"It just knows."

The year is almost over. The house project, begun around August, is not nearly half-finished. There is no end in sight--that I can see, anyway. My visitors, those who enter my personal hell, survey the work I am immersed in, shake their heads. This is what they say:
“You have your work cut out for you.”

Thursday I began tearing apart the front porch with my helper. We cut into the weathered wood with power saws, tore away at the tired old planks that had received years of countless footsteps, had even been painted once in awhile. Grey paint flaked off in great swaths, as the wood splintered and came undone from the underlying joists it was nailed to. Then the red paint, under the grey, made its appearance. One last hurrah for the red. Most of these ancient pigments were dosed most likely with a liberal dash of lead for durability. It certainly was hanging on. We wore our heavy-duty dust masks and gloves, put the debris into a pile on a tarp in the yard. Then it all went into the back of the truck for a ride to the refuse depot—a place that collects trash from trash haulers and homeowners. From there it is transferred to the main landfill and buried for good. The weather had started out overcast, with a few sprinkles of rain in the morning; now the sun was shining—good weather for a trip to the trash depot. The man there looked over our small offering and waved us through. Verifying my residency was of no great concern to him on this day.

Later we took two large boards out of the truck and put them in place on the shed’s floor. This amount of wood was not sufficient. I thought it would be, but it wasn’t. I need one more big sheet of wood, a piece of particle board measuring four by eight feet. This will allow for completely covering the shed’s floor. Interestingly, these large pieces cost less than ten bucks each, and they are commonly used for the underlayment—or “subflooring” material in new homes. My shed was going first class. After positioning the wood, and realizing that I needed more, we turned out attention to some finishing touches on the shed. We installed the rough and clumsy sliding doors, drilling a few holes in the flimsy steel because we’d mounted the braces in a non-traditional manner, having not followed the directions in the instruction book to the absolute letter. The doors work as well as they ever will, sliding into the shed to provide access for my power tools, and closing haltingly to allow for a little security and privacy for my riding mower as it spends cold winter nights alone in the little structure---the thing that I’d picked up at Sears about a year ago, packaged flat and tight in one thin cardboard box. I looked over the already-rusted wall panels, the oxidation most likely a result of my neglect of the thing as it lay uncovered and exposed to the elements. It was probably going to happen anyway. I pointed to the house, which was mostly painted by now.
“I think I’ll paint it to match the house,” I said to my helper. “Yes, that’s what I believe I’ll do—paint it like that.” There was not much resolve, not much conviction in my voice.
“You’d better take a power washer to it first,” he said.
“Yes, yes. I’ll do that.”

We went later to a sandwich shop in town, it being late afternoon and neither one of us having eaten much since breakfast. He was fond of their overstuffed sandwiches. I’d not been aware of the place, had never noticed it tucked away in an alley off the main street. They couldn’t make my grilled ham and cheese, having already turned off the grill. I ordered a tuna on white bread, plain—no lettuce or anything. It took me forever to get through the small sandwich, wash it down with a coke, and finally declare lunch finished. This is not such a bad deal for my helper, whom I pay by the hour.

Later we drove up to my friend’s shop where my car—now fixed—was waiting. We spent a good deal of time there, as always happens, and my helper had car-related things to ask my mechanic friend. Seems one of his family’s many cars wasn’t acting right, was behaving in an odd manner. We discussed the possible causes, talked some more about other things, and finally took our leave.

On Friday I took my brother out to a post-birthday celebration. It had been his actual birthday the day before, but I hadn’t been able to go. The hour was getting late and I had an early day in Bethesda for a job the next morning. We dined at a local eatery known for its ribs and good times. The bar was packed with vivacious young people, and others who wished they were young. The food was actually quite good; we were seated immediately in the dining area, and I was pleased and surprised to have gotten a table so fast. I had the ribs and crab cake platter, with a side of applesauce and a baked potato. The sour cream and butter came in a little plastic ramekin, the two of them sharing the space side by side, like a cholesterol-laden yin and yang. I ate a little of the ribs, finished the side orders and the crab-cake, and took the rest home for a meal the next day. We were joined at the start by another brother and his wife who live close by. The four of us enjoyed a good time together, with the food washed down by the house specialty—draught root beer. I also splurged and ordered a vodka and tonic at the start of the meal. Afterwards I stopped at the local big-box store to exchange my propane tank for another one. The evening air was frigid, and the next day’s weather promised to be just as cold. My Saturday was looming on the horizon, and I would have to get up early the next day to greet it. Out front was a young man tending the store’s shopping carts, rounding them up and putting them into long rows for the coming day’s customers. I asked him about my propane tank, having never really done this before. He pointed to the self-serve machine, where I could undertake the whole endeavor automatically—with the help of my bankcard. I asked for his help, nevertheless—not trusting myself to go through the whole process correctly. Furthermore, I didn’t want to prolong my time in the cold on this late fall evening.

He showed me how the machine worked, walking me through the process. When I’d selected the activity I wanted—a tank exchange—we looked down the long rows of propane tanks imprisoned in their little metal cages. It was like a humane society for tanks awaiting adoption. They were stationed behind heavy wire-mesh doors. One of them—about twenty doors down—eerily swung open. It waited there, the space inside empty. It wanted my old tank, wouldn’t give up another until it was sure mine was safely inside.
“It knows when you’ve put your tank in,” the attendant said. “I don’t know how. It just knows.” I put my tank in. The door closed, and we waited. Then, silently, like in a horror movie, another door—somewhere else—opened up. The bright glare of the superstore’s outside lights shone on the lone door opened at a perfect right angle to the rest of the cages.
“This one is yours,” the attendant said.
I took the tank, put it inside the car—my little station wagon that I’d decided not to part with. Tomorrow would be cold, but not as cold as it might have been. I would light the flame, the red glow would emanate from the heater, and my helpers and I would have warm hands as we served up frosty cold French bread, croissants, and other baked things in the chilly pre-winter air.

At the market:

The woman and her little girl approached the bread stand. They were going to buy a muffin for the child. The mother, wanting to get the youngster involved in the process, gave her ample choices, queried her on this particular product and that one, and which one exactly would the little girl like? The child, about seven or eight, couldn’t have cared less, didn’t want to be involved in what was going on, relished only the undue attention being lavished on her.

“Oh! Little Dilly, would you like this one?” The mother pointed to some item or other.
No response from the child.
“Look at the muffins! Oh, don’t they look delicious!”
Still no reaction from the little urchin.
They finally settled on the muffins, through some barely perceptible head movement of the child. There are three different kinds; which one was it to be? Now I had to be drawn into this dreadful drama, this awful catering to the obnoxious tot. Barely lifting her hand, she waved vaguely in the direction of the muffins.
“This one?” I asked—not wanting to redo the effort for the horrible little girl.
Again: “This one?”
No response from the unconcerned child.
“Little Dilly, the man is talking to you! Do you want this one?”
A petulant voice puckered out a one-syllable “Yup.” Her tone indicated that any idiot could see that was the muffin she wanted, and we really weren’t worth her time.
“Oh, Little Dilly, let’s pay the man!” The mother handed the little girl the proper amount—all in coins. Little Dilly couldn’t be troubled to hold onto the money, instead let her limp hand drop the coins all over the pavement, showing not the slightest inclination to pick them up.
“Little Dilly—you’re dropping the money! Oh, my goodness!” The mother knelt down and started picking up the coins, one by one, while the child stood by, not concerned in the least. The mother must have finally realized that her teachable moment was coming to naught, for she handed me the coins, instead of the intermediate stop in wretched girl’s limp hand—where they would just slip through her fingers and onto the ground again.

They were gone, the mother with the awful little girl, and the little girl with her muffin that she’d done nothing to earn.
I wanted to say to the mother: “This child is going to grow up to be a horrible person, and it’s all GOING TO BE YOUR FAULT! Don’t come back here ever again—even if you want to buy every last stick of bread and enough muffins to last a year! Get out! Get out, I say!” Then, just spewing venom for the sake of it, not really heading in any particular direction: “The two of you deserve each other! God almighty, are you blind to the obvious manipulations of this little brat? Just because she’s the product of your loins doesn’t mean she’s swell just the way she came out, doesn’t need any improvement! With your namby-pamby and misguided tutelage, we have the makings of a she-demon, a creature best referred to in mythical terms, not ever expected to walk amongst us, to be reckoned with as we buy our daily coffee or try to cross the street as she bears down on us, laughing, at the wheel of a too-large automobile!” Then, drawing a breath, filling my lungs for one last onslaught: “Kick the little brat’s ass into the next county! See if she can find any muffins there, goddammit!”

I might get something of a reputation. “Cantankerous old coot” comes to mind. But it would be worth it; worth it if this terrible duo started to look at themselves, started to see what even the blindest of the blind can see. It would all be worth it.