Sunday, January 31, 1993
I'm re-roofing a garage. The owner wants a cheapo job.
Half way up one side, I space out for a minute and let the shingles wander slightly out of line. Disgusted, I tear out the last few shingles - but not the first ones where I'd just started to wander. They're only a wee bit out of line - only five of them out of hundreds - they'll shed water just fine - the owner isn't paying for perfection - and besides, it's Sunday. I want to finish and go home.
When I've finished the job, from the ground I look at the roof.
Like a pretty girl with one crooked tooth.
I came in under my estimate. The owner is happy. I get paid, and I feel like crap.
The trouble with cheapo jobs is that you end up producing cheapo craft - and your name is attached to it.
Now, 18 years later, it must be about time to replace that roof. Soon, I hope. It still bugs me.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Vegetables First
Friday, January 30, 2004
Linda in Cupertino hires me to install bathroom lights and outlets, but when I arrive she touches my hand and says, "If you don't mind, since you're already here, I have a little list."
Linda is petite. She's also a touchy-type person who can't speak without reaching out to place fingers on your arm, your hand, your own fingers. It's naive. A man could get the wrong impression. What protects her, I suppose, is that when you look at her you think she looks like a miniature of your mother. Or the mother you wish you'd had.
Now squeezing my fingers she says, "Do you terribly mind?"
I study the list: replace a dimmer switch, change a light bulb requiring a ladder, a few little chores. "No problem," I say.
"Oh that's wonderful!" She smiles with delight. She has enormous presence. By constantly touching, she makes up for her tiny size.
"I'll do the list first," I say.
"Starting with the little stuff?"
"I'm the type of guy - I always eat my vegetables first."
"Oh you're just like me!" she says, grasping my lower arm.
I will do a perfect job. For such a powerful woman, how could I do anything less?
Linda in Cupertino hires me to install bathroom lights and outlets, but when I arrive she touches my hand and says, "If you don't mind, since you're already here, I have a little list."
Linda is petite. She's also a touchy-type person who can't speak without reaching out to place fingers on your arm, your hand, your own fingers. It's naive. A man could get the wrong impression. What protects her, I suppose, is that when you look at her you think she looks like a miniature of your mother. Or the mother you wish you'd had.
Now squeezing my fingers she says, "Do you terribly mind?"
I study the list: replace a dimmer switch, change a light bulb requiring a ladder, a few little chores. "No problem," I say.
"Oh that's wonderful!" She smiles with delight. She has enormous presence. By constantly touching, she makes up for her tiny size.
"I'll do the list first," I say.
"Starting with the little stuff?"
"I'm the type of guy - I always eat my vegetables first."
"Oh you're just like me!" she says, grasping my lower arm.
I will do a perfect job. For such a powerful woman, how could I do anything less?
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Stove Shock
Tuesday, January 29, 1991
Don is the ultimate yuppie bachelor: a Mercedes for formal occasions, a $50,000 BMW for a beater car, a hilltop million dollar view of the Silicon Valley, a home sound system that can make your navel bleed, a decorator for half his house and bachelor squalor for the other half (where he spends all his time). He made a killing on something - he doesn't talk about it - and retired at age 23. A likable, handsome man, he must be all of 28 by now. The consensus among women seems to be that Don is in need of a wife. Whenever I work there, pleasant ladies are constantly leaving messages on his answering machine or appearing at his door "just to drop something off."
There are no books in the entire house except for one shelf, stocked by the decorator, of old leather volumes of various sizes, shapes, and smells. Don has a childish laugh and a basement full of arcade games from pinball to Pac-Man.
I've installed elegant fixtures in the decorator half of his house. Today he needs me for the squalid half. A "lady guest" got a shock touching the stove.
"Have you ever gotten a shock, Don?"
"I've never used it."
He's lived there for 5 years.
I check the stove. No problem found. Probably it was static electricity she picked up by walking on the deep carpets in the plush half of the house. In the kitchen, there are plastic chairs from K-Mart.
The bill: $108. Don cheerfully pays. The phone is ringing; Don doesn't pick up. He follows me out to the driveway, saying he has a squash match at the club.
"And then lunch?" I ask.
"Shower. Lunch. Massage. You know." He shrugs.
Inside the house, once again the phone is ringing.
Don is the ultimate yuppie bachelor: a Mercedes for formal occasions, a $50,000 BMW for a beater car, a hilltop million dollar view of the Silicon Valley, a home sound system that can make your navel bleed, a decorator for half his house and bachelor squalor for the other half (where he spends all his time). He made a killing on something - he doesn't talk about it - and retired at age 23. A likable, handsome man, he must be all of 28 by now. The consensus among women seems to be that Don is in need of a wife. Whenever I work there, pleasant ladies are constantly leaving messages on his answering machine or appearing at his door "just to drop something off."
There are no books in the entire house except for one shelf, stocked by the decorator, of old leather volumes of various sizes, shapes, and smells. Don has a childish laugh and a basement full of arcade games from pinball to Pac-Man.
I've installed elegant fixtures in the decorator half of his house. Today he needs me for the squalid half. A "lady guest" got a shock touching the stove.
"Have you ever gotten a shock, Don?"
"I've never used it."
He's lived there for 5 years.
I check the stove. No problem found. Probably it was static electricity she picked up by walking on the deep carpets in the plush half of the house. In the kitchen, there are plastic chairs from K-Mart.
The bill: $108. Don cheerfully pays. The phone is ringing; Don doesn't pick up. He follows me out to the driveway, saying he has a squash match at the club.
"And then lunch?" I ask.
"Shower. Lunch. Massage. You know." He shrugs.
Inside the house, once again the phone is ringing.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Plumbing for Poets
Sunday, January 28, 1990
A few days ago Leanna, one of the La Honda Poets, asked me to repair her leaking toilet. "No hurry. Whenever you have time," she said. "The door doesn't have a lock. Just go right in." Today is Sunday; I have time.
Leanna lives alone in a tiny house at the end of a long muddy driveway, one bedroom teetering over a creek. I can only drive the truck half way up the driveway. Through the mud I carry a toolbox, a ballcock, a flexible riser. A knock on the door brings no response. I step inside - and hear the sound of lovemaking in the back room. I back out, quietly.
That night, Leanna calls: "Did you come to my house today?"
"Yes."
"Thought so. Tire marks. The thing is, the toilet still leaks."
"Of course it leaks. I didn't fix it."
"Why not?"
"You were - uh - busy."
"Yes I was busy. I was gone all day. What are you talking about?"
"Somebody was there. In the bedroom. I heard them."
"Them? Nobody comes here except Amy to feed the cats."
"How old is Amy?"
"Fifteen. Oh crap. And she was in the bedroom? I told her two rules: always use birth control and never use my bed. Did she at least feed the cats?"
"I have no idea."
The next day Leanna stops by my house. "I really want that toilet repaired. Here. You'll need this."
She hands me a key.
A few days ago Leanna, one of the La Honda Poets, asked me to repair her leaking toilet. "No hurry. Whenever you have time," she said. "The door doesn't have a lock. Just go right in." Today is Sunday; I have time.
Leanna lives alone in a tiny house at the end of a long muddy driveway, one bedroom teetering over a creek. I can only drive the truck half way up the driveway. Through the mud I carry a toolbox, a ballcock, a flexible riser. A knock on the door brings no response. I step inside - and hear the sound of lovemaking in the back room. I back out, quietly.
That night, Leanna calls: "Did you come to my house today?"
"Yes."
"Thought so. Tire marks. The thing is, the toilet still leaks."
"Of course it leaks. I didn't fix it."
"Why not?"
"You were - uh - busy."
"Yes I was busy. I was gone all day. What are you talking about?"
"Somebody was there. In the bedroom. I heard them."
"Them? Nobody comes here except Amy to feed the cats."
"How old is Amy?"
"Fifteen. Oh crap. And she was in the bedroom? I told her two rules: always use birth control and never use my bed. Did she at least feed the cats?"
"I have no idea."
The next day Leanna stops by my house. "I really want that toilet repaired. Here. You'll need this."
She hands me a key.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
What We Want (Part Two)
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
Ed, my brother, has dementia. I'm his guardian. Today I drive the truck to Ed's house in Albany to meet the new nurse, Sasha. Ed already has a live-in caregiver but lately he's been more challenging, so I hired Sasha.
Sasha has turned the furnace up full blast. It's stiflingly hot. Ed is sitting in his favorite easy chair trying to watch Chinese television. He knows many languages, though in his current state he can barely speak English. Sasha is trying to draw a blood sample from his sweaty arm. Ed is not cooperating. He tells Sasha, "You have no brain." Even in his dementia he knows something that isn't yet obvious to me.
For a moment Ed glares at me. Get her out of here, he says without opening his mouth. Ed and I are telepathic. I don't mean that in a woo-woo way. We simply know each other's thoughts. With the dementia it becomes more and more difficult, but sometimes it still happens.
At Sasha's request I remove the sliding door from the bathtub and install shower curtains. I've already installed grab bars. Ed's house was built in the 1930's and has never been upgraded. Some of the ceiling plaster is caving in. The roof leaks. I'm fixing things as fast as I can.
I stop work at the end of the day. Sasha never succeeded in drawing blood. She's shaking. When Ed lifts his arm, she flinches. I realize: She's scared of him.
As Sasha is leaving, I meet with her on the front porch. "This isn't working out," I say.
"You need to put him in a skilled nursing facility," she says. "The doctor says he has half a year, one year max. His body is shutting down. You know that."
"He stays here." I know what he wants. He doesn't care if plaster is falling off the ceiling. He needs this amazing collection of opera and old jazz from rare vinyl to modern CD. He needs to thumb through the books of his massive library, uncomprehending but fascinated. They are a part of him, artifacts of a broad and eclectic mind. He needs the posters of trains on the familiar walls - B&O, Southern Pacific - and the old wooden floors he has paced for 30 years. Take him out of here and he'll die.
That night, I get a call from Adult Protective Services. Sasha has reported me for Elder Abuse.
Sheesh.
There's to be an investigation, phone calls, paperwork, all of which will exonerate me. For five more years I'll continue patching his home as if slapping bandages on his psyche, lurching from one emergency to the next, the longest repair job of my career.
At last on Friday, February 27, 2009 Ed will die peacefully in his bed.
Ed, my brother, has dementia. I'm his guardian. Today I drive the truck to Ed's house in Albany to meet the new nurse, Sasha. Ed already has a live-in caregiver but lately he's been more challenging, so I hired Sasha.
Sasha has turned the furnace up full blast. It's stiflingly hot. Ed is sitting in his favorite easy chair trying to watch Chinese television. He knows many languages, though in his current state he can barely speak English. Sasha is trying to draw a blood sample from his sweaty arm. Ed is not cooperating. He tells Sasha, "You have no brain." Even in his dementia he knows something that isn't yet obvious to me.
For a moment Ed glares at me. Get her out of here, he says without opening his mouth. Ed and I are telepathic. I don't mean that in a woo-woo way. We simply know each other's thoughts. With the dementia it becomes more and more difficult, but sometimes it still happens.
At Sasha's request I remove the sliding door from the bathtub and install shower curtains. I've already installed grab bars. Ed's house was built in the 1930's and has never been upgraded. Some of the ceiling plaster is caving in. The roof leaks. I'm fixing things as fast as I can.
I stop work at the end of the day. Sasha never succeeded in drawing blood. She's shaking. When Ed lifts his arm, she flinches. I realize: She's scared of him.
As Sasha is leaving, I meet with her on the front porch. "This isn't working out," I say.
"You need to put him in a skilled nursing facility," she says. "The doctor says he has half a year, one year max. His body is shutting down. You know that."
"He stays here." I know what he wants. He doesn't care if plaster is falling off the ceiling. He needs this amazing collection of opera and old jazz from rare vinyl to modern CD. He needs to thumb through the books of his massive library, uncomprehending but fascinated. They are a part of him, artifacts of a broad and eclectic mind. He needs the posters of trains on the familiar walls - B&O, Southern Pacific - and the old wooden floors he has paced for 30 years. Take him out of here and he'll die.
That night, I get a call from Adult Protective Services. Sasha has reported me for Elder Abuse.
Sheesh.
There's to be an investigation, phone calls, paperwork, all of which will exonerate me. For five more years I'll continue patching his home as if slapping bandages on his psyche, lurching from one emergency to the next, the longest repair job of my career.
At last on Friday, February 27, 2009 Ed will die peacefully in his bed.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
What We Want (Part One)
Monday, January 26, 1987
My son, Will, says he wants to build something and needs my help. Let's bear in mind: he's in nursery school. He's 4 years old.
He goes downstairs to the basement workshop. I follow. It's his first building project.
From the scrap pile he extracts a one foot 1x6.
He wants a hole exactly in the center of the 1x6. Little hands, big power drill. Together we hold it. Vroom.
Next from the scrap pile he extracts a 6 foot narrow strip of plywood. With two hands choked up on the 16 ounce hammer he whack-whack-whacks a single nail through the hole we drilled in the 1x6, attaching it to the narrow strip of plywood - not to the end like an airplane but somewhere near the center.
The 1x6 spins on the nail.
"What is it?" I ask.
"It's what I want," Will says.
Satisfied, we go upstairs.
My son, Will, says he wants to build something and needs my help. Let's bear in mind: he's in nursery school. He's 4 years old.
He goes downstairs to the basement workshop. I follow. It's his first building project.
From the scrap pile he extracts a one foot 1x6.
He wants a hole exactly in the center of the 1x6. Little hands, big power drill. Together we hold it. Vroom.
Next from the scrap pile he extracts a 6 foot narrow strip of plywood. With two hands choked up on the 16 ounce hammer he whack-whack-whacks a single nail through the hole we drilled in the 1x6, attaching it to the narrow strip of plywood - not to the end like an airplane but somewhere near the center.
The 1x6 spins on the nail.
"What is it?" I ask.
"It's what I want," Will says.
Satisfied, we go upstairs.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Inchworming
Friday, January 25, 2002
Next to a busy street in downtown Menlo Park I'm removing sod and digging post holes for a fence. It will be a rose garden in front of a clinic. Inside the clinic, little children are having occupational therapy - bouncing on therapy balls, swinging from trapezes, learning balance, gaining strength - and having a blast.
A green Buick squeals into the driveway and screeches to a stop. A police car jerks to a stop right behind. On the street, two more squad cars. In a moment a half dozen cops are surrounding the Buick with guns drawn. I'm ten feet away, and I'm in the line of fire.
I drop to the ground.
At that moment the door to the clinic opens. Tara, one of the occupational therapists, steps outside holding the hand of a little boy. The boy, who couldn't be older than six, is the first to comprehend what they have stepped into. He drops to the pavement. Tara drops a moment later. Tara says, "Sammy! Do the inchworm!"
Inchworming is a therapy activity in which a child inches himself along the floor, shoulders and then butt rising up and down as he pushes forward like an inchworm. As a therapist could explain, it requires weight-bearing on the shoulders which is good for stability and strength, and it's useful in teaching motor planning. Or as kids could tell you, it's fun.
Tara and Sammy inchworm through the door and into the clinic.
I do something of an inchworm myself across fifteen feet of grass to a brick wall. From behind the wall I see that the guns are returning to holsters and the police are returning to their cars - except for one policeman who is going to ride as a passenger in the Buick.
The Buick backs out of the driveway and drives slowly down Menlo Avenue, followed by three police cars with flashing lights.
Five minutes later, it's as if nothing ever happened. Upscale shoppers stride in and out of Draeger's, the gourmet grocery across the street. Pedestrians walk along the sidewalk sipping Peet's Coffee from paper cups.
Three hyperactive children burst out of the clinic and pepper me with questions about what I'm doing. I'm digging post holes and removing sod.
Tomorrow, I'll plant roses.
Next to a busy street in downtown Menlo Park I'm removing sod and digging post holes for a fence. It will be a rose garden in front of a clinic. Inside the clinic, little children are having occupational therapy - bouncing on therapy balls, swinging from trapezes, learning balance, gaining strength - and having a blast.
A green Buick squeals into the driveway and screeches to a stop. A police car jerks to a stop right behind. On the street, two more squad cars. In a moment a half dozen cops are surrounding the Buick with guns drawn. I'm ten feet away, and I'm in the line of fire.
I drop to the ground.
At that moment the door to the clinic opens. Tara, one of the occupational therapists, steps outside holding the hand of a little boy. The boy, who couldn't be older than six, is the first to comprehend what they have stepped into. He drops to the pavement. Tara drops a moment later. Tara says, "Sammy! Do the inchworm!"
Inchworming is a therapy activity in which a child inches himself along the floor, shoulders and then butt rising up and down as he pushes forward like an inchworm. As a therapist could explain, it requires weight-bearing on the shoulders which is good for stability and strength, and it's useful in teaching motor planning. Or as kids could tell you, it's fun.
Tara and Sammy inchworm through the door and into the clinic.
I do something of an inchworm myself across fifteen feet of grass to a brick wall. From behind the wall I see that the guns are returning to holsters and the police are returning to their cars - except for one policeman who is going to ride as a passenger in the Buick.
The Buick backs out of the driveway and drives slowly down Menlo Avenue, followed by three police cars with flashing lights.
Five minutes later, it's as if nothing ever happened. Upscale shoppers stride in and out of Draeger's, the gourmet grocery across the street. Pedestrians walk along the sidewalk sipping Peet's Coffee from paper cups.
Three hyperactive children burst out of the clinic and pepper me with questions about what I'm doing. I'm digging post holes and removing sod.
Tomorrow, I'll plant roses.
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