. Though I had to admit that he was humming along to "Gimme Shelter" in an idiotic and simple manner. He squinted as he took a measurement with what looked like a complicated variation of a Compass. He then marked off his measurements on the steps with a pencil.
It reminded me of an earlier time when I was painting in a different house and where another carpenter was performing the same task. I was also impressed at that other time because it seemed to take a lot of carpentry skill.
My Turkish foreman, Yusuf, was standing nearby and, since silence was never comfortable around him, I felt the necessity of saying something—anything—so I said in as simple a language as I could create:
“I once saw a carpenter install a big spiraling stair rail. It was complicated work.”
For some reason, Yusuf seemed to be in some kind of reverie. Lost in thought. Something was bothering him. He didn’t respond. But I felt that I had to say something, so I continued rhetorically: “It takes brains………
There was a longing in her lingering gaze as she watched the well muscled landscaper pass under her lonely bedroom window. To a casual observer, if there was one, it would have seemed shocking for its visible manifestation of undeniably raw, female lust.
Yusuf gave a start. “T’a what?” he interrupted loudly. “You’t give good Brain”?
He laughed even more loudly and, to my momentary surprise, even hysterically:
“HA HA HA HA HA!”
Oh God. I thought as I got it..That joke again. The one about giving good “Brain”. I chastised myself and I thought: ,’ I should have known better. I had to be dumb enough to use the word “Brain”.
One of the painting crew, I’m not sure who, had made up this clever phrase and or imagery, if you will, recently.
“Another fanciful conundrum,” I thought. Obviously the phrase “Giving Good Brain” had evolved from the familiar idea of “Giving Head” which, as everyone knows, involves hetero or homosexual oral sex.
I thought: ‘Maybe Yusuf was implying that the erect penis of a man, possibly his, would be sucked upon by me with such force and/or violence that the penis would penetrate upwards and through the base of my skull, and thereafter copulate with my very brain tissue?’
“UNK, UNK”. I would say as his penis passed in and out of my brains with a “Snick, Snick” sort of sound.
During this action, Yusuf would be squatting over my knelt form. His filthy painter's pants bunched around his hairy ankles. His feet splayed. His broad, powerful, naked hams flexing with each thrust. His huge, erect, throbbing engorged cock fucking and copulating with my brain tissue.
"HU! HUUUU!" Yusuf would say. "HU! HUUU!", like a delighted Chimp fucking a knot hole in a tree stump slick with honey.
I looked away from him, out the window and at the breaking waves of the Atlantic Ocean, and fought off a the sudden feeling of wistfulness that the ocean always engenders.
‘Such imagery is whimsical and nonsensical.’ I thought. Besides, logically and in reality, the only angle of trajectory a sucked penis can follow is beyond the tonsils, and down the throat. A simple matter of ballistics of a sort. Soft tissue meets soft tissue. I congratulated myself for my ingenuity. Any ballistics expert would concur with that. '
But then I asked myself: "Was that really the source of the humor? Was that why it seemed so funny to the painting crew?
'Or Maybe' , I thought, 'Maybe the real source of the amusement over the concept of “giving good brain” derived from the idea that it implied that oral sex was, like all sexual behavior, a baser, less intellectual pursuit? 'Now that………that, I thought, is more advanced thinking.'
'Or Maybe' , I thought, 'Maybe the real source of the amusement over the concept of “giving good brain” derived from the idea that it implied that oral sex was, like all sexual behavior, a baser, less intellectual pursuit? 'Now that………that, I thought, is more advanced thinking.'
But I doubted this alternative theory in favor of the former. But I could have been wrong.
“HA HA HA HA “ Laughing loudly, Yusuf again intruded on my thoughts.
“The Fucking bastard”, I thought. He will use every opportunity to disregard everything I say and make me look like a joke. To stick it too me, no pun. This Yusuf shouldn’t be in charge of anyone or anything. But still he was my Boss, and he stood in the way of my income. Like a prayer, I chanted over and over to myself: “I need the money, therefore, I need the job.”
“I ask’a You” Yusuf repeated. He was laughing as hard as I had ever seen him laugh .
“You’t give t’ Good Brain”? Yusuf couldn't articulate his words very clearly because several of his molars and other teeth were missing.
I shook my head. “Forget it” I said with a wave. Yusuf continued laughing as I walked away. He had me. In his mind he did. And on some objective, commercial level, he did. He really did. He won. In the world of Commerce, and this twisted street level version of it, he won, absolutely and with absolute impunity.
The carpenter on the stairs took no notice. He continued humming to the Rolling Stones and marking his measurements.
______________________________________________________
 |
| Everything Will Be Fine |
The sound of my shutting the back door startled her, but she turned, and smiled, and we kissed, and I loosened my embrace as she turned back to the stove to stir a large pot of chicken soup. The exhaust fan in the range hood over the stove was on full blast as well, which added to the noise.
We lived in a small two bedroom house. It was more like a cottage than a house in terms of its square footage of about 1100 feet. But it was a cozy place, and there was just the two of us. We had no children.
"Oh, boy.” I said. What a day”. (I said that just about every evening when I returned home from work.)
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Ahhh, you know.” I said. It’s tough. A tough job. " and I shook my head.
“Don’t quit yet.” she said. You can’t quit you know.”
“I know.” I said. I didn’t say I was going to quit. But it’s hard, and I’m tired. Look at my hands." I held them up, and showed her my pink fingertips, and many band-aids. "I’m entitled to complain a little.” I added, and started kneading my fingers and knuckles. "Can you massage my hands with some ben gay later like you do?" I asked. "They really ache tonight."
A faint glimmer of concern showed in her face, but it faded as she said: “Don’t worry. It will all be a memory soon. What day did that recruiter from Allstate say she was supposed to call you back?”
"She said next week. I replied. Maybe Monday or Tuesday. I guess she has to talk to her supervisor or something."
"Well if she doesn’t call you, don’t wait too long. Get on the phone and call.”
“Don’t worry. Don’t get nervous." I said. "She said she was going to call. Our interview went fine yesterday. Why wouldn’t she call me?”
"I don’t know, my wife said. It’s just that we’ve been in this situation before, and you think that the job is in the bag, and then something strange happens and the people disappear. It’s like someone out there is plotting against us.”
"Don't be silly." I said, "No one's plotting against us. But like I said before, it might be because of the Law degree.” It seems to make people afraid of me, or makes me overqualified or something. Or maybe they think I’m going to run out on them as soon as something better comes along.”
“That’s stupid.” she said. Everybody knows that there’s too many lawyers running around and that they're all out of work anyway. They've got to be aware of the situation and more sympathetic.
“You say that,” I replied. “But the people hiring don’t seem to know it. "
“Oh! Who cares anyway.” She said. "It's confusing. One day you tell me a Law degree will help you, and the next day you say it won't. I’m just tired of waiting. It’s getting ridiculous by now. Too much time is going by and all I want you to do is get a damn job. And even if you get this one, we'll still have those student loans hanging over our heads. All of my family is asking about it. My sister said today…..”
“I don’t care what your sister says. " I interrrupted. She doesn’t know anything about what I went through. When she was over here last Christmas she didn’t even know that a person had to go to a Law School to become a Lawyer. She thought it was a Major you could take in College…."
But my wife cut me off this time. “Forget about my sister. Let’s just have dinner. I’m tired of going through this. It’s like a broken record. You get a call from some recruiter, and then they ditch you. Over and over.”
“Well it’s not because of my credit.” I said. I never even get to the point where they ask for my Social Security number. And it can’t be because of the Student Loans either. I never tell them about the loans. And again the only way they can find out about the loans is with the Social Security number.”
“Oh, let’s just drop it.” She said. “Dinner’s almost ready. Can you take Star around the block? She has to go out.”
Star was our English Springer Spaniel. A gentle female with a sweet disposition. Star's brown, stubby tail was wagging, and she was eyeing the pantry door, and yipping a little for me to open it and give her a couple of "cookies" or biscuits.
I put the leash on Star and looked at my wife. “Baby, what’s the matter?” I asked. I thought we were so happy last night. I’m telling you, everything will be fine.”
She was quiet, and I added: "And besides, I have a job right now. I've always had a job. I've always worked."
"I don't mean painting." she said. "I mean a real job."
She looked down.
“What’s the matter?” I asked again. This one is going to come through. It’ll work out. You’ll see.”
“I know.” She said. But when you say how much you hate painting with those guys you make me nervous. If you quit we won’t have enough money coming in, and we'll lose this house.”
“That’s not gonna happen.” I said. “You’ll see. The recruiter said she is going to call back. Sometimes it takes a lot of attempts to land a job.That’s all. That’s all it is. And this time we’re going to win.”
She seemed a little convinced by this and smiled. She put her arms around me.
“Don’t take too long, because the bread’s almost ready.”
“I won’t.” I said, and we hugged again.
I looked at Star, who was back in front of the pantry door, and I said: “Come on Girl, let’s go for a walk." Star wagged her tail more rapidly.
"But first you get a cookie."
__________________________________________________________
Over that weekend, neither of us brought up the topic of the next Allstate job interview. But we were more light-hearted as we went about our Saturday and Sunday routines.
On Saturday, we got up early, and took our Springer Spaniel, Star, to the beach for a walk. A Pure Breed water dog, Star loved the beach; and as soon as we pulled into the parking lot she started barking loudly at the smell of the salt air. And when we let her out of the car she tore across the parking lot onto the rocky beach, then to the edge of the water-as if she just had to get her feet wet. It didn't matter what time of the year it was, and cold water never deterred her.
On Saturday, we got up early, and took our Springer Spaniel, Star, to the beach for a walk. A Pure Breed water dog, Star loved the beach; and as soon as we pulled into the parking lot she started barking loudly at the smell of the salt air. And when we let her out of the car she tore across the parking lot onto the rocky beach, then to the edge of the water-as if she just had to get her feet wet. It didn't matter what time of the year it was, and cold water never deterred her.
Then Star sprinted ahead of us, running up and down all the staircases of the vacant waterfront summer homes. Up and down and up and down and almost out of sight, until she came running straight back across the beach and towards us at full gallop.
We would always laugh at this, and greet Star enthusiastically: "Hey Girl! Hey Girl!, sometimes throwing a tennis ball or a stick for her to chase.
After the beach we would usually drive to the town of Riverhead, and go shopping at Wallmart while it was still relatively early, and before the crowd. And there we purchased the usual essentials: Paper towels, bathroom paper, toothpaste, hair spray etc. --anything that was sold by Walmart for a lot less than the supermarket would charge. I recall buying a very nice Maglite flashlight that held four D sized batteries, and I felt thrifty and clever, because it sold for at least four dollars less than what the local hardware Store charged for the exact same item.
After Wallmart, we would go Grocery shopping, and sometimes stop for lunch at the Diner, or a late breakfast if we were too early for lunch.
Once in a while we would bring Star with us, and I would wait in the car with her, or walk her around the parking lot if I didn't feel like going into the store. After that we occassionally stopped at TJ MAXX, or drove to the "Mini Macy's" in Hampton Bays, but usually, we would go home and spend the rest of the day doing household chores, or reading the papers beforehand,and doing the bills.
Sundays were usually more sedate, but sometimes we would do this entire routine on a Sunday if I had to work for the Painting Company on Saturday. It was never a question of if I wanted to work Saturday. It was very strongly implied that I had to, if I wanted to keep my job. Which is not to say I didn't work on Saturdays anyway, if necessary; for I always needed to make extra money. And on Sunday, as always my wife would spend time cooking a more elaborate meal, and, later in the day, prepare our lunches, and paper bag them for the next working day.
Before we went to bed on Sunday night, my wife playfully asked: "So, you gonna knock 'em dead tomorrow?"
"Who. You mean Allstate?" I asked.
"Who do you think I mean? The painters?"
I laughed and said: "Of course. I've done lots of interviews by now. This is just another one." And I added: "The Recruiter said that she'll call at four PM. That's three PM her time in Chicago. So I'm going to have to break off early from work to be here when she calls. (We did not have cell phones at the time). I'll just tell the foreman I have a Dentist appointment or something."
--------------------------------
The next evening I was home at exactly 4AM, and as I came in the back door the telephone was ringing. Sure enough, it was Jennifer, the Allstate Recruiter from Chicago.
"How are you?" she asked. "Fine, thanks" I replied.
Then Jennifer proceeded to ask me the typical job interview questions. She seemed well prepared, and one question flowed after another and I answered them in a way that I felt was both competent on my end, as well as encouraging for her to hear.
Questions sort of like: "What would you say that you have done that involves handling a task from start to finish where you had to use initiative or be resourceful......."
And if I hesitated, I would fall back on the old saw about the Law Degree helping me to solve problems and be analytical......and she seemed impressed, and it pleased me that she seemed impressed, but at the same time I was annoyed at myself for having these nagging thoughts all the while:
'But she sounds young. She sounds young. What does she know about
a law degree? Why wouldn't she be impressed?'
I guess those thoughts were informed by so many failed job interviews beforehand. However, our interview eventually came to a close and Jennifer said: "Good Deal".
"The next step, Jennifer said, is for you to go to our local office and take a test."
"A test?" What kind of test?"
"Oh, it's a test we give all the applicants. It's to see if you have the skills we are looking for. I can set up an appointment now if you like." And she did, and a few days later I was in the Office Building taking the test she spoke of.
The office building was state-of-the-art and new, with a sort of mirrored teal- greenish, glass exterior. I wore my new new shirt that my wife had purchesed at TJ MAXX after our trip to Walmart the previous Saturday. My tie, which had never been worn before, was from Brooks Brothers- a Christmas present from my wife from three years before. And a suit, of course, which was a present from my father. A Law School graduation present.
I was very excited to be in the office, and shook hands with the Manager and other personnel I met, and was escorted into a conference room and given a pencil and test sheet.
I took the test, and when Jennifer called from Chicago two days later, she told me that I had passed it, and that only half the people that took it ever passed; and that I was ready for the final interview which, of course, we scheduled for the next week.
My wife and I were estatic.
"You should see the place." I said. Everything is brand new, The furniture, the carpets. Nice work areas. And even a view of the Long Island Expressway from where I will probably be working. And the people seem nice. They were all really nice. And polite. And everybody seemed intelligent. What a diference! God Baby, I can't tell you how lonely it can be to be shut off from working in the company of intelligent, educated people. I mean, I can live without it, and I don't really care, but it is just one of those extra things.....and it's been so long.....and I didn't hear anybody say "Motherfucker" the whole time I was there.
We both laughed long and loudly when I said the last line, and my wife held me and said: "Honey, I'm so proud."
___________________________________________
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.
__________________________________________
PRESSURE!
Oh God I'm Tired. Up all night talking about the student loans again and I hardly slept.
PRESSURE!
The fucking student Loans. She can't stop talking about them. Every night. Every night.
PRESSURE!
I gotta find a decent job. Fuck the Law shit by now. Nobody will hire me there. But there's got to be something else I'm qualified for besides Painting.
PRESSURE!
Where the Fuck do all those resumes go? I mean, I click the button.....and they're Gone. They just....disappear. Forever.
PRESSURE!
God some of those jobs look so beautiful. Perfect...like.........
It would change my whole life.
It would change my whole...life.
Everything would settle down.
Those hot, sweaty, summer nights, full of passion, and out of control......
PRESSURE!
So why won't they call me? What's wrong with my resume?
I have a Fucking Law Degree. I have a Fucking LAW DEGREE!
WHY WON'T THEY HIRE ME?
PRESSURE!
All those classes. All those years. Thousands of hours. Thousands. Thousands.
All those hours of exams. All of that money. My God what a lot of money! All those fucking exams. Why did I talke them. Why?
PRESSURE!
Three years and the fucking brother in law made close to two hundred thousand at a construction job in that time. He bought a house. he bought a house.
Fuck! Look at that guy in my rear view mirror. He's climbing my bumper.
PRESSURE!
And now his biggest problem is which tattoo to get. The clipper ship or the Hula Girl.
The Clipper Ship or the Hula Girl.
I'll hit the brakes a litle. That'll stop him.
PRESSURE!
Oh shit, he almost wiped out. I could have killed him. I gotta calm down.
PRESSURE!
He's OK, but I'd better turn off here and get outta here. Fuck! I gotta calm down.
Driving is Point A to point B. That's all that matters. Relax. Relax.
PRESSURE!
One of those job applications has to come through. Why won't they call me? How hard is it to get into one of these corporations anyway?
PRESSURE!
I mean, it's like trying to get into Fucking Fort Knox. What the hell is going on? I have a LAW DEGREE, and nobody will call. It's not like I can't do the job well. I can do the job. I can DO the job.
PRESSURE!
If I just got the interview I could explain. I could explain. Then they wouldn't be worried about the law degree.
PRESSURE!
Nothing is working out. NOTHING's working out. Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
PRESSURE!
My wife's not going to wait forever. I don't blame her.
PRESSURE!
She could just run off with another man. Someone with money.
But She Loves me.
What a Fuck-up. What a mess.
But she Loves me.
PRESSURE!
But does she really love me?
I promised to take care of her.That everything would be fine. It would all be allright. And all I can do now is this painting shit. I'm stuck. If this goes on too much loger I'm out of the job market forever. God it's hard. it's hard, manual labor all day long, and I'm the oldest one on the crew.
It's a good thing I always kept in shape, but God my back hurts. My Fucking knees. My fucking knees. I gotta squat less today and kneel instead.
I'll be out of the job market forever.
Out of the job market forever.
PRESSURE!
There's one of them now. He's always asking sexual questions about my wife. Why? Why?
He always wants to know if I would Fuck my step-daughter. Why? Why?
God I hate working with this bunch of low-lifes. The Scum . The Dregs. The Creeps. I have a Law Degree. But even without it, I went to College. I went to College.
PRESSURE!
What's he got in his hands? What the Fuck? Where did he get that? What God-forsaken factory in this world would make a red plastic penis and balls one inch long? Oh God that is fucking wierd!
I think I'm going to lose my mind! Oh God that is fucking wierd! I think I'm going to lose my mind!
PRESSURE!
"Good Morning"
"Good Morning"
"Where'd you get that?"
"I found it on the ground?"
"Oh. Where are we working today?"
PRESSURE!
The fucking student Loans. She can't stop talking about them. Every night. Every night.
PRESSURE!
I gotta find a decent job. Fuck the Law shit by now. Nobody will hire me there. But there's got to be something else I'm qualified for besides Painting.
PRESSURE!
Where the Fuck do all those resumes go? I mean, I click the button.....and they're Gone. They just....disappear. Forever.
PRESSURE!
God some of those jobs look so beautiful. Perfect...like.........
It would change my whole life.
It would change my whole...life.
Everything would settle down.
Those hot, sweaty, summer nights, full of passion, and out of control......
PRESSURE!
So why won't they call me? What's wrong with my resume?
I have a Fucking Law Degree. I have a Fucking LAW DEGREE!
WHY WON'T THEY HIRE ME?
PRESSURE!
All those classes. All those years. Thousands of hours. Thousands. Thousands.
All those hours of exams. All of that money. My God what a lot of money! All those fucking exams. Why did I talke them. Why?
PRESSURE!
Three years and the fucking brother in law made close to two hundred thousand at a construction job in that time. He bought a house. he bought a house.
Fuck! Look at that guy in my rear view mirror. He's climbing my bumper.
PRESSURE!
And now his biggest problem is which tattoo to get. The clipper ship or the Hula Girl.
The Clipper Ship or the Hula Girl.
I'll hit the brakes a litle. That'll stop him.
PRESSURE!
Oh shit, he almost wiped out. I could have killed him. I gotta calm down.
PRESSURE!
He's OK, but I'd better turn off here and get outta here. Fuck! I gotta calm down.
Driving is Point A to point B. That's all that matters. Relax. Relax.
PRESSURE!
One of those job applications has to come through. Why won't they call me? How hard is it to get into one of these corporations anyway?
PRESSURE!
I mean, it's like trying to get into Fucking Fort Knox. What the hell is going on? I have a LAW DEGREE, and nobody will call. It's not like I can't do the job well. I can do the job. I can DO the job.
PRESSURE!
If I just got the interview I could explain. I could explain. Then they wouldn't be worried about the law degree.
PRESSURE!
Nothing is working out. NOTHING's working out. Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
PRESSURE!
My wife's not going to wait forever. I don't blame her.
PRESSURE!
She could just run off with another man. Someone with money.
But She Loves me.
What a Fuck-up. What a mess.
But she Loves me.
PRESSURE!
But does she really love me?
I promised to take care of her.That everything would be fine. It would all be allright. And all I can do now is this painting shit. I'm stuck. If this goes on too much loger I'm out of the job market forever. God it's hard. it's hard, manual labor all day long, and I'm the oldest one on the crew.
It's a good thing I always kept in shape, but God my back hurts. My Fucking knees. My fucking knees. I gotta squat less today and kneel instead.
I'll be out of the job market forever.
Out of the job market forever.
PRESSURE!
There's one of them now. He's always asking sexual questions about my wife. Why? Why?
He always wants to know if I would Fuck my step-daughter. Why? Why?
God I hate working with this bunch of low-lifes. The Scum . The Dregs. The Creeps. I have a Law Degree. But even without it, I went to College. I went to College.
PRESSURE!
What's he got in his hands? What the Fuck? Where did he get that? What God-forsaken factory in this world would make a red plastic penis and balls one inch long? Oh God that is fucking wierd!
I think I'm going to lose my mind! Oh God that is fucking wierd! I think I'm going to lose my mind!
PRESSURE!
"Good Morning"
"Good Morning"
"Where'd you get that?"
"I found it on the ground?"
"Oh. Where are we working today?"
__________________________________________________
That day we worked in Quogue. It was another stunning, beautiful waterfront home. The kind of home dreams are made of. Not just a house, a "summer house" --used maybe three weeks out of the year by some wealthy family from the city, during which time the always preoccupied, though back-patting husband with Roman Numerals that followed his name his name might typically be wearing a pocket t-shirt over an unbuttoned and untucked oxford cloth shirt, and a canvas baseball style cap hat from LL bean or the J Crew catalogue, while the 40 something Wife with a retained maiden name, always grinning with a full mouth of paper-white dental laminates, and fond of sometimes leaning an elbow on the shoulders of the help, might be clad in very newish overalls, neatly pressed from the dry cleaners, and wearing a broad brimmed straw sun hat over her bleached blonde hair. If the help happened to be Latino or African American, the leaning would sometimes be epidemic. The children, young boys perhaps, with hyphenated names that look and sound excellent on a resume, would be trailing lacrosse sticks, as they piled into the convertible Mercedes or Porsche, on their way to some kind of structured play activity or day camp.
During Lunch break I took my thermos and walked down to the dock by myself and stared out at the bay while drinking my cofee. I thought of different and random things: oId Girlfriends (as the Ocean or Bay so often causes me to do), how old I was getting, how nice it would be to spend the day on on a boat.
The dock was had scattered crab legs and broken shells scattered about, which were left there by the seagulls. Apparently I had interrupted the lunch of one of them, and he hovered around not too far off, eyeing the remains of a rock crab with a hole pecked through it's underside.
After I finished my coffee I got up and walked to the garage. I sat down next to two of the painters who were still finishing up their lunch, on an overturned plastic pail. They nodded, and continued their conversation.
...but the conversation 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.”
‘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.”
*I put the Carpenter story here just to illustrate the kind of lunchtime talk one hears. I actually heard this story before I went to Law School. But it is typical, so I guess it works. It was either that story or maybe another Painters story like the one about guy with the pic of the ex-girlfriend with a cruddy 4 inch exterior paintbrush in her vagina, or the story about how he bit off a woman's nipple, or a story about how a painter wanted to eat a mile of a customer's shit (a Woman) to find out where it came from, Prison Rape, going through the underwear drawer and sniffing the panties of the hot lady of the house. You know, painter's lunch break stories. The focus of which depended on the crew and the dynamics resulting from the particular mix of personalities.
------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm no artist. I can't sketch or draw, though I wish I could; but here is a crude rendition I put together for the book cover/dust jacket. Just an idea, and the Edsel is not there, but maybe should be?
_____________________________________________________
And Re: My Bar Exam Scores, this was the reply. So I'm sorry I couldn't post them. But from what I recall I scored:
1. 492 in 1998
2. 495 in 1998 or 99.
3. 550 in 2000.
Passing was 600 at the time, but I cannot remember. I cannot even remeber the scores accurately, but I think I'm pretty close.
And I cannot seem to find out what a passing score was on the NY Bar Exam during those years.
So now, is this letter a case of them answering the narrow question that was asked? (a typical lawyer trick) and if I write back and ask for the "electronic" copies, wilI I get them?
I mean, isn't this letter a fine how'd ya do?
Suppose I ran around saying I passed? Would they have no record of my score?
Or suppose I said I missed by one point all 3 times?
Anyway, I'll write back next week and adsk for the electronic copies, and if they do not have them, what kind of a BLE doesn't keep records of the scores?
No comments:
Post a Comment