Just Wandering

The other evening a familiar couple walked into the Millwork Dept. of the Big Box where I now work to find me at the desk …..

“ Rich ! How are you? ….you helped us with our carpet and tile choices and they’ve been installed. Absolutely beautiful and we’d like to thank you very very much for all your help.”….. the handshake was strong and genuine as was the appreciative smile.

“I’m so very pleased you like it.” I replied as equally genuine

“So what are you doing here …just helping out?” The hand shaker asked.

“No, I work in Windows and Doors now…I’ve been transferred.”

“Really? Well that’s great. So you know all about doors and windows as well as flooring?”

“Well …no. No I don’t.”

“You don’t know much about doors and windows?”

“Nothing”

“Uhm….well, …. is there anyone here that does know anything about doors and windows?”

“Sure…he works in Appliances. Come on, I’ll introduce you to him.”

Another couple stood nearby and were interested in the conversation and so piped up with….

“You know, we were just out in the Garden Center looking for advice on planting schedules and no one could help us. Where might we find that kind of help?”

“ Well Sir, we have someone with a degree in landscape design and you might find him helpful…he works in the Plumbing Dept. Also we have someone with a degree in horticulture that would be glad to help….she works in the Flooring Dept.”

As a Blue Collar….that’s the world I live in now. And as a consumer….that’s the world you live in too.

 Every crew of bricklayers has one. The asshole that can barely be tolerated by boss or fellow blue collar alike. Loud , crass beyond the pale, and the one guy everyone is rooting for when the eventual and inevitable industrial accident occurs.

 Young Rene Jaques was not that man. Rene was the guy loved by all on the crew except for the loud and crass one who took great delight in needling young Rene incessantly. Now young Rene held some celebrity status as one particular Monday when he didn’t show for work we all got to see him on the Channel 9 Evening News. He’d taken his new girl friend trout fishing deep into the woods over the weekend and got them both lost. That’s how we got to witness them both getting off the rescue chopper after two days in the woods. Him smiling sheepishly at the news camera and her screaming over her fear of heights. The A- hole made endless sport of this.

 Part of Rene’s job description entailed keeping the masons stocked with ample bricks and mortar and he was very good at the task. That didn’t prevent the A- hole from riding him incessantly however. Every day at break time Rene would add water and soften up the mortar in order that it might still be usable after the mornings coffee break. One morning, his work station being next to the ladder, the A- hole was the first to descend the scaffold though not with out first loudly calling out to Rene…..

 “My mortar better be fresh when I get back ya little prick!”

 Within twenty minutes the mornings break was over and we all ascended the ladder to witness Rene’s description of a tub of fresh mortar. Permit me, if you will, to describe what we saw in mason speak.

 It laid there horizontally for all to witness across the top of the A- holes mortar. A huge log…. a very large finless Brown trout ….. an immense turd.

 Standing there face to face with the finless brown, trowel in hand the A-hole stared at Rene to inquire….

 “Just how in Gods name did you get that thing way up here without breaking it?”

   “It came up here in me Muther Pucker …and that’s as fresh as its ever gonna get.

Having lived most of my life far from loved ones those phone calls well past the middle of the night always bring on that queasy ball in the pit of the stomach feeling. It happened this week when the wife’s cell phone rang at 12:45 a.m. By the time I reached it’s living room location it had stopped and so I went back to bed. At 1:20 a.m. I was again awakened and this time more than fearful I made it to the phone quick smart only to be hung up on .

“Who the hell do we know in Massachusetts ?” …… I called out to the wife. So she grudgingly removed herself from bed and after yanking the phone from my grasp called the number displayed. Turned out that who answered was a young hard partying black man in Boston with no idea why he called the wife’s Florida number. In fact he became rather abusive that the wife would have the temerity to question him on this. She hung up and turned off the phone.

Next morning I was to start work at 5:45 a.m. meaning a very bleary eyed 4:30 a.m. wake up. By 4:45 a.m. I got to thinking …..

“That late night sonofabitch has got to be sound asleep right now.”

So I dialed the number and after numerous rings a very groggy and freshly awakened deep voice inquired of me….

“Who diss be ?….Who diss be?” …. and so I offered forth this knowledge…

“Diss be me Bitch….how do you like it ?”

Made the same phone call to the same groggy voice an hour later just for good measure ….and again 24 hours later…just for fun.

They had arrived from the same town in Texas each a week apart from each other and all ended up sharing a house. Tex, the leader, was just one poor sorry walking bag of woe ….

“Ah jest don’t unnerstand people up here Richie….tell em yer problems an they all laugh at ya.” …. and Tex’s problems were many.

Not used to hills and parking brakes Tex had gone to visit a girl he was seeing and while there she mentioned that she didn’t want to see him again. Crestfallen poor Tex left only to discover his pickup truck had rolled two blocks down hill before a telephone pole jumped out to suddenly stop it. She was serious about not seeing him again and so he was forced to find some other source of a phone to call a wrecker.

“Now what could be so funny about that ?” he wanted to know.

One Monday morning poor Tex arrived to work in desperate need of the blue Porta-Let and so set his tools on the back of a truck while he dashed inside. I guess poor Tex didn’t realize that when delivery trucks finish delivering…they leave. Never did see that bag of tools again.

“Now what could be so funny about that ?” he wanted to know

Well the pickup truck came back from the body shop looking good as new and Tex took great delight in driving it. I guess that’s why he drove it across the street to the sandwich shop directly across from the house. In the distance of only four car lengths …he got T-boned . After the wrecker came and left Tex , obviously still hungry, walked the rest of the way to the sandwich shop. That’s when he noticed his wallet was still hidden under the floor mat of the pickup. Still lacking any concept of humor poor Tex asked yet again….

“Now what could be so funny about that ?”

Kotex cut out owing two months back rent and Mex left behind a $600.00 phone bill to a “hot tamale” south of the border . Now …what could be so funny about that?……

It wasn’t happening to us….

And that’s what was so funny about that……

Africa Hot …..

Being a part timer at a local “big box” I increase my meager earnings by filling my days off cutting lawns for a lawn service or painting for a painting contractor. Both are outside work in the Florida sun and the humidity is intense. This makes it seem rather hot….Africa hot. Africa hot can piss you off if all isn’t going smooth and today was one of those Africa hot days not going smooth.

“You will be working with Carlitos tomorrow Richie. Take my vehicle and he’ll meet you at the paint store at 7 a.m.” said the boss the night prior.

“But Carlitos can’t read a watch boss…he’s always late. I wont wait.”

“Just call me if he’s not there.” said boss and so the next morning at 7:10 a.m. I called to say ….

“He ain’t here…I’m leaving.”

“Please Richie, let me call him….don’t leave until 7:30.” He begged .

At 7:35 Carlito’s hot girlfriend arrived to drop him off and he slowly sauntered out of the vehicle to walk round to the drivers side for a smooch and a little lovey dovey while I seethed. When he was finished and finally turned around he must have noticed…..I was gone .

By 9:45 the sun was intense and I was in a huff as I was painting a house alone and doing all the dreaded brush work . While standing on a six foot ladder with a four inch brush in one hand and a little bucket of paint in the other they arrived….wasps. Two in particular found the end of my nose of intense interest and I tried desperately to shoo them away with violent head shaking and bursts of sharp breath directed by the lower lip . One bastard stung the very end of my left nostril while the other entered that nostril to sink a stinger in the same spot though from the opposite direction.

Like a true Olympian the large four inch paint laden brush triple gainered itself into the gold with a perfect splat dead in the center of the concrete slab that houses the trash barrels and AC unit. With no other option of disguise available I painted the whole slab with a good thick coat while the nose had a heart beat of it’s own.

Just as I finished Carlitos arrived. He paid the taxi driver and then stormed right over my freshly painted slab to confront me with…..

“You are friggin cold dude….you are really friggin cold.”

And before I could inform him that I’m not friggin cold….I’m in fact really friggin hot….he had turned to strut off across the brick paved walk way.

Our efforts to remove his right boot prints from the pavers only made things worse and now I don’t know what to do. What I do know is my friggin nose really hurts……and Carlitos has learned to read a watch.

This whole scenario caused my humiliating arrival to a dinner invitation three hours late covered with dust, a small tear to a shirt sleeve, an imprint of a cage on my back and sporting a rooster gauno stain on top of my left shoe…..

“Don’t worry Ricardo …most guests haven’t arrived yet”….. so informed my amused host and he went on to elaborate a concept in time new to me….

“It’s only important that you arrive for dinner on the correct day….not that we all eat together in an hour. If time was important we would have asked you to be here on “English time”. Come meet everyone and have something to eat…. and put your watch in your pocket”.

I left that evening just prior to midnight as other guests were still arriving. The day had been long and tiresome … and wonderful. It left me armed with fresh advice on time and punctuality to take with me on future travels even though I still prefer to be punctual…… and of course the importance of checking out a Chiva’s tires before boarding.

Colombia proved itself to be a never ending learning experience for me. The very next day for instance. That’s when my wife’s Tia Marta showed me how to remove a chicken shit stain from the top of a shoe . And who can’t use a skill like that?

“Wait a minute….this stuff isn’t mine !”

Having just said this let’s now back track to the beginning of the story where upon entering the supermarket we did so at the same time as a gentleman who gave me….the fish eye. In someway unbeknownst to me I had obviously offended the man and it was soon apparent he definitely wanted his own back. Aisle after aisle each time I stopped to search or peruse a shelf he would immediately place his cart directly in my way and then walk away…..

“That guy is really hurting your balls” is what Mags whispered pleased with the opportunity to proudly show off her latest acquisition of American slang.

“That’s busting my balls Hon…busting.” I corrected.

Her meaning was spot on however and so I felt it imperative to teach the “ball hurter” a lesson. We began enjoying ourselves by discretely dropping expensive tidbits into his cart. By the time we’d reached the meat freezer I had tired of the game and so pushed his cart down the other end as I headed over to struggle with the beer selection.

I imagine he got the hint as he stayed away from us from there on out and we only caught sight of him again when we found ourselves two or three in line behind at the checkout. We were anxious to see the outcome and delighted that he appeared puzzled as he paid up and then stood watching quizzically as the bagger handled the last of his purchases. This is about when the poor lady in the next checkout lane proclaimed…

“Wait a minute….this stuff isn’t mine.”

As he began his departure with a heavy load he looked directly in my direction as I stood laughingly returning the fish eye.

“Guess he won‘t get to enjoy those tins of salmon after all will he ?” I asked the wife and was delighted with her response of…..

“Probably won’t enjoy those Tampons he bought either .”

  Built but five short years ago the building which houses the flooring department in which I now spend my work days has had to be repaired more than once. And once again it finds itself in need of more attention as just the other very early and very rainy morning I found myself face to face with yet another victim of the mindset of which I have just spoke.

  The gallon of water was spreading wide across the floor of my flooring department and directly above it was the bright yellow rain slicker from which it all had dripped. The hood and disbelieving blank stare I made eye contact with gave its occupant a rather gnome like appearance and before I could even query I heard….

  “I haven’t even been outside yet.”…..

  Tom from the neighboring shipping/receiving department blurted this remark out as I gave him the silent raised eyebrow question.

  “Then where the hell ya been Tom?” was my obvious response bringing the most unexpected answer of……

  “Standing at my computer desk.” he said.

  And so I went to witness myself the six foot wide cascade of water flowing from the twice fixed leaky roof down the concrete wall with the intensity and beauty of a calendar picture waterfall…..its ultimate destination being poor Toms computer.

   I do not believe the last two guys who fixed the roof are any more entitled to the title “tradesman” than the guys who originally installed the roof only five short years ago. But I do believe that if they were as good at doing what they do as our shipper/receiver is at what he does….then maybe he wouldn’t need to work inside with a raincoat.

  It was a genuine real deal Aboriginal boomerang and not one of those cheap touristy things . I was surprised by its size and weight and could well understand how it might knock a ninety pound kangaroo on its ass. My boss seemed quite knowledgeable and instructed me in great detail the art of throwing it properly.

  “Make sure the tip is in the center of the palm and don’t let it go too early…go on, give it a go.” he urged.

  “Are you kidding ?? this thing will drop out of the sky and kill someone.” We were after all looking down at cars and pedestrians eight stories below and I couldn‘t picture this going well.

  “She’ll come back Mate…no worries.” he said with confidence.

  And against commonsense I let it fly over that busy city thoroughfare to watch as it traveled with force loudly chopping its way through the city air. Suddenly at about forty yards it hooked up soaring high and left to arc its way back around to land back on our roof ten feet away.

  “Holy shit…that was great!! I gotta try it again!” and so two more efforts brought the same results and by now even the boss was enthused.

  “Ere…let me have a go.” he said taking the boomerang. Whoosh whoosh whoosh it sounded out as he let it fly with great force and it traveled even further than I could make it. But it never arced up high and it never hooked left….it simply bee lined it straight as a die to land irretrievably on a distant roof.

  I picture that eventually a workman like myself will find himself up there on that roof and wonder just as I had…. how the hell a boomerang came to rest on top of an eighth story roof.

 Consequently bored with People Magazine I lounged back in the chair and stuffed my hands in my jacket pockets in order to comfortably watch the show as I jingled the contents of those pockets in each hand. Ultimately Bossman and Berated Worker entered for yet another office search.

“I swear to God Boss….I put those Beamer keys right there on the counter…..right there.”…and as he whined it triggered an absent minded thought that caused me to realize exactly what I was doing. I was jingling a set of keys in each hand. The first extraction was none other than my familiar Ford keys and I’m sure we all realize by now what I  sheepishly produced from the other pocket as I rose to place back on the counter….some very unfamiliar BMW keys.

“Kids today don’t want to work, everything has got to be easy.” said Jack to me a few months back and I hear this frequently from many but Jack elaborates further….

“Damn teachers don’t get anything across…and look at what they get paid for Chrissake….. waste of my tax dollars.”

Jacks two sloth like teenage sons may well be a product of mediocre schooling but I have no first hand observations of this. What I can observe though is two teenaged young men who have as yet never experienced mowing a lawn, washing the family sedan or helping an elderly neighbor.

I recently ran into Jack and the boys again at the entrance to a local retail giant on what was obviously an important fund raiser.

“Wanna donate to the team?” one of them mumbled limply urging the deservedly light bucket in my direction.

“Not on your life son.” was my reply which naturally earned me the disgusted one sided mouth droop.

Jack and the teams coach lounged at the nearby table so I stopped for a short chat and ultimately irritate with some of my thoughts on this very topic.

“Ya know Jack….if the boys were selling a product or a service I’d be all over this. Frankly it doesn’t look like they’re doing so well begging, perhaps their teacher didn’t show em the right way”

Jack is really pissed at me now and sincerely I’m sorry he is …..and to the two boys……

Sorry guys… I’m saving all my money for Girl Scout Cookies

  The young owner of the 9 mm pistol then proudly turned to my wife to exclaim,

“ If that was a real man…he’d be thinking twice about coming at me.”

  And that may well have been true, but truer still was that by this time the wife had loaded her snub nose .38 special and calmly sent one single round down range to create a .38 of an inch hole directly in the center of the silhouettes forehead,

  “He doesn’t think at all.” …..is what my wife informed the young man who at this point had decided he’d had enough and went home only to be replaced by two gents happy to try out their brand new Colt .45 pistols. Again it was a series of endless rapid fires with the tightest group shot no smaller than a basketball as the wife slowly plinked away with her .38 special.

  “Care to try a “real” pistol little lady ?” asked the buffoon as he proudly offered his new Colt .45 to my wife. And so     Maggie took the pistol and though her tiny fingers could barely reach around the grips she managed to methodically put the pistols seven round capacity into a two inch knot dead in the center of the target…..

 “I don’t like it…it’s too powerful for me.” she informed the owner as he was handed back his pride and joy.

  Kind of a shame really that the wife has no interest in the shooting sports because I’m betting she’d be really good at it……

“ Wow Harry ….that is way cool….thanks !”

They both just about drooled in gratitude.

And so a few days later Harry returned the magazines to the two devout fans who couldn’t wait to open the center of their magazines to read what was written in beautiful cursive writing across those magnificent breasts…… it said,

“All the best, with love,   Harry”

One of the last times I saw Harry was when the visiting owner of the masonry construction company for whom we worked climbed up the scaffold  in order to remark….

“Harry…I noticed you waited right up to the 7 O’clock starting time before heading over to the “can” to take a “frap.” ….which brought Harrys’ response….

“Boss man….at my age….nothing starts till 7 O’clock.”

I will always miss men like Harry … it’s likely I’ll never share a work day in the sun with their ilk again…..and it’s unlikely I’ll ever forget those days I did.

cya Harry

  “If I kill my headlights I can see the headlights coming from the sides and I’ll know I should stop” …the drivers will explain.

  This explanation was told me more than once and I’ll have to concede the concept holds some merit. The idea would in reality be brilliant I guess but for one ignored and simple fact. That fact being that “everyone” there believes this concept holds merit …..and turn off their headlights at intersections.

  And when fatigued with this Roadside Russian Roulette… Please…. make sure to check the tires of the bus before boarding….

Now I’ll tell ya….I have memories that can just plain put me to sleep. I also have memories that can keep me awake through half the night and that night found me tossing and turning with little chance of ready sleep. Deep into the night I flipped the pillow yet again to slam my head angrily back upon it when the pain bit sharp and deep into my ear.

The cause of the pain turned out to be a sharp three sided religious medallion bearing the image of Mother Mary holding Baby Jesus. My Grandmother, being devout, would place such items in places like her pillowcase to protect her in her sleep…..and somehow I believe it would have protected me in mine that night ……. if my ear didn’t hurt so much.

  “Just a little bugger” said the husband and he continued on with

  “Won’t let little uns like that stop us enjoying a swim in this beautiful ocean will we darling?” ….his wife didn’t seem quite as confident.

  And so as my little shark thrashed about at their lobster red sunburned feet I offered this observation.

 “That little baby shark……has a Mother”

  I then returned the little shark to the sea and added ……

“And a Father”

 And the man’s missus definitely seemed less confident than he

And so she should….

 We as children would roam the neighborhoods on the look out for those that might be late risers as their Gold Tops on the door steps were given enough time to separate and we would gently peel back the foil to suck those two inches of cream from the top before someone came to bring them inside. The natural flavor was incredible and I’m not so convinced that all that pure cream I indulged as a child did me much harm……

 We waited our turn at the cash register behind a mother of two sub teenagers both of whom weighed more than I . Their cart of processed frozen delectable’s also possessed three boxes of Fruit Loops and two one gallon jugs of that watery though healthy 1% excuse for milk and it occurred to me that in all likely hood neither of these young boys would ever possess the energy required to roam a neighborhood and suck the cream from beneath the Gold Tops…..

 bar·ba·rism (bär b-r z m) n. 1. An act, trait, or custom characterized by ignorance or crudity. 2. a. The use of words, forms, or expressions considered incorrect … We need add no more….

 Being of similar mind and custom the act had passed me by unnoticed until the hostess cried foul and accused the host of nothing short of barbarism for his dinner table display. I have seen in my life during times long past acts of true barbarism and so would be dain to lump this singular act as one of the most horrific…but that’s me . Like many true barbaric things that happen in this world it was naught but a smokescreen to hide what was truly going on.

 Host had blithely reached across the table to snag a sweet potato and bare handedly snap it in half in order to leave half on the serving plate and before the other half reached the dinner plate the berating had started. That’s what barbarians must live with I thought as I sat there envying host….after all, I’d be copping the hard word in two languages had I performed a similar act….I figured he got off lighter than might I over a similar transgression .

 Across from me at the table sat another guest whom I envied even more than host as he sat paying no heed to all that occurred around him. Curly of Three Stooges fame would have asked….

 “Are you married or happy?”

 And it was obvious he was happy as he had perfected social barbarism to a fine and well practiced art. He simply squeezed the contents of his sweet potato skin onto his plate like the last dregs of the tooth paste tube and not a word spoken of it…

Butch….you do have it truly going on.

That’s what the stewardess informed Mickey who immediately responded with that very traditional Australian response…….

  “Get stuffed”

  And so as promised the stewardess brought the planes Captain down from the cockpit to insist that Mickey fasten his yet unfastened safety belt in order that he might safely guide his aircraft through take off.

  Mickey hit the poor unsuspecting Skipper so hard he went unconscious and calmly laid down and went to sleep in the aisle causing an incredibly long wait for the EMTs to arrive to help the skipper off the aircraft. It was a longer wait still for the police to remove Mickey from the seat that he had promptly seat belted himself into. None of this was even close to the time it took to locate a new Captain to pilot the flight to Adelaide.

  After the police hauled Mickey away I never did hear what happened to him and I truthfully hope I don’t have a similar story to tell of our friend when he heads back to N.Y. next week……

“ I see a rebirth….it’s definitely expressing the thoughts of something new on the way.”

That was what the ponce proclaimed to all of us in earshot to which his wife added ….

“ I see that as well….it’s extremely well thought out.

“ It’s much deeper than that ” said their friend and then continued on.

“The artist has captured something well beyond that….its not a “new” beginning at all but rather “the” beginning.”

What we were all looking at was a showing of various art that the South Australian government had paid unemployed artists for in order to stimulate motivational skills by then paying the art gallery to display them.

“You’re all wrong”      I said as I couldn’t help but chime in….

“It’s half a friggin Japanese flag painted on a square cardboard box“….. and further pointed out…..

“It’s no deeper nor better than second year grade school art class”

What I remarked I knew as fact as I remembered my fourth grade art class teacher ridiculing my efforts as a child that by far surpassed this crap. And so the group that obviously practiced so hard to appear so cultured quickly abandoned my company to pretend in front of others that they understood something else they considered art.

I was reminded of this box emblazoned with a bright red circle with three stripes emanating from its left side and the audacity to consider itself art by a rather unique descriptive of a certain beer that someone had emailed me today….I read of Sierra Nevada Torpedoes the prose…..

“ It’s rather empty…lacking complexity and is….rather hollow.”

I can’t explain how good it feels to be a mere American blue collar for as such I have never once had to experience the flavor of a “hollow” beer. Nor have I once suffered the fear I might have served a guest a beer that may have lacked complexity for in the world I choose to live beer is good to very good and this means I drink it on occasion….Or it’s OK and affordable which means I drink a lot of it on every occasion …or it’s piss and I never buy it.

And true to my blue collar roots…. Japanese flags are never art…..

This is a comment I’ve heard from fellow Americans a hundred times and the one and only thing about it that bothers me is the disappointment in the eye’s of my Colombian wife should she be near enough to hear it. She’ll be the first to admit that there are a couple of things our Hollywood image of her country that may in fact be so but she’ll quite correctly point out that our image of her wonderful point of origin is painted with a poor quality brush.

Some twenty odd years ago the brother of the husband of my wife’s sister came from Colombia to settle his family of wife and two children in our “hood” in Manchester N.H…..and make no mistake……it was a “hood”.

Poor Jairo came to this country from Colombia having never once in his life seen an act of violence or experiencing fear of any kind and was somewhat bewildered by the American attitude towards his homeland. One morning a few weeks into his new life in America he heard the bullhorn. The policeman that possessed it was using it to bellow towards the building Jairo occupied…..

“Vacate the building now !!….Occupants… vacate the building now!”

Having a total English vocabulary of Marlboro and Budweiser its somewhat surprising that Jairo had the presence of mind to grab his three year old son and race down the stairs from his third floor tenement where he made it to the second floor landing. This is where he encountered the man with a pistol who used it to entice Jairo and his child back up to their home on the third floor where he then enjoyed the experience of being held hostage for two hours climaxing with the shootout with the cops . So….how do we explain to Jairo our image of his country….?

I’ve heard the question a hundred times from Colombians…..

“ You lived on lower Lake Ave in Manchester? …You got some piedra duros Man”