Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part Five
Sometimes a Hero
A man is lying on the sidewalk on his back.
Heart attack.
A crowd gathers.
He's breathing hard, staring up at the faces.
Nobody knows how to help.
You're just a kid, not a doctor.
You wish you knew what to do.
At the playground two teens start fighting with knives.
You're just a kid.
You hide behind a bench and watch.
Ripped T-shirt. A shriek. There's blood like spilled paint.
A cop could stop them.
You wish you knew how.
Years pass.
College degree.
You follow the money,
try to act like a grownup
but veer from the path.
Now you appear at Plum Court
where she's at the edge of panic: the pipe exploded
or the toilet backed up
or the garbage disposal makes a funny noise and smells like,
like garbage,
and you're the guy who knows how.
The little kid watches, squatting.
He wants to touch your tool belt.
You're the guy who knows what to do.
Note: Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the on-call handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental units — or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story dwellings in a subdivision of Sunnyvale, California. It's steady money. As a minor league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize the experience in prose, but verse seems to work best. Most of the events took place in the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is Part Five of a series.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Handyman Sketches: Eviction
Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part Four
Eviction
Tenants splash and float
in the pool. A baker of a day.
Sweat streams as I work.
The dude trashed the unit.
Holes in two doors.
A chair rammed through a wall.
Faucet ripped out, flooded.
Dishwasher disappeared.
The new occupant, a single woman,
Japanese, has a voice like music.
On a pedestal she spreads
an embroidered pillow
with ornamental blanket
on which she beds
her Princess telephone.
There will be no trouble here.
Note: Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the on-call handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental units — or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story dwellings in a subdivision of Sunnyvale, California. It's steady money. As a minor league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize the experience in prose, but verse seems to work best. Most of the events took place in the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is Part Four of a series.
Eviction
Tenants splash and float
in the pool. A baker of a day.
Sweat streams as I work.
The dude trashed the unit.
Holes in two doors.
A chair rammed through a wall.
Faucet ripped out, flooded.
Dishwasher disappeared.
The new occupant, a single woman,
Japanese, has a voice like music.
On a pedestal she spreads
an embroidered pillow
with ornamental blanket
on which she beds
her Princess telephone.
There will be no trouble here.
Note: Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the on-call handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental units — or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story dwellings in a subdivision of Sunnyvale, California. It's steady money. As a minor league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize the experience in prose, but verse seems to work best. Most of the events took place in the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is Part Four of a series.
Monday, February 18, 2013
Handyman Sketches: New Tenants, Love Baby
Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part Three
New Tenants
Arabian girl
explosive hair
olive skin
pubescent
so thin
bare toes curling on the floor.
Father wants
a deadbolt lock
on her bedroom door.
Quietly she glares
eyes of dark jade.
He keeps both keys.
I do as paid.
Love Baby and Teen Boy
Last night a man kicked open her front door.
"Nothing like this has ever happened before,"
Manager Larry says with pursed lips.
The lady is cradling an ebony
infant in her arms.
"This one's my love baby
and he's all mine," she tells me.
"Love," she winks, "with a restraining order."
As I rebuild the splintered frame
a teen boy scowls in silence from across the room,
leg twitching, soul aflame.
Note: Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the on-call handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental units — or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story dwellings in a subdivision of Sunnyvale, California. It's steady money. As a minor league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize the experience in prose, but verse seems to work best. Most of the events took place in the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is Part Three of a series.
New Tenants
Arabian girl
explosive hair
olive skin
pubescent
so thin
bare toes curling on the floor.
Father wants
a deadbolt lock
on her bedroom door.
Quietly she glares
eyes of dark jade.
He keeps both keys.
I do as paid.
Love Baby and Teen Boy
Last night a man kicked open her front door.
"Nothing like this has ever happened before,"
Manager Larry says with pursed lips.
The lady is cradling an ebony
infant in her arms.
"This one's my love baby
and he's all mine," she tells me.
"Love," she winks, "with a restraining order."
As I rebuild the splintered frame
a teen boy scowls in silence from across the room,
leg twitching, soul aflame.
Note: Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the on-call handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental units — or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story dwellings in a subdivision of Sunnyvale, California. It's steady money. As a minor league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize the experience in prose, but verse seems to work best. Most of the events took place in the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is Part Three of a series.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Handyman Sketches: Gal in Twenty, Mucking
Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part Two
The Gal in Twenty
Manager Larry says, "The gal
in Twenty is crazy.
I hate her. She’s throwing a fit.”
"What should I do?"
"Humor her. Fix something.
It's the same old shit."
A towel rack is loose,
the shower head dribbles,
a door latch won't catch,
so many quibbles;
the vent fan rattles,
she can't switch on the light,
the phone has no tone.
She's entirely right.
Mucking
Mucking with a garbage
disposal as the young woman
applies make-up in her slip
— lush lips! —
ignoring me
while her roommate showers,
emerging damp-haired,
wrapped in a towel.
I exist as a handy
not as a man.
Note: Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the on-call handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental units — or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story dwellings in a subdivision of Sunnyvale, California. It's steady money. As a minor league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize the experience in prose, but verse seems to work best. Most of the events took place in the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is Part Two of a series.
The Gal in Twenty
Manager Larry says, "The gal
in Twenty is crazy.
I hate her. She’s throwing a fit.”
"What should I do?"
"Humor her. Fix something.
It's the same old shit."
A towel rack is loose,
the shower head dribbles,
a door latch won't catch,
so many quibbles;
the vent fan rattles,
she can't switch on the light,
the phone has no tone.
She's entirely right.
Mucking
Mucking with a garbage
disposal as the young woman
applies make-up in her slip
— lush lips! —
ignoring me
while her roommate showers,
emerging damp-haired,
wrapped in a towel.
I exist as a handy
not as a man.
Note: Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the on-call handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental units — or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story dwellings in a subdivision of Sunnyvale, California. It's steady money. As a minor league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize the experience in prose, but verse seems to work best. Most of the events took place in the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is Part Two of a series.
Friday, February 15, 2013
Handyman Sketches: Plum Court
Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part One
Plum Court
Plum Court Apartments is a clean sanctuary offering
asylum from all but a select part of the natural world.
There are no plums. Nor trees of any sort.
Upscale units surround a concrete courtyard
engirdling a blue swimming pool. Interiors
are furnished in plush style, most seating aimed
at a television.
Each unit has a tiny yard fenced in wrought iron.
All summer, near-naked multi-colored mothers
will be toasting in harsh sunlight while children splash
in the pool. Kneeling, white-shirted, straw-hatted,
an old man will be planting bright flowers
in the itty bitty gardens.
Tinkering with a faucet here, a light switch there,
I wander wide-eyed, a tourist with a tool belt.
Or the short version:
You might call me a failure;
I call it a sport.
Regardless, here I am:
Handyman, Plum Court.
Note: Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the on-call handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental units — or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story dwellings in a subdivision in Sunnyvale, California. It's steady money. As a minor league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize the experience in prose, but verse seems to work best. Most of the events took place in the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is Part One of a series.
Plum Court
Plum Court Apartments is a clean sanctuary offering
asylum from all but a select part of the natural world.
There are no plums. Nor trees of any sort.
Upscale units surround a concrete courtyard
engirdling a blue swimming pool. Interiors
are furnished in plush style, most seating aimed
at a television.
Each unit has a tiny yard fenced in wrought iron.
All summer, near-naked multi-colored mothers
will be toasting in harsh sunlight while children splash
in the pool. Kneeling, white-shirted, straw-hatted,
an old man will be planting bright flowers
in the itty bitty gardens.
Tinkering with a faucet here, a light switch there,
I wander wide-eyed, a tourist with a tool belt.
Or the short version:
You might call me a failure;
I call it a sport.
Regardless, here I am:
Handyman, Plum Court.
I tried to summarize the experience in prose, but verse seems to work best. Most of the events took place in the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is Part One of a series.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Mammary Memory
February 13, 1988
Scheduling small jobs always involved a certain amount of guesswork — and inevitably, downtime. With an hour between appointments you could often find me at a public library shedding sawdust into my chair as I scribbled furiously into the little notebook that was my journal. One day I was doing exactly that at the Menlo Park Library while a man at a nearby table was doing pretty much the same thing, minus the sawdust. Then suddenly he started whispering…
Her Breasts
The white-haired doddering gentle old man
in the crushing silence of the public library
blinking through spectacles
writes with shaking hands
in a pocket notebook
unaware that he is muttering to himself:
"Her breasts! Her breasts!"
Eyes peer over books. Pencils pause,
except the old man's. Fingers
mark pages. We await,
expectant, puzzled. He has pulled a dusty volume
from the shelf of his memory
and still writing, whispers, hissing:
"Her breasts. . ."
I want to know: Was it in moonlight?
Hurried? Forbidden?
Dear woman, do you know that after half a century
not only your lover but a whole reading room
of men and women are sharing — are in awe of —
your stunning warmth:
"Her breasts! Her breasts!"
Scheduling small jobs always involved a certain amount of guesswork — and inevitably, downtime. With an hour between appointments you could often find me at a public library shedding sawdust into my chair as I scribbled furiously into the little notebook that was my journal. One day I was doing exactly that at the Menlo Park Library while a man at a nearby table was doing pretty much the same thing, minus the sawdust. Then suddenly he started whispering…
Her Breasts
The white-haired doddering gentle old man
in the crushing silence of the public library
blinking through spectacles
writes with shaking hands
in a pocket notebook
unaware that he is muttering to himself:
"Her breasts! Her breasts!"
Eyes peer over books. Pencils pause,
except the old man's. Fingers
mark pages. We await,
expectant, puzzled. He has pulled a dusty volume
from the shelf of his memory
and still writing, whispers, hissing:
"Her breasts. . ."
I want to know: Was it in moonlight?
Hurried? Forbidden?
Dear woman, do you know that after half a century
not only your lover but a whole reading room
of men and women are sharing — are in awe of —
your stunning warmth:
"Her breasts! Her breasts!"
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Lila Spear
October 1983 to July 1985
Lila Spear was a spry old woman living on the side of a hill in La Honda. I liked her instantly. The ceiling of her bedroom was sagging, leaking strings of dust from the attic onto the tufted coverlet of a double bed. There was a single pillow, not in the center but off to one side.
When I quoted my price, she flinched, then accepted.
That flinch still haunts me.
She had a bearing of pride mixed with resignation. The interior was slightly spooky and had seen better days, but she kept it tidy. She offered me drinks while I worked.
There was a shed-like garage full of old lumber, which she said I could use. The lumber was silent testament to the absent pillow — like a ghost. Every house needs somebody to watch over it.
We'd chat, Lila and I, though I can't remember what we talked about except that once she asked if my back was hurting. "It always hurts," I said.
She nodded. "We just keep going," she said. "What else can we do?"
A year or two later I got a call from a lawyer representing her estate. Lila had passed away. Teenagers were breaking into the empty house and holding beer parties. Would I go over and board up the windows?
"Of course," I said.
As it happened, I could do it right away. There was lumber in the shed.
Lila Spear
had a wavering voice,
when I met her,
and a house full of memories
needing repair.
Lila Spear was a spry old woman living on the side of a hill in La Honda. I liked her instantly. The ceiling of her bedroom was sagging, leaking strings of dust from the attic onto the tufted coverlet of a double bed. There was a single pillow, not in the center but off to one side.
When I quoted my price, she flinched, then accepted.
That flinch still haunts me.
She had a bearing of pride mixed with resignation. The interior was slightly spooky and had seen better days, but she kept it tidy. She offered me drinks while I worked.
There was a shed-like garage full of old lumber, which she said I could use. The lumber was silent testament to the absent pillow — like a ghost. Every house needs somebody to watch over it.
We'd chat, Lila and I, though I can't remember what we talked about except that once she asked if my back was hurting. "It always hurts," I said.
She nodded. "We just keep going," she said. "What else can we do?"
A year or two later I got a call from a lawyer representing her estate. Lila had passed away. Teenagers were breaking into the empty house and holding beer parties. Would I go over and board up the windows?
"Of course," I said.
As it happened, I could do it right away. There was lumber in the shed.
Lila Spear
had a wavering voice,
when I met her,
and a house full of memories
needing repair.
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