Bruce Milo

I was intent on landing a blow somewhere on my opponent. Anywhere would have been fine, but of course I was going for a good shot to the face or maybe even the general area of the head. My arms were a flurried blur of confused motion—an eggbeater of activity, but with little purpose. I thought that I could get in a good one and ward off the incoming fists simultaneously. I think maybe it has to be one or the other. In any case, it was probably the fourth grade and I was fighting like a girl.

“Gerrit!” I paused, a couple of lag screws for the deck in my hand. Someone had hailed me from behind—back there in the Ace Hardware. “Can’t be me,” I thought. Who the heck is that guy, anyway?” I turned, greeted the man who most definitely knew me, couldn’t hide my confusion, so I didn’t try.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m drawing a blank.” This isn’t actually so unusual for me, as I sometimes don’t recognize people of my current acquaintance. Mostly I do, but sometimes I don’t. But this was different, this was my adversary from grade school, the guy whom the girls adored, who always had an easy way about him, but also knew how to take care of himself.
“Bruce Milo,” he said, and I knew the name immediately, was glad that he had greeted me, was more than a little astonished that he could remember my face, the one that has changed into that of a middle-aged man’s, was no longer the smooth and boyish mug surrounded by my grade-school curls.

He was picking up some things for his company, was stocking up on oils and lubricants for the machinery of his business, which deals with the tearing down of things. I gave him my information, told him maybe I’d have something to tear down, maybe not. In any case, it was good to see him. I drove home, my new lag screws on the seat next to me, wondering about life, but certain of this one thing: Bruce could still kick my ass if I angered him. Much has changed about me in the intervening years, but I have not become a better fighter.

And on Sunday there was this: that terrible radioed nuisance that comes on NPR. I am drawn to it like a moth to a Japanese lantern on a hot August night. It is so terrible I can’t stay away. You have to stare, jaw slack and mouth agape, and wonder at the noises coming from the radio. They started, the car entertainment duo, like this: Reading regurgitated material they idly plucked from the internet. The stuff was not interesting or clever to begin with, but is enhanced in no way by their retelling. Further, they can no longer “sell” it—even they are tired of the stuff, their lame and forced guffaws half-hearted at best. I actually feel kind of bad for the poor guys. This week’s lead-off was something they called “The Wisdom of Homer.” But instead of references to Greek mythology, they riffed on Homer Simpson, the cartoon character who comes on tv. This had the potential of being quite funny, but the things they read were sad and tired, their delivery forced, each one trying to uphold his end of the non-existent hilarity. If there were people out there whose brain cells were stirring to life at the sound of this inanity, they were most likely on life support, their lids flickering a silent rebellion against this assault on what little intellect they had left. So I listened to the show, tolerated the snorting and the guffaws for a short while, then had to turn it off. The callers were not interesting or annoying enough, had the most mundane of problems, and I already knew the answers to most of their questions anyway. What little enjoyment I got resulted from hearing the hosts dish out bad advice.

Today was beautiful, starting out cold then getting warmer—easing the transition into springtime. During the warmer time I mixed up my remaining bags of concrete, worked on the dry ground, with the fresh topsoil underfoot, and shoveled the four bags of mixed up material into the post-holes I’d dug. There was enough concrete to fill the holes to the proper level, and just a tiny bit left over. I will let it cure for the next two days, then put my posts and main deck supports in place—setting the stage for the actual decking to be laid. I have much wood on hand, so the work should progress quickly. Later, J.O. came over to take away the cement mixer I gave him. After it gave up, I told him to take it away. It turns out that the machine had a relatively minor problem, but I don’t care: I don’t need another project at this point, and this one promises to be a source of constant frustration. For my future large-scale concrete needs, I’ll call the people who run the mixer trucks. They make house calls. I took a photo of one of the cat's paw prints in freshly poured concrete from the other day, and finished up, putting my tools away until tomorrow.