(This is Part Two of a series. Part One is here.)
Diary of a Small Contractor: Alphabet Courtship
Tuesday, November 11, 1986
Daylight: 10 hours, 16 minutes
At 8 a.m. I drive the truck to Peter and Judy's house, a one minute commute. Nobody is there. The TV and radio are both on, and I let them continue to blare.
Maybe the noise is for the menagerie of cats. Or maybe to ward off some curse placed upon this house. A curse of loneliness. Because I sense it: Something is missing in this family, and no amount of construction can fill it.
The son dwells in a fantasy world of video games; the daughter, in rock and roll. Both children are outcasts, the son a victim of bullies, the daughter an angry rebel who shreds the social fabric of middle school.
Peter and Judy invite neighbors for nights of Trivial Pursuit. They are masters at the game, especially Judy who thinks out loud and is a marvel to witness as her brain circles around an answer, spiraling, until she's got it. She has loud, raucous laughter and loves a good joke. She smokes. Sometimes she drinks a little too much.
Both Peter and Judy grew up in military families, constantly uprooted. They each had, um, difficult parents who they refuse to talk about. Finding stability with each other and now planted in La Honda, Peter has turned down a promotion that would have sent him to Japan. Judy volunteers at the school. Peter serves without pay in the town governance. They are expanding their two-bedroom house, determined to build a lasting home in this tiny town, on this quiet mountain.
Around 9 a.m. a tile setter named Greg arrives and starts laying a base for the shower. Greg is an apprentice with a drug problem. He seems okay today.
At noon a teenage housecleaner named Sheba shows up. Sheba lives in a trailer outside town. Her father is in jail. She likes to wear almost nothing as she vacuums. When she leans over to pick up a trash can, my heart stops. I think it's even harder (literally) for Greg.
After a few hours, Greg is done for the day. So is Sheba. For a long time they talk in the driveway, leaning on their separate junker cars. The body language tells it all. At first Sheba and Greg stand as opposite sides of an upper case letter "V," arms folded across chests, heads bowed, studying toes which are nearly touching. Later they are a lower case letter "m," squatting side by side on the curb. Then they drive away, one car following at the bumper of the other, for I presume an episode of "Y."
I'm alone in the late afternoon with the radio and 3 televisions and the cats. Maybe it's because of the racket, or maybe it's because the sun is sinking so early, or maybe — honestly — I'm just temporarily stupid, but I'm drilling one-handed with a 3/4 inch bit. The bit binds in the hole. When the bit binds, the body of the powerful Makita drill must spin. My hand, holding the drill body, must spin. The hand twists the forearm. The forearm twists the elbow and on up to the shoulder, where something gives with a CRACK — and the drill wrenches out of my grip. The spin of my shoulder socket has exceeded the manufacturer's recommended rotation.
I drop to my knees.
Closing my eyes, I see stars.
(Continued here...)
Diary of a Small Contractor: Alphabet Courtship
Tuesday, November 11, 1986
Daylight: 10 hours, 16 minutes
At 8 a.m. I drive the truck to Peter and Judy's house, a one minute commute. Nobody is there. The TV and radio are both on, and I let them continue to blare.
Maybe the noise is for the menagerie of cats. Or maybe to ward off some curse placed upon this house. A curse of loneliness. Because I sense it: Something is missing in this family, and no amount of construction can fill it.
The son dwells in a fantasy world of video games; the daughter, in rock and roll. Both children are outcasts, the son a victim of bullies, the daughter an angry rebel who shreds the social fabric of middle school.
Peter and Judy invite neighbors for nights of Trivial Pursuit. They are masters at the game, especially Judy who thinks out loud and is a marvel to witness as her brain circles around an answer, spiraling, until she's got it. She has loud, raucous laughter and loves a good joke. She smokes. Sometimes she drinks a little too much.
Both Peter and Judy grew up in military families, constantly uprooted. They each had, um, difficult parents who they refuse to talk about. Finding stability with each other and now planted in La Honda, Peter has turned down a promotion that would have sent him to Japan. Judy volunteers at the school. Peter serves without pay in the town governance. They are expanding their two-bedroom house, determined to build a lasting home in this tiny town, on this quiet mountain.
Around 9 a.m. a tile setter named Greg arrives and starts laying a base for the shower. Greg is an apprentice with a drug problem. He seems okay today.
At noon a teenage housecleaner named Sheba shows up. Sheba lives in a trailer outside town. Her father is in jail. She likes to wear almost nothing as she vacuums. When she leans over to pick up a trash can, my heart stops. I think it's even harder (literally) for Greg.
After a few hours, Greg is done for the day. So is Sheba. For a long time they talk in the driveway, leaning on their separate junker cars. The body language tells it all. At first Sheba and Greg stand as opposite sides of an upper case letter "V," arms folded across chests, heads bowed, studying toes which are nearly touching. Later they are a lower case letter "m," squatting side by side on the curb. Then they drive away, one car following at the bumper of the other, for I presume an episode of "Y."
I'm alone in the late afternoon with the radio and 3 televisions and the cats. Maybe it's because of the racket, or maybe it's because the sun is sinking so early, or maybe — honestly — I'm just temporarily stupid, but I'm drilling one-handed with a 3/4 inch bit. The bit binds in the hole. When the bit binds, the body of the powerful Makita drill must spin. My hand, holding the drill body, must spin. The hand twists the forearm. The forearm twists the elbow and on up to the shoulder, where something gives with a CRACK — and the drill wrenches out of my grip. The spin of my shoulder socket has exceeded the manufacturer's recommended rotation.
I drop to my knees.
Closing my eyes, I see stars.
(Continued here...)
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