A State of Disrepair

I am not what one would consider to be a handy guy. I am not embarrassed to admit this by any means. My testosterone level does not increase when I go to Home Depot. I do not meet my friends at the local Ace Hardware to shoot the breeze like Tim Allen’s character on Home Improvement. A different definition of “Tool,” (as in “he’s such a…”) comes to mind when it comes to me fixing, replacing, building, or repairing most things. Sure, I’ve had my moments in the sun. However, these construction moments are not only few and far between, but an eclipse that lasts for an infinitely long periods usually follows. That’s what makes what happened yesterday a little different.
It is difficult to pinpoint when the seeds of my mechanical ineptitude began to take root. My maternal grandfather, who I believed as a very small child, possibly helped Noah erect his Ark, had his own workshop complete with machinery. You couldn’t call them just “tools” because of the sheer mass of these industrial strength behemoths. As a pretty good size teenager, I recall having to help load these monstrosities into the U-Haul when my grandparents moved to a retirement community. I was quite sure the thought of ever having children was rendered moot by the lifting of these cast iron and steel relics.
My grandparents had a two car garage in their home with a wall separating one unit from the other. The left side was for the car, the right was The Shop, where my grandfather puttered on projects great and small. Sometimes my grandmother would assign him to fix this, that, or the other thing. Sometimes he would build shit just because he could. He once fabricated a stereo system for his television set out of old portable radio speakers when his hearing started to go. They straddled either side of his La-Z-Boy Strat-O-Lounger. Now as far as I was concerned, his hearing started to go shortly after I was born. I never knew of a time when my grandfather did not keep the volume of the TV so high that the majority of his neighbors knew what he was watching even in the dead of winter.
He made his own ammunition for his collection of target pistols being the good card carrying NRA man and Son of the American Revolution that he was. He made refrigeration elements from scratch. He made cabinets, tables, recaned and reupholstered chairs. He owned his own lathe, drill press, table saw, etc. My grandmother would bellow “Weh-esss” summoning him from the upstairs of their neat bi-level home, just to ask him what he was doing. The standard response was always, “I’M WORKING IN THE SHOP!!” voicing his distain for being disturbed. I was often by his side as he unsuccessfully tried to expand my dexterous horizons. I recall how he painstakingly talked me through a head gasket replacement on my ’67 Mustang. I retained little. A tradesman I was not. However, at two very different times in my life did I work in a trade.
I worked as a laborer for three different masons in my younger years. I did every duty imaginable except lay brick and block, but carried plenty of both. I even got a job once to pour a patio for someone, and it turned out great. I just never had the inherent inclination to improve on my limited knowledge.
I pumped gas at a full service station, yet never utilized the lift and tools at my disposal to do work on my own vehicle after hours. I had different priorities, like drugs, sports, and a girlfriend, not necessarily in that order.
Later in life, at the tender age of forty-three, and sans one leg, I labored for a neighbor who did tile work on the side. Again, my sieve-like mind held nothing while my own home was in need of said tile work. I don’t know if any of these prospective tutors found my incompetence frustrating, but I know my father did.
My father was handy, and he learned more still from my grandfather. My Dad even suggested at one time learning a trade so I’d have something to fall back on in case my career plans were derailed. Since that train jumped the track before it ever left the station, there was nothing to fall back to.
My father-in-law found me to be apt pupil when I could fit it in. He was also very well versed in all aspects concerning anything that required use of his hands. When he asked for my assistance, I was either nowhere to be found, or my hands were in my pockets. He maintained his own boats, planes, and homes; both the summer house on Long Beach Island in New Jersey, and the year round abode in the suburb of Madison. When it came time for his daughter and I to move into our first home, he was the first to offer a hand to fix whatever needed fixing. The one time he asked for my help, I remaining sleeping after a long night of drinking and doing drugs. He clattered and banged while I snored. When we turned the basement of my teenage home into an efficiency apartment, he stepped to the proverbial plate and hit a refurbishment grand slam. This time I did my part, with our answer to Bob Vila guiding my hand while I put down new flooring, and paneled the walls. I could not duplicate one moment of what I’d accomplished so long ago. Gone those lessons were, like so much chalk erased from a blackboard. Since then, there have been several minor erection victories, none with penile implications.
I could always put together things at Christmas time without taking out my frustrations on the general public with an assault weapon. I’ve put together computer desks, computer chairs, and the maze of wiring necessary for most home electronics. Granted, when it came to the electronic stuff, I often needed my son to do it once or twice before I got it down. I erected a shed out back, the last surviving monolith from my drinking days. This was no small feat, believe you me.
Back in 1999, in dire need of additional storage since two new members were added to my new wife’s household, we went shopping for a shed. The pleasant young gentleman at Home Depot assured my wife and I that the model we were interested in, which stood before us in all its floor display glory, took two people four hours to complete. Our fears of a time consuming project beyond my elementary levels of assembly aptitude allayed, we made our purchase with our confidence in tact. The hulking massive box of vinyl had to be delivered. How the hell I was going to get it in the backyard was anybody’s guess. I’ve gone blank trying to remember exactly how it did make its way back there. I’m sure it’s some sort of a painful memory I’ve suppressed. Insert maniacal hearty laughter here.
I borrowed my neighbor’s cordless power drill, along with a couple of concrete penetrating drill bits. I bought my initial case of beer, and commenced my industrious project alone. The optimum word in that sentence is alone. The guy at Home Depot said “two people, four hours.” I just assumed one person eight hours. I assumed wrong. I measured each distance precisely. I used a square to make sure my corners were perfect. It was time to bore the holes to which I would anchor by screws, the frame of the shed to the concrete. After breaking two drill bits, wearing out another two, I made my first trip back to Home Depot for a few more. In ninety-five degree heat, I drank and drilled, and drank some more before my first day’s work was done. One-hundred and twelve holes had to be drilled into that god-forsaken concrete. Nothing more was done that day, just 112 holes. Exhausted, hot, sweaty, and smelly, I mentally prepared myself for day two.
I was unaware that global warming could occur over night. The directions, written in Sanskrit, were obviously some sadists attempt at humor. Yet I persevered. Most of my adult life I had endured the jibes centering on my incompetence when it came to things of this nature. I would show everyone, but first I needed another case of beer. That task complete, I trudged onward, frequently screaming profanities in what I’m sure my neighbors thought was some sort of practice for a weird X-rated operatic aria. Once the frame was in place, made all the more stout due to the copious amount of steel-like caulking I’d used, it was time to put up the walls. My structure now had form. Pleased at what I saw, I attached the doors. Much to my dismay, as well as drunken mind, I had neglected to compensate for the crown in the concrete that allowed for drainage run off. The goddamn doors were out of square. This unappealing revelation elicited two mental responses. One, I could just stick a small bit of C4 to the partially finished exterior and give up the ghost; or two, admit a minor setback which everyone could live with and resume my task. Sadly, reason prevailed and I chose the latter, a decision I would soon regret. I had had enough, darkness was falling on my little corner of the world, it probably wasn’t, I think I was just on the verge of passing out. Satisfied at the dissatisfaction that stood before me, I packed it in so as to fight another day. And fought I did.
After stopping at the local quickie mart for case three for day three, I had a daunting revelation that took the wind out of my sails on a day where there was no wind to be had due to the fucking horrendous heat. If the doors were out of sync, that must mean other things were out of sync. The first was the roof, and the second was the location which had nothing to do with my measurements and everything to do with my stupidity.
In order to put the roof panels in this fucking albatross, I needed a ladder. My wife forbade me from using a ladder due to my legless condition. If I fell, there was no one to dial “911” as I often instructed my son to do when I tackled other jobs that required some sort of physical labor. I would wait for my wife so I could complete my version of the Guggenheim. Once the last panel had been slipped, well, really more like pounded into place, I stood back to witness the splendor that only a construction deficient individual can feel. It has withstood four hurricanes, and suffered no ill effects while the surrounding homes lost roofs and sustained structural damage. It stands today, a legend to my lack of ability. I frequently point to it proudly when another project comes along I’m certain I can handle, many of which I couldn’t until yesterday.
After several unsuccessful attempts at replacing the inner workings of both our toilets, I decided it was time to move forward; that, and a faucet that had been dripping for two years, increased the speed of the flow. My wife and I had purchased two new faucets six and half years ago. Her son replaced one. But before he could replace the other he moved. Perhaps spurred on by the prospect of having to replace the other? I thought I’d surprise the little women and do it myself. I’d show her that I’m not the unhandiest of handymen.
The area in which I had to work was small. I am large. Think of Shaq in a Smart Car. I have little range of motion in my left knee to which is attached a prosthetic devise that makes doing anything laborious a huge fucking pain in the ass, but I would not complain. With the same grit and determination that kept me plodding forward ten long years ago, sans the beer, I was going to replace the faucet before my wife came home. Blew that deadline due to a part I neglected to install. Once that was replaced, I was done, with little outside help. We went to test my handiwork and no water was forthcoming. There was no blood curdling profanity laced tirade. I would ask my friend Cliff, who’s really fucking handy; he would know what ails my faucet. Low and behold it was dirt. I cleaned out the end thingy, and eureka! Paydirt! In deep need of affirmation I asked the all-knowing Cliff if aside from the dirt, was my installation correct. What he said was music to my ears even though it was only one note. “Perfect” he said. I told him to say it louder so my wife could hear. I really wanted him to go out on the front porch and announce it at the top of his lungs to the entire neighborhood, but I settled for just my wife. He did as instructed and I gloated. I’m really glad this kind of stuff only needs to be done once every ten years. I guess I’m just one of those people who keep tradesmen employed. Why upset the natural order of things if you don’t have to. Some people are born to do, I am one of those that’s born to pay to have them done.