Tom at Work
Mornings were best, before getting up, hours spent in and out of dreams—runs, pirouettes, long loping steps, floating jumps, hangs on the rim after dunks, sex scenes pain free… but with each transition, sleep to wake to sleep, pain increased until blocking further sleep, he had to get up. The process took two hours, more or less, less of late as Tom trained at getting up for work. He’d need to get up before ten for sure but did not as yet have a job. At first, he stayed up late and slept till noon most days but never slept deep, being in so much pain, or dreamed disturbing dreams and generally woke confused and angry. Since his friend Satori’s visit however and with the healing practices she taught him made regular, he slept better than ever and remembered his dreams. Now, every dream wrung from possible sleep and reviewed for significance, Tom tracked repeats and themes, even wrote down some dreams. That morning’s (a repeat) left him breathless, wide awake, sad but momentarily pain free.
The Panopticon dream, as he called it, usually started in Walgreens, aisles extending out in all directions from him. Shelves tilted so he can see everything from where he is—Pain Relief, Aisle 6. “Looking for a Panopticon,” he kept telling himself, unsure what that meant, figured he’ll know when he sees it, studies the scene with methodical sweeps, taking everything in, every sign and all the fine print. Nothing clicks, until he locks gaze with the girl of his dreams, in School Supplies, Aisle 3. Then… she’s standing right in front of him! They take each other’s hands, thinking—This is it! The One! He wants to hear what she says she sees or saw in him before their eyes met and since, what she was looking for or is, her hopes for him. But he can’t stop talking, saying, “What I love is that moment our eyes met and already I couldn’t wait to see you again. Your face lit up like when Wizard of Oz shifts to color?” She looks like Daisy…was that the girls name? Black hair, pigtails and a simple dress? Red shoes? Clicking heels? With the dog, Toto? He feels her fondle him and only realizes then—he has no pants on. It feels good in her hand, she kneels and… he watches everyone else in a convex mirror to make sure they can’t see. Necks craned, they try but no one seems satisfied. Needing to get out of there… he wakes, feeling drugged.
Today’s the day Tom will ask Max Mountain for a job, as Omaha Witherspoon, his good friend from college, now going by the name Satori, suggested, during her surprise visit and long stay tending him through the worst days of his herniated disc. Tom fell in love with her all over again. Had always been, he realized then, but never acted on it. She seemed a bridge too far and now it’s too late. Hoped and prayed and tried to believe, imagine ways it somehow could be, even practiced her manifestation techniques and quit smoking weed but she left without warning one day, just as she said she would, “I’m all here with you now, Tom. But one day, I’ll be gone, maybe even vanish and you won’t hear from me for a very long time, maybe ever. Hard to say. Thy will be done…” Sure enough, she vanished and he grieved and got over it and was only thinking about her then because, once ready to work again, she said he should ask Max Mountain for a job, thought they’d be a good fit and today was the day, he felt it.
The pace of convalescence agreed with Tom. In no hurry to wrench his body back into the daily grind, he devoted hours a day to health, restoration and medical marijuana, of various kinds. Did the practices Satori taught him and made definite progress. Hard labor would put at risk his recovery but he needed to move out of his mom’s house. Even his chiropractor chimed in, “You need to move out of your mom’s house, Tom and stand on your own two feet,” What an ass! Like he had any idea how Tom got where he was. But true… he needed to move. Max lived around the corner and worked close-in, for the most part, as Satori put it, “…under the table, mostly, with a network of unlicensed contractors, word of mouth guys, no nonsense get the job done types, who hate red tape,” she loved to talk like that, loved language, paid close attention to lingo and slang and what it was possible to say, adopted local speech patterns wherever she went, spoke to all ages in their own language, especially kids, savored ways to say it—seeming of a sudden to flush delight from a phrase, like birds from the bush in passing.
The idea appealed to Tom. He worked construction jobs growing up, built houses and barns, poured lots of concrete and could to some extent do most everything, caught on quick, knew how and when to fit in. Liked to work hard, alone, with a clear plan or, if he had to, as part of a high production team that kept chatter to a minimum. Tom liked to keep his mind on what he was doing, get in the zone. Pain in his back, far from gone… but it had to happen. Obvious strain on his mom and now Teri won’t shut up about helping out more than him. Tom got some money each month for his work with Justin the foster kid but that wasn’t going to get him his own place.
He leveraged himself to a seated position with a careful and well practiced series of moves. Already dressed, he was out of the house by sunup, albeit without coffee. Moving okay, thanks to a prep dose of ibuprofen at 4. Wondered who won the Blazer game? He fell asleep watching. Couldn’t remember who played… same game, different day. Marveled how close Max was and how little he ever saw of him, maybe twice, driving by? His house, a double lot in dense foliage, sat just around the corner on 19th, midway between Wygant and Going, across from Donna and Sam’s, part of the OnGoing Co-housing Community, some of whom Tom met in passing. ‘The Goat House’, next door to them and one of five in the community, had goats and chickens in the yard. Teri took the kids over there on occasion to potluck dinners and parties. Tom never went, preferred to be at home, without Teri and the kids.
Early spring, pink sky, first light, distant crows cawing, bone rattling anxiety in his mind, Tom, on the way to Max’s, shuddered as he passed a retaining wall tipped out over the topsy-turvy sidewalk, root heaved by big walnut trees growing in the strip between sidewalk and street. Recalled his attempt, some months ago on a walk, to cross that stretch and how the uneven surface set off spasms in his back. Supported at arms length on fingertips stretched to reach moss covered concrete, he struggled to stay upright and not collapse, catch his breath and relax, no idea how he’d get home feeling like that or ever move again. Then, like Christmas lights through the glint of tear filled eyes, he saw his old friend—Omaha Witherspoon, just down 19th, standing in The Goat House drive, washing out five gallon buckets with big rubber gloves and a long handled brush, staring back at him, equally amazed. Best friends in college, basketball players who bonded on the court in friendship Platonic…they hadn’t even talked in twenty-some years.
Right away Tom wanted more, a second chance at romance and thought she must as well, deep down. Why cancel everything else and tend him for weeks, living hand to mouth in his mom’s house? Probing conversations, laughter, jokes, guided meditation and yoga sessions, the tones of her voice still resonant throughout his nervous system. They shared a bed, cuddled, listened to each others dreams… everything but sex. She said she wasn’t attracted to men. Had that changed? Afraid to ask, Tom sat on the fence, feared a true confession of his amorous intents would offend and chase her away. That was the last thing he wanted. Her presence turned his living hell to a pleasant dream. Everyone loved her, even Teri. But… that’s what he’d done—confessed his love, tried to make her want him again… and she left. He had to move on, Omaha Witherspoon, was long gone, not coming back and Tom Brown? Where was he headed? He did not understand Satori. Maybe her life was always like that, “Creative improvisation,” was how she described it, “working with what shows up in the field and doing what’s next, what makes sense for now.” But they were so happy in the basement… and back then, on the courts, in college, hanging out and talking about everything so freely, not needing anything or anyone but each other for days on end. She was great with kids and Justin. His mom loved her… but it was never realistic, Tom knew, took a deep breath and said out-loud, “Move on back to now, Tom Brown. Move on back to now.”
Max lived at 4623 NE 19th, around the corner and halfway down the block from Tom’s mom, an old bungalow on a double lot, surrounded by high chain link fence, embedded in arborvitae hedge. The two story house posed a strange silhouette, shed dormers on either side pitched back to the ridge. Long angled eaves made it look like the house had wings. Tom hadn’t noticed the strange pitch before, never seen anything like it. Hedge so big, the house was near impossible to see from the street. A sliver could be seen through the gate gap and barely that, as the gate was half blocked by a low branch from an enormous redwood tree, which dominated the northeast corner of the property. No lights could be seen, Tom approached the house on a wide concrete walkway, cracked and root heaved, painted red once, as remaining flecks attest; four concrete steps up to the porch, tongue and groove floor, painted gray, peeling paint; an old love seat scratched to fluff by cats, no clear paths. Lots of stuff in piles and stacks. Doorbell missing, hole where one was once, wires sticking out. Tom knocked on a yellow metal security door and looked around while he waited. Stuff stacked all over, broken chairs, paint supplies. A sign hung to the left of the door—BEWARE OF OCCUPANT and next to it—OCCUPY YOURSELF! The outer light turned on. It was a black light bulb. The inner door opened and, “Can I help you?” A woman’s voice, young or old, he could not tell. Lighter outside, he could not see in.
“Uh, is Max home?” The security door pushed open, causing him to step back suddenly, trip over a drop cloth and bucket of caulk. He reached out and caught the mailbox to avoid a fall down the steps. A young woman emerged, apologized and helped him return to standing on a clear patch of porch. Long straight black hair, parted in the middle, framed her lily white face like a steeple. Horn rimmed glasses perched on a prominent nose. She dressed in like 19th century clothes—plain white blouse buttoned to the neck, wool vest, long black skirt and work boots, untied. Big dark shining eyes looked up at him.
“I’m so sorry. Are you okay? This porch is ridiculous. Max’s out back, I think, in his workshop or maybe he went for a walk. We go see? I take you. Yard’s a cluttered mess. Max’s stuff everywhere. I do not prefer it,” she took his hand and he flinched, “You’re hurt? From the fall? Just now?” Stopped and instinctively touched him.
“No. Awhile ago but I’m better,” Tom feared not being able to do physical labor again.
Her care seemed genuine, almost overbearing, eyes looking into his beyond where he thought they should go, just having met. She spoke to him like a mother, very direct but he liked it. Didn’t want to talk about his back though, “I will follow you,” he almost said—anywhere, felt so cared for and supported, right off the bat. She led him down the front steps, one hand on his back and the other at the ready, should he slip or require assistance.
Once on the grass, “You are hurt,” she said, as they made their way through piles of stuff to the back of the house and Max’s shop, “in your lower back, I can feel it,” she put her hand on the spot.
He stopped, and asked her, “Is it that obvious?” Grimaced and felt exposed by what he wanted to hide most. Nobody wants a guy with a bad back on the jobsite.
“Not to the average Joe but Max, yes… he’s a wizard. Ask for his help, don’t be afraid.”
She spoke of Max in reverent tones. Her father? Tom wondered. Satori said he had a daughter who sometimes lived with him… hard to tell how old she is. He didn’t ask. Doubted the wisdom, however, of informing someone you want a construction job from that you have a bad back, right off the bat, “I’m Isolt,” she shook his hand and held on, “Max is my uncle, mother’s brother. I’m staying with him. Just back from Israel… studying fault lines… not all it’s cracked up to be… Ha! You can laugh, that was a joke. Me papa got me onto a geologic survey team… boring! Anyway, I’m talking too much… taking a class at PSU now and seeing if I want to live here, in Portland, with Max maybe, go to school… I don’t know. I don’t like cities,” she said, while guiding Tom around stacks in the yard. Once at the shed, she let go his hand and punched in a combination. The lock clicked and she pulled open, with considerable effort, one of two big doors, each a 4x10 sheet of thick plywood, screwed to a welded metal frame, insulated with three inches of rigid foam and hung on heavy strap hinges, which looked homemade— cut with a torch out of thick steel. Big yellow painted arrows pointed to an inside latch handle Isolt held in one hand, gesturing with the other that Tom should come in. He could see, a little beyond her, the back of a massive man, bent over a table saw, ripping thin cherry strips—Tom could tell by the smell. Surprised he hadn’t heard the saw outside, as now it assaulted his ears with a high pitched whine. Maybe he just hadn’t noticed, distracted, as he was, by the escort at hand.
Tom’s heart surged at the thought. From nerves… he guessed, not wanting to admit attraction to this young (how old he had as yet not guessed) girl, “Name’s Tom Brown and I live around the corner,” he leaned over and said in her ear, as Max switched off the saw and turned towards them. Bigger than Tom and obviously strong, barrel-chested, legs like tree trunks, wearing cargo shorts, black fleece leggings underneath and a gray hoodie with TRIGGER ALERT! Hand stenciled on the front and Tom wondered if he was a fan of that band? His hair, medium length, streaked with gray, stuck out all over the place.
“Who’s this?” Pointing at Tom, he said to Isolt and looked angry.
“Max Mountain,” she said, “This is…”
“Tom Brown?” He cut her off, ungloved a hand and shook Tom’s, pulled out his earplugs.
“Yeah… have we met?” Tom said.
“No, but I thought… no, we haven’t. Our friend Satori texted me this morn’n, said I should give you her money and a job, because you’re a good guy with mad skills. Nice timing. Six months… better late than never. You set this up?”
“No… she did, uh… I mean, I haven’t heard from her but she told me, before she left, I should ask you for a job but not when. Don’t know anything about money. She texted you today?”
“How long she been gone? Wait! Nope!” He threw up his hands, “I don’t need to know. She’s a sly one. I owe her for work done, true enough! Got no truck with that,” he pulled a fat billfold from a back pocket of his cargo shorts, pulled out three hundreds and gave them to Tom,” little bonus there… and as for a job… what am I do’n here?” He held up the cherry strip he’d just cut.
Tom noticed Formica on the workbench of the same width, router set up with a bevel bit, “You’re cut’n strips to trim a countertop with, I’d guess, match the cabinets.”
“Bingo! You’re hired! You can do it… today? Work fast? And safe? Contact cement?”
“What? Trim a counter with cherry?”
“Yeah? Like, yesterday? This morning, at least? 47 feet of it. Like, now…” Isolt gave him a disapproving look, “Don’t have to be this minute, I mean, but pretty soon… today, before five. Finish ripping it, inch and a half wide, 17 degree bevel, sand smooth, spar varnish. Clean space is over there,” he pointed to a back corner of the shop, “fill the holes. Chalkboard has all the details,” he nodded towards it, above the main workbench.
Tom nodded, “Yeah, totally, no problem,” felt a surge of relief, appreciation for Max’s directness and Isolt’s patient and supportive presence, knew how to do this.
“Edge Formica’s still on in some spots. Need to take it off. Particle board sticks out like an eighth at least, tub-side vanity. Know how hard it is to trim that back flush and not damage the horizontal piece? Gonna find out, I guess, good luck. Hourly… so don’t rush. Don’t ever rush… how’s about $25 to start? Cash in, one week out? Can front you some, if you need. See how it goes? Satori says you got chops. She certainly does… did. Hard worker, that one. How you guys know… What?” He looked down at Isolt, who stepped between them and pulled on his sleeve.
“Slow down Max, take a breath. Offer him some coffee, ask about his back. It’s 6:30 yet.”
“Yeah, right… okay. Today, I’m in a hurry, Honey. Play’n the long game. His back? What? Fine. You want a cup a coffee, Tom? Tell me ‘bout your back?” Isolt smiled, shook her head at him, wandered into the shop and put away some things. Tom deflected the question, looked around and asked about what stuff was, what happened on the platform in back? Max started showing him stuff to do with the cabinet job so he’d know where things were… until Isolt leaned into and pushed them both outside with audible effort, saying, “I thought you were in a hurry, Max?” The place amazed and Tom couldn’t stop looking, walls and ceiling covered with different kinds and sizes of boards, nice boards but different kinds, and on the boards—hooks, and from hooks hung things, and things hung from other things, like nail guns, extension cords, rolls of tubing, various kinds of trowels, planes, hand saws, clear plastic drop cloth and braided chrome supply lines, all pinned to the wall with an ice pick; compression rings, electrical boxes of all types and vintage… in no apparent order. All different kinds of shelves and bins, tipped and out of square, overflowing with stuff. At the far end, a raised platform ran the width, separated off by some kind of accordion wall on wheels, made from ten foot pieces of one-inch plywood, hinged and hung from a ceiling mounted roller track. On the platform sat a giant wood stove, pile of logs, a big Indian drum and a couple of water bottles, nothing else but some towels. Walls and ceiling in that space covered with black Visqueen, tightly stretched and held in place by slotted lengths of heavy-duty shelf bracket, bronze. Tom still didn’t know what it was for or why kept clear, when everything else was so cluttered?
They had coffee standing in the kitchen, all the chairs taken by Max’s son Jason to the basement for band practice. Max gathered things as they talked and put them in his pockets—screw bits, knives, receipts, notebook and pens, a few snacks. There was stuff everywhere, all surfaces stacked, some neatly and some not so. He poured more coffee into a Mason jar and put on a lid with straw, set that inside a wool sock lined wire cage, which had a bike tire tube attached for a shoulder strap. Everywhere one looked in Max’s house strange arrangements stood out. Things made, supported, repaired or screened off, by a salvaged something. Double deep commercial sink on a frame of galvanized pipes with various shutoff valves installed and used for hanging towels and rags, drying plastic bags and mop heads. Table lamps made from heavy brass fittings and old fire hose. Pan handles replaced with bone, or copper tubing, cast iron skillets hung from a set of Allen wrenches, embedded in a redwood limb, which spanned the width of the kitchen.
“I gotta go ‘cross the river, change out a ‘lectric water heater to on-demand gas, get back before traffic… fat fuck’n chance. You can do this, right? Call me if you need?”
“Absolutely!” Tom nodded. All this was way better than he’d imagined! Start now? No problem!
“Yes!” Max pulled down a giant fist in celebratory gesture, “Perfect timing Tom. Not surprised with Satori involved,” Tom’s heart skipped a beat, “K, everything’s out there, on the board. House is 4723, red one, just down the block, just past big blue church. Back door should be open, go up the drive and around the side. There’s a key under a rock beneath the bench to the right of the door, if it’s locked. All the tools you need are here or on site. You can park in the drive, that’s fine. Isolt will open the shop or,” he addressed her, “tell him the combination. She’s great help if you need. You got a truck?” Tom nodded, “Good man! Don’t talk to… Bryana’s her name, with a y and one n, if you can help it. She’ll eat up all your time and tell you wrong things to do… changes her mind so much she can’t remember where she left off. I’ll text her you’re coming. Shouldn’t be home but sometimes at lunch she peeks in. Text me your number and Isolt, give him mine, please? Alright? I’ll check in later. Thanks, gotta run,” he handed Isolt some money, “Buy honey and creamer? If you shop. Love you!” He kissed her on the cheek. She stood on tiptoes to let him, pulled on his sleeve and nodded at Tom, “Thanks, Tom. I’ll check in later,” she then grabbed a canvas bag, put some napkins in, two sandwiches and a natural pudding cup with plastic spoon, a couple apples and bananas and clipped it to his backpack as Max patted himself down for billfold, phone, keys and looked around for whatever else he might need. She saw him to the door and stood watch, as he dumped stuff on a drop cloth, kicked off some caulk guns, bundled it up in his arms, trotted down the sidewalk, pinned it against his van with a hip, he unlocked the front, opened a side door, pivoted, threw it all in and slammed it shut, waved back to Isolt, got in and drove off texting.
Isolt shook her head, marveled at him, moved stuff so the mailman wouldn’t trip, closed the doors, went through the kitchen and continued out back to where Tom stood, anxious and needing the combination, “Sorry, he didn’t ask about your back,” she opened the door for him.
“No big. I need a job and got one, so far. Back ain’t go’n nowhere. Thanks for the help.”
“You welcome, Tom Brown…” he loved her eyes and the sound of his name in her mouth, how she laughed, so bright. Almost made him cry, “You don’t have to start this minute, Max said take your time. Come on in the house and have some breakfast? Finish your coffee, eh?”
How old are you? Tom wondered. He was hungry and wanted breakfast, wanted to stay close to her longer but needed to focus… looked at his phone, “Alright. You sure?” She seemed way older than she looked, so bright and wise.
“Yes. I haven’t eaten. Going to make porridge. You like porridge? He’s not always crazy rushed like that… well, is a lot more of late, working for Seamus.”
“ ’s all good. Yes, I’ll have porridge,” Tom would have liked anything with her but was anxious to start work, “I haven’t worked for awhile and I’m anxious about it now, you know? Make sure I get ‘er done?”
They both looked up at the shop’s tin roof, as a half dozen crows swooped in and sounded off, “All the more reason to eat first,” Isolt said, as if back to them, took his hand and returned to the kitchen, “Leftovers from Max… I’ll add to and heat up. He makes good stuff, uses coconut milk,” she pointed to a case of coconuts, sat atop a mini-freezer, “You want more coffee?” Poured him some and went to the basement to retrieve chairs, cleared space at the table, got him situated and set to making porridge. He looked around the kitchen and took deep breaths to relieve tension, from what had been, by any measure—a rousing success.
They had breakfast and laughed a lot, until it hurt for Tom. He excused himself at eight, as his back grew stiff and he feared not being able to do what he’d said he would, “Thanks for the porridge. I need to get at it. Hope our paths cross again. Thanks for the laughs. I needed that.”
“Yes. I’m sure… now you work for Max and we’re neighbors! Me too, I enjoyed it, very much as well,” she smiled and gave him a hug and kiss on the cheek, “I can help too, if you need.”
Their paths did cross again… at lunch and then she worked with him all afternoon. In fact, they saw each other every day for the next few months. Tom spent a lot of time in Max’s shop making trim for a job Max was on with Seamus Egan, a general contractor and potential source of steady employment for Tom. She took him to ecstatic dance his first time and introduced him to contact improvisation. Tom remembered Aunt Eleanor and how fondly she spoke of dance, hoped to see her there but hadn’t yet. They made love their third date in her bedroom and laughed so much Tom’s throat hurt, felt things he never thought possible, closer to someone than he’d ever been, relationship free of pretense to being other than it is. Isolt got him to ask Max for help. Max helped him with his back, had gone through it all himself, more than once, on different levels and in more ways than one. Tom wound up moving in to a room across from Isolt’s. Quit smoking marijuana on Max’s advice—that it would inhibit, not help, his healing process.
Isolt was twenty-nine, bright, beautiful, passionate, full of wonder and secure in herself, dedicated to health and positive communication. In love with life, her slow paced, un-American life and sobriety helped Tom in a vulnerable time. They traded massage and practiced healing techniques, read to each other at night before sleep. She told him stories about working farms overseas and her quasi-Jewish upbringing in New York City. Creative and a writer, she convinced him to write again, something he enjoyed once but hadn’t done since he met Cindy, who was less than interested. One day she asked for a poem of his. He gave her one he’d written, while living in his mom’s basement. She returned it a couple days later with the same words rearranged… blew Tom away.
Tom
not going to stretch my way out of this,
bracket the poem with prose comments.
at some point what’s felt you can’t forget;
midnight pass through spider webs.
there is no turning back on sum’s faucet,
output dwindles in half lives split.
why would who blame for this?
as above so below and when?
relative to who’s moving where…
what instead? what stands beyond
I am? the feel of the steering wheel?
its sticky decomposition? sweeping up
bits of carnage from the closet web…
Isolt
at a moving wheel
where carnage is the output
and I am relative.
cant my lives pass up?
sweeping into the closet
sums of what dwindles:
spider web, half stands
to forget what’s felt for you,
by way of bracket
[stretch on there, feel this]
blame webs who’s sticky bits split
beyond some stretch point
the composition:
prose above, poem below;
would not its comments
denote instead this
going out through the faucet?
with no turning back…
as who? from what? why?
of when?
so long midnight steering.
……………………
“How’s your back, Tom? You seem kinda bent,” Teri said, coming into the kitchen and contorting her body to mock how Tom sat, with a cup of coffee, hunched over The Oregonian across from Justin, who was watching something on his phone, drinking Red Bull and eating donuts. Sunday morning at Tom’s mom’s house¾Teri’s kids watching cartoons in the living room. Isolt went to ecstatic dance and Tom usually went with but didn’t feel like it this day, had a stiff neck. First time since they met, that given a choice, they’d gone different ways, “At least she got your mind off Satori,” Teri said, assuming Isolt’s absence the source of his slump. It had been a good while since she’d seen them apart and was generally jealous, “Did you have a fight? At least she got you over Satori—outa your league there Boss… still Tom it’s kinda gross,” she laughed, “I mean you’re like twenty years older… wait,” she paused, calculating, “No! More than that! A lot happens in twenty-some years, Gramps.”
“Stop Teri, please? Before your tiny brain overheats,” Tom said, without looking up.
“Stop it Tom,” their mother, emerged from a trip to flip laundry in the basement, “Teri, leave him be. Justin? You get your pants in the wash, Hun?”
“Yup,” he answered, not looking up.
“He doesn’t know,” Tom said, “Go check. And get the ball when you’re down there. And put your can in the recycling!”
“You should find a rich divorcee wants a handyman. Lots of women your own age Tom, need a good man. Not that you are one.”
“Like you’d know,” Tom took his cup to the sink, “How many is it now, quit on you?”
“Stop it you two,” Constance followed Justin back to the basement.
“None! I’m do’n fine, thanks!” Teri bumped against him and spilled her coffee, “Tom! You did that on purpose!” She said super loud so their mom would hear and was wiping it up with a sponge when Sally ran in screaming, “Mommy, mommy! Stevie changed what you said I could watch, took the remote and won’t give it baaaack!” She bawled as Teri picked her up, “It’s okay, Honey. Stop crying! Stevie!” She screamed, “Give it back now! I told her she could watch that and you have to ask! Don’t snatch things! Go get ready! You got a nine-thirty game! Jesus Christ!”
Justin came back with the ball, followed by Tom’s mom. Tom gave her a hug and said aloud as Teri passed, “Don’t blame yourself Mom, she takes after her dad. Let’s roll! J, you ready?” They were going to play hoop at Alberta Park with Max.
“Just pray you don’t knock up that hot little mess, big brother, ‘cuz you’re the one most like him!” Teri shot back, followed them with Sally on her hip, who was too big to be carried like that, peeled off and hounded Stevie upstairs, who was heading for the kitchen. Tom ushered Justin out the door.
Once outside, “Justin,” Tom motioned him to take off his headphones, “Listen, you need to step it up at the house, okay? When the toilet papers gone, recycle the cardboard and put a new one on. It’s not that hard. Follow through, complete things, take your dishes back to the kitchen sink, rinse and put them in the dishwasher. Gonna have to do it anywhere you live, get along with everyone. Don’t leave ‘em in the bathroom sink where we brush our teeth. I cleaned out the trap… laundry sink too wouldn’t drain. You can’t just dump stuff in there willy-nilly. It’s not a disposal.”
“Dude? I’m a only one ever puts on new tp, bruh and come’n out from behind? What? That’s some fucked up shit. Cain’t even find it. Nobody does that. Over the top, bruh.”
“That’s the way mom wants it. Look, come on, point is, you know what to do, so do it. It’s not like your schedule’s overloaded. Mom’s a neat freak. Toe the line Dude, I do. You can’t just leave shit around and not wash your dishes. Do your own laundry. Mom’s…
“Tow what line? Shit… you out the house, bruh. We chill. Hey, I’m a blaze on the way? You in?” Once past Alberta Street, busy with the Sunday brunch crowd, he looked around and walked backwards against a slight breeze, fished from his pocket a plastic tube marked ‘Medical’ and pulled out a tightly rolled dispensary joint.
“Where’d you get that? Don’t… wait!”
“Wait? Shit’s legal, bruh. Cel-ebrate good times, c’mon! ”
“Not for you it ain’t. You needa quit.”
Justin stopped walking, held out his hands, joint in one, lighter in the other, leaned forward for emphasis and said, “YOU needa quit! I just get’n stah-ted,” he lit up and took a few exaggerated puffs, like on a cigar, held it out to Tom, as his face disappeared in a cloud, “ ‘ere.”
Tom shook his head, felt guilty. He’d shared weed with Justin, often, after Satori left, why they bonded, no doubt. His mom would kill him. Justin on probation. At first Tom said no. But Justin smelled it and hounded him until Tom gave in. Missing Satori and disconnected from everything but the pain in his back, Tom enjoyed their camaraderie. But he worried, “I’m not the one on probation J, is why you needa quit. You wanna go to jail again? Drug test? Community service?”
“Ain’t never been t’ jail. Juvi ain’t jail, bruh. You wanna hit?” He held the joint towards Tom, still walking backwards in front of him, put it to his nose, “It’s da bomb, bruh. Green Crack!”
“No… whatever. It will be, after you turn 18. Sorry I turned you on before. That was wrong.”
Justin laughed, bent over half and shook his head, “Dude, I been hit’n it since I be walk’n. You did me a solid! I got yo back, bruh. You off da hook,” he shrugged, put his headphones on and smoked the whole joint as they walked, made no effort to be discreet. Tom dribbled between his legs, spun the ball on his finger, did circles round his waist, kept watch for police and resisted the urge to say anything further. Justin spouted an occasional line out loud, “Fuck that shit niggah, fuck that pain, yo’ body’s in a ditch inside this turnt up brain…”
At the park, even from a hundred yards away, Max stood out and dwarfed everyone else. Rare anymore that he played, since the seizure or what the doctors called a seizure, not really knowing, “Close encounter with the Invisible Hand,” was all Max said, when Isolt asked what he thought had happened? He gave a different answer to everyone. Even out of shape and overweight (as he claimed) Max dominated most games. Justin played on Max’s team and with more enthusiasm than Tom had ever seen. Tom knew they had met and Justin was impressed. Max the only adult person, except Tom’s mom, Justin talked about in positive terms. In between games, Justin asked Max to throw one down and Max complied, with a reverse one hander. This set off a flurry of attempts by other players at the main rim. Everyone who could, tried, except Tom, who knew better. Max contributed one more, a stout two-hander, had crazy endurance and strength at 56, reasonable spring but little enthusiasm for unnecessary physical risks, liked J however and wanted to honor his request.
Max kept the brakes on, often held the ball until Tom got back on defense. Tom still had pain down the back of his leg but knew how to live with or through it, as Satori taught him—how far he could push without doing damage. Playing ball at the park on weekends with J, Tom developed his old-man game, used tricks once used on him by older men to overcome physical superiority and youthful endurance. Max’s team always won. Tom guarded Max most games and came away even more impressed. Rock solid and never once short of breath, Tom asked him how he held back from going all out? “Make friends with losing,” was all he said.
When the games petered out, they sat awhile on the grass, telling Hoosier hardwood stories from times before class basketball came to Indiana and ruined everything. Justin seemed interested, kept his headphones off and didn’t look at his phone at all, until Max shifted to work talk, “I’m gonna get you on next week with Sonny Jim and Junior. It’s an Egan job but he’s outa town right now. They’ll fill you in. Egan needs people but he’s particular and suspicious, always thinks the Building Department is out to get him, doesn’t like to see unfamiliar faces and blows a gasket quick if someone just shows up unexpected. You’ll have to meet him at some point but it’s best if you get your feet wet first. Get a track record with Sonny Jim and Junior. They’re your best bet, get in good with them. They set the bar high as it goes. Take what they say with a grain of salt, though. You don’t strike me as gullible. They tell some stretchers but know a lot about how it all works. I wouldn’t take to repeating what they say… Justin? You see that Blazer game? You guys have cable over there these days?”
“Yeah, we got it, if’n you can get it away from the brats. You see that shit, bruh? Posterized fuck’n Aldridge! Posterized his ass! He the best ever! Could put up triple-doubles any night he want it, bruh. He get everyone involved. Westbrook MVP? That’s bullshit! Lebron!”
They walked home together talking ball, Tom a little behind, texting with Isolt, who wanted him to go to Silent Disco in Laurelhurst Park at 7, where everyone dances on grass with wireless headphones to the same disco set. Tom said yes, had been once, had fun, was happy it wasn’t Contra Dance, which she liked to do a lot and taught him steps in advance so he would like it too. But he didn’t. It was sad. He went sometimes and tried but something about the repetition and prescription of steps, who touches who and when… he couldn’t get into. Felt more at ease with ecstatic dance, anything goes improvisation, weaving in and out at random, feeling like anything could happen. Held out hope however, he’d get over it, because she really loved to Contra. Knew there was one that night and appreciated she chose silent disco instead.
Park packed, they had a great time and hung out with some of Isolt’s dancer friends, then played on swing-sets until well after dark, rode their bikes home and collapsed in her bed, bodies like magnets, perfectly poled, adjustments automatic. After every shift in position, they settled back into max contact and slept with ease. Even felt, at times, like they dreamed the same dreams.
Sonny Jim and Junior, who Tom went to work for, were building bathrooms (under the radar) inside a giant warehouse in Northwest Portland, next to Lumber Liquidators, just over the Fremont Bridge. They’d not met yet but Max suggested knowing them and their vouching for him would improve Tom’s chances at reliable employment within the Portland underground contractors network, aka—Egan Construction and related subsidiaries. Max was able to employ him some but not as many hours as Tom wanted and Max preferred working alone, if he could get away with it. The warehouse huge, they drove their trucks through roll up doors to a freight elevator and unloaded tools. Tom got his first taste of the Sonny Jim and Junior show.
“How’s your weekend, Junior?”
“Well Sonny, on Saturday I dropped the tranny from that…”
“Ugh, I don’t wanna hear ‘bout your private life, son!”
“Oh for cry sake, Sonny?” Junior made a face at Tom, “You know what I’m talk’n ‘bout,” as he grabbed two compressors, one in each hand, smirk on his lips.
“Transmission? Must be a Chevy,” Tom quipped.
“Ha, ha, ha… see Sonny? Fin’ly, another body’s mind but mine, ain’t in the gutter round here. A man of true reason, unlike yourself… and tall too, unlike yourself. Drives a Ford… maybe we’ll have some interest’n conversations for a change, from a loftier perspective than your general motors.”
“Found On Road, Dead,” s’all I got t’ say, Junior… all I got t’ say.”
And so it went, nonstop banter for months, on any subject, much of it nonsense, as they built bathrooms from scratch, in the middle of a warehouse so big, a rail line passed through it on one end, not presently active. Overhead, massive chain hoists, hung from huge fir beams, twenty some feet above the tracks, supported on giant pedestals of concrete, “Throwback to a better time,” Sonny Jim said, noting Tom’s awe at the sight as they passed it, his first time, “When men were men and hard work was respected.” The warehouse was a long term project, done on the super down-low, way under the table—a complete retrofit for an essential oil/personal care products facility, is all they knew. Would just magically appear one day, full functional. They could only speculate. All they got were plans which Seamus or Utter or Max would drop off and they’d do what was next on the list, between other jobs which popped up once a month it seemed and were deemed a higher priority, often to Sonny and Junior’s dismay, as they had to load everything up again and move it, even if within the warehouse itself. Like when the main line sprung a leak and water started bubbling up through the basement floor, “Who you gonna call?” Exclaimed Sonny Jim, when they discovered it, “Ego Construction!” Junior responded, “Our motto is—Just Do It Yourself!” If Seamus wasn’t around, of course.
They called him and sure enough, that’s what he said, so they rented a saw and cut a trench, a yard wide and some hundred feet long, thru six inches of rebar reinforced concrete, dug down to and replaced both the old galvanized and cast iron main lines with PEX and ABS plastic pipe, threw in some fiber optic cable, added numerous floor-drains and tees for water access, buried it and filled in the trench with concrete, special mixed to match the original from bags of cement and sand and pea gravel brought in on pallet jacks, one at a time in the back of Jonesy’s truck, unloaded and driven over by Junior on a forklift. Hundreds of 90 lbs. bags, Tom tore open, and poured into Sonny Jim’s electric mixer, ever mindful of his back. They rented a conveyor and fed them to him at the same level as the mouth of the mixer, so he didn’t have to lift them. It took them days to fill in the trench and all because Seamus and whoever he was working with, didn’t want any concrete trucks coming there.
Once the trench was filled in, Max came for a week, ground and polished the patch and refinished the floor until you could hardly tell they’d done anything. The warehouse filled with dust and toxic floor finish stink, even with a respirator. Everyone seemed hesitant to open windows, like some spell would break and expose them or inspectors slither in, following the scent of solvents. Finally Max rented a couple giant air purifiers and got the ancient warehouse ventilation system to work. Everything they did was on the down-low and without permits. They were told not to speak of where they worked; comings and goings kept at a minimum. They never went out for lunch. No talk of the job about town, brown paper on all the windows. Seamus stayed away, he was being tailed or tracked somehow by the Building Department. He did sneak in once but Tom was gone to Parr Lumber with Junior. They used a large unmarked panel truck for material runs that belonged to the owner of the building, they never met or saw. Feeling like an outlaw appealed to Tom, as did steady work at the same place and not carrying in tools everyday, which was mostly the case.
Tom’s life for the first time in a long time felt like a celebration, rather than an endurance test. Isolt, a big part of this, spawned pleasant dreams of long-term love and companionship. Tom realized those weeks spent in Max’s shop making trim were a gift—meeting Isolt, moving in, getting to know Max and his kids, love like he never had and work that interested him. It all happened so fast and then, with Sonny Jim and Junior, he was back in the grinder, forty-hour weeks of hard labor, his mind a blank slate, where the world scratched out its plan like trees without leaves on aluminum siding.
“Work’n hard or hardly work’n?” They’d say multiple times a day, “Beat it to fit, paint it to match!” Their litany of phrases ran, “Can’t see it from my house! Little putty, little paint, make a carpenter what he ain’t!” They’d sing out at the slightest provocation. Drive in a screw and miss? Holler at the top of your lungs, “Oh, oh! Nooobody home!” They loved to talk and Tom listened.
Known most for ‘get’n ‘er done’ right and on time and the particular way things had to be if you want their help on your jobsite. They would not work with people on top of them, had walked off the job before, because a space was not clear or properly prepared in advance or Seamus sent painters over before the cabinets went in, etc., “Git into a piss’n contest with a skunk? Wind up smell’n like one,” they both said, whenever conflicts with Egan came up.
Tom learned that Egan’s nickname was Shameless Ego, “But don’t never say it with him around,” Sonny Jim cautioned, “Or he’ll fire y’ on the spot. S’bin done,” he had lots of affairs, “Don’t never mention that neither,” often with someone close to the project¾lady of the house, architect, maid, interior-designer, “If it’s good look’n? He’ll make a run at it sooner or later, tell you what! Hell, she don’t even have to be good look’n!” They said that for years he’d park his Little Coachman at the jobsite, entertain ladies at night, “Mum’s the word but ever’one knows it,” Junior said, “Utter, his right hand man, only one gives him shit. He’s who you gotta stay on the good side of. He doles out the work. Seamus listens t’ him.”
Married to Catherine Egan for thirty-some years, “A freak’n miracle she puts up with him!” They had three kids, all in college or out on their own by then, “None of ‘em ever worked for him, by her command,” Sonny insisted. Catherine thought mixing family and business a bad idea and seemed to know what type of man he was. Herself, as Seamus called her, and the kids, were all some kind of outstanding¾students, athletes, dancers, lawyer. All good looking and known for their intense drive and dedication. Everyone expressed the utmost respect for Cat and the kids and generally attributed what’s good in the Egan family to her influence, “Whatever stand up stuff he does, is due her and want’n to stay bona fide in her eyes, I’d reckon,” Junior said. “You betcha! He know’s where ‘is bread’s buttered,” Sonny Jim added, “What agreement they got if any, I dunno. But when she’s mad at him? Things go to shit, lickety-split. Then’s when you see how much who runs things!” The Egan’s never entertained at home except for their annual Fourth of July party, “Ever’one goes, ‘s like wall to wall all day long,” Junior said, “Who’s who in Portland. Seamus knows ever’one and ever’one knows him. Even the Mayor comes. Building Department—not invited.”
These stories, so amazing, Tom thought he should write down or at least try and dust off his narrative skills—long atrophied. But he hadn’t… yet. Why scratch your head, struggle figuring out how to say it, when you can stare at beautiful Isolt and dream of the next time you’ll have sex? Or the last… or just lie around and relax your back, wait for her to come in and get dressed or undressed, “Tell me some work stories,” Isolt asked one night as they lounged about on her futon couch, “I like hearing you talk about work stuff. I’ll write it down, if you talk slow.” She had heard him say, “I should write this stuff down,” many times and thought she could help.
“You’re on!” Excited by the opportunity, Tom told the story he heard that morning from Sonny and Junior about how the feud with the Building Department got started, “Seamus Egan did electrical work on a big scale in Northern California in the late sixties, early seventies, wired up marijuana grow operations and the houses, warehouses, boats, luxury condos at the coast, etc., that growers owned. Made a ton of money under the table, built his house from scratch, knew how to do everything well and when he moved north, did not think he should have to jump thru hoops, spend years and a lot of money to get a license in Oregon, to do the same things he’d been doing for years and get paid less. So he didn’t… went underground instead and got all the work he wanted. After a few years, people at the Building Department knew something was up, a lot of work being done without permits but were clueless as to who. Seamus kept adding guys and getting bigger, bolder, doing more, all over town. He became a general contractor, retained bulldog lawyers, took on whatever work he could get to keep his people employed. Had an incredible knack for striking when the iron was hot, as they say, getting out ahead of curves, seeing and resolving problems before they occur, being the first to use new technologies.”
“What’s a general contractor?” Isolt interjected, “I hear Max say that, “I’m not going to be the general on this project!” Scrunch up his face and yell at the phone, talking to Seamus, I think, or that other guy,” she wrinkled her forehead, arms out, fists clenched, very mad Max-like, “Reminds me of my little brothers playing army, arguing about who gets to be the General. They always wanted to be the General Like, can there be only one General?”
Tom marveled at her beauty, reclined there on the bed, propped up with pillows, pen in hand, held at the ready, hung on his next word, so animated, “The GC runs the show, schedules everything and everyone, steps in and plugs gaps, orders stuff, picks it up, makes sure people get paid. Big headache. One thing after another, every day.”
“Sounds like it. Sorry, I interrupted. Go on with your story,” she readied to write, so cute.
Tom leaned over and kissed her, said, “I like you… a bunch,” she wrinkled her nose in a way made his heart jump. He leaned back and went on, “Seamus figured out ways to get around the Building Department. Half the rules they have now are because of him, they say. He’d have homeowners pull permits and claim they did the work themselves or sell the house to him or one of his guys, so they could do the same. Then he’d sell it back for the cost of the project. Egan Construction worked in bad areas where no one would go, not even inspectors, at first, took on projects no one else would. Very creative, Seamus did high quality work and got the job done, without leaving a mess or having cost overruns. Egan Construction did everything well and never turned down work if there was someone he knew who could do it to his satisfaction. Need a hole dug and ten tons of dirt hauled off? Overnight? House built inside a barn? Restoration of a famous landmark… He made things happen, on time. People would call him to expedite projects, circumvent restrictions or just because they liked (and/or slept with) him. He recruited those he thought worthy, had a keen eye for talent and did all he could to keep guys busy, provided they worked hard, were able and willing to learn new things on the fly. Everyone had to know how to do everything, eventually, if they stuck around. He owns anywhere from two to fifty houses, I’ve heard people say.
“Seamus always did stuff other people wouldn’t touch, for half as much, in cash or some equivalent. Even now, well known and in demand, he charges way less than top end contractors and insists, if asked, that the difference is unnecessary expense caused by Building Department bureaucracy. But of course… there’s no insurance, workmens comp or Social Security for anybody and everything hangs by a thread… but it’s proved to be a pretty durable thread. One day Bob Spinks, Electrical Inspector General at the Building Department, notices a spike in HP/CX forms being filed (Homeowner Permits/Contractor Exempt), finds a correlation with requests for retro-inspections of unpermitted work and decides he’s going to find out who’s doing it? Building booming and always busy, it takes awhile to zero in, but one afternoon, Spinks got an illegal work tip—NE 30th and Flanders, man moved meter with no permit…and decides to check it out himself, several previous calls having come to nothing, when he sent someone else. So he drove over, parked a half block away and watched through binoculars… sure enough, he saw violation after violation—no erosion control, no visible permits, improper safety equipment, electrical disconnect and temporary pole, down power lines.
“They were jacking up and moving an existing house to one side of the lot to create space for another. Spinks called the activity in on his car radio to double-check and, “No permits found…” the answer came back. Incensed anyone would even attempt something like that in broad daylight, no less. Spinks, thinking he has his man, gets out and approaches Seamus, identifies himself and asks to see building permits. Seamus ignores him at first and so does everyone else but he continues asking and says he’s going to call the police. Seamus knows who he is but just waves him off, like he’s a stray dog, “Go on get! Men are working here!” Spinks presses, asks for his name and orders the men to stop working, whence Seamus goes ballistic, physically confronts him and screams, “Show me a badge and a warrant or go fuck yourself! This is none a your damn business, fuckwad! Get off my property or I’ll throw your sorry ass off!
“Spinks digs in, won’t move, pushes back, says he’ll make it so Seamus never works in Multnomah County again. Seamus, infuriated, can’t help himself and presses his hand into Spinks’ face, as if to push those last words back into his mouth and makes contact. Startled by the violence of this gesture, Spinks staggers back, loses his balance and trips over a shovel, falls on his ass but jumps right back up, points a finger at Seamus and says, backing away, everybody laughing at him, “That’s assault! I’m calling the police! You are going to be arrested, my friend! Stay right there!” Marches back to his car and calls it in, doesn’t get anybody at first, on the radio, no cell phones then, remember. Meanwhile, Charlie Utterback, his right-hand man, barely able to stop Seamus from going after Spinks, convinces him to leave, escorts him to his car, holding one arm. But, once in the drivers seat, instead of going forward, Seamus puts it in reverse and backs up a whole block until he sits, in his rumbling metallic blue GTX, side by side with Spinks’ Building Department Chevette. Seamus signals he should roll down his window and when he does, Seamus flips him off, drops the clutch and burns rubber for half a block, kicks up so much gravel and dust that Spinks can’t get his plate number. Determined not to lose him, he starts his car and gives chase.
“They head east on Burnside into the country, used to be a lot closer then, around 120th, I think? Anyway, outskirts of Gresham, Seamus turns down a dirt road, thinking he knows where he is, will get Spinks lost and leave him behind. Turns out, it’s a long gravel drive with enough curves and a rise that blocks his sight lines, until it’s too late and he flies through an open gate, slams on his brakes and slides sideways into a big gravel lot, comes to a stop facing back towards the gate, inches from a monster 4-wheel drive truck. Two jacked up Novas and a black Trans Am are parked at the far end, in front of a doublewide trailer, one of two, side by side, both white. In front of the second, several motorcycles sit, Harley Davidsons. many more cars and trucks in pieces and parts, scattered about in a field beyond. Hearing Spinks coming down the drive, Seamus guns it, sprays the monster truck with gravel and passes him at the gate, going the other way. Enraged and driving like a maniac, Spinks slams on his brakes too late and loses control, spins and slides into a ditch just inside the automatic gate, which rolls closed behind him. Seamus, on the outside, stops, backs up and watches Spinks get out of the car then right back in, when three big guys in coveralls emerge from the first trailer and start running towards him, baseball bats in hand. Seamus left soon after that. Spinks never got his plate number and only years later did he find out Seamus’ name.”
“I don’t know how anyone knows what happens next but, as Sonny Jim tells it, they taunted and made fun of his car, put dents in the hood with their bats and finally pointed a gun at him until he agreed to get out. All the while he pretended to talk to police and describe the guys on his radio, which was way out of range. They broke off the antenna, then broke the windows when he wouldn’t open up, unlocked the door and dragged him out. Deaf to his claims of being a city official, he tried to show his ID badge but one of them took it, threw it on the ground and, allegedly, pissed on it and his shoes. They roughed him up and took all his cash (for damages to their ditch, they said) but eventually pulled his car out and let him go.
“Furious and humiliated, Spinks did not file a police report. He found a guy and paid a lot to get the car fixed on the down-low the next day, someone Seamus knew, who also knew the perpetrators, apparently, and to whom Spinks told his story. Several years later, Spinks became, head of the Building Department. First thing he did was declare war on unlicensed contractors and unpermitted work—both of which have grown more prominent ever since and operate more or less out in the open, much to his chagrin. And that, is the source of the ongoing feud between the Building Department and Egan Construction, as told to Tom Brown by Sonny Jim Taggart and Junior Samuels, who witnessed firsthand, the jacking house part, at least. Recorded by Isolt Ernst, this… whatever day it is.”
Isolt nodded, set the notebook aside, climbed upon and kissed Tom. They wrestled a little on her sheepskin rug until Tom sat on her too hard, “Stop it!” She scolded, “You’re hurting me!”
Her hypersensitivity irritated him, how she overreacted, in his opinion, to little things, “Come on. I don’t have any weight on you!”
“GET OFF! You big oaf!” She hit his leg, “Ever have menstrual cramps? Stupid man!” Tom rolled away, got up and sat on the bed, feeling very bad. She put a hand to her mouth as if she might vomit, the other on her stomach, stood and ran to the bathroom. Drama Queen… he thought, heard the door latch and her retch, plug flip, handles squeak and bathwater running. He reminded himself—she’s bleeding and doesn’t feel well, regretted saying what he did and vowed again to bite his tongue and be supportive, listened to the tonal shift as the tub filled, occasional sound of Isolt crying. Tom heard Max pull up, van and then front door slam, shook the whole house, “Hello Homeys! I’m ho-ome!” He sang out, then bounded up the steps as a steady stream of dropped things bounced back down. Cresting the top stair, he waved at Tom in passing, grumbled something, strode to and fell face first, spread-eagle on his bed. Boom! The whole house shook and things fell off Isolt’s knick-knack rack into the bath. Tom heard splash and clatter on the tile floor but no breakage. Isolt cursing, out of the bath and putting things back.
“Tom?” Max called out, voice muffled by pillows.
Tom moved to and listened a minute at the bathroom door. Isolt back in the tub. He knocked… barely knocked, didn’t really want a response and, when none came right away, moved on to Max’s room, leaned against the door frame, “What up Max? Rough day?”
“Ugh, kids!” Max turned just enough to be heard, “Jason didn’t pay the dentist with the money I gave him. Chloe’s boyfriend broke up with her by changing status on Fakebook. She found out at work and quit because of it. Somebody told her they saw his post and so embarrassed she drove until she ran out of gas, like way past The Dalles. Clarissa’s at work, so I had to go. She didn’t get triple A with the money I gave her! Neither of them want to come here. They’re supposed to be here now. They fight all the time and Clarissa blames me and says she never gets time to herself,” he rolled of a sudden over, swung his feet to the floor and, as if it took all his strength, unlaced and removed his boots, “And fuck’n Seamus took that job for the owner of the warehouse you guys are in? Wants to redo her master bath, add a big hot tub, tile all over, be artistic. I told him—don’t take it, he has enough to do. She’s a flake and I won’t do it. But Seamus likes her and begs me, sixty an hour, he says, so okay, I agree to do the rough-in, plumbing/electrical and nothing else, no tile, no tub install! And what am I doing? Fucking tile! Tub install, the whole nine yards. She’s impatient, controlling, wants a picture every five minutes. Okay, I’m exaggerating, a little, but it seems I’m texting her all day and Clarissa and the kids and running gas out to Chloe, Ugh! I’ll probably paint too! Why don’t you have kids Tom? Not that you’re past, you know? The statute of imitations… none of my business.”
“Ha, that’s funny… I don’t know, just didn’t. Didn’t want any with… uh, who I was with. My father was a shithead. Never thought I would…”
Isolt snuck up behind and slipped her arms around his waist, ducked under and addressed Max, “You gonna wind up in the living room, Boss, flop’n on your bed like that, one a these days. Stuff fell off into the tub. Nothing broke, a miracle! You need to lose some weight or add some spring.”
“Ugh!” Was all he said to her and bucked his head like she should get out, stayed on Tom, “You’re real good with Justin. Teens are the hardest. I bet you’d hold your own as a dad.”
“Justin’s easy. It’s be’n around Teri and her kids, what’s cured me of baby lust.”
This got out before Tom could stop and it hurt Isolt’s feelings. He meant it as a joke—baby lust not something he would say or ever really have in the first place. But it didn’t come out like that, came out like a disease he’d gotten over. Isolt’s body sagged against his. She pulled back her head, gave his upper back a weary pat and said, “I’m a finish my bath.”
“Okay,” Tom froze, pain in his chest, knew again what he shouldn’t have said.
Isolt closed and locked the door, turned on the fan so they wouldn’t hear, disrobed, slipped back into the bath, turned on the hot some more and sobbed. Knew now, without a doubt, this relationship was finished. Upset as much with her living space (again) contaminated by extracurricular interests (sex). Same thing happened last place she lived. Housemate relationships… she gravitated towards them. Liked to snuggle when she slept and hated having to pack a bag and sleep in unfamiliar beds, much preferred a live-in boyfriend, long as he had his own room. But nothing lasted long, a small difference or careless comment would stick in her craw and fester until some private resolve starts the slow but steady withdrawal. No one made the cut. Her fantasies were extreme—an exceptional man to father exceptional kids who will found with her a great family going forward. Great at what? She knew not yet, had reconciled with the odds against… but still it made her happy to contemplate this vision and believe in its ultimate success. She tried men on like clothes. Whatever the odds, one day she’d meet her match, man or woman (she was open to that) who wants what she wants and has drive sufficient to go the distance. Sex, a big part of the equation… Isolt liked sex, if she was in love and exploring the possibilities of a deeper connection, otherwise she didn’t have time for it. Tom loved sex and was the first to embrace and willingly engage with her in bondage. She liked older men who really love sex, or thought she did, hadn’t known that many of them. Tom doesn’t want kids… like a lighthouse kept flashing in her head. Isolt loved to be in love and worked hard at it but it never lasted. She liked living at Max’s but highly empathic, could not face another person’s sadness that close—across the hall. Tom would not take her withdrawal well. She loved him without a doubt but if things weren’t going her way… once the axis of fantasy shifted off family it was hard to get it back. This and more stirred about her head and heart in the bath. She felt her future reconfigure and love for Tom fade.
Isolt back in the bath, Tom told Max that he had started writing down Egan Construction stories he heard from Sonny Jim and Junior and wondered if he had any to tell? Max hated gossip but couldn’t avoid it, as everyone asked his advice about everything, “Isolt said Shell came over and told you about Seamus having an affair with somebody’s mom? Was afraid it would blow up?”
“Uh, no… but I got a story ‘bout Joe and another reason why I’m so tired today. He and I were suppose to… I mean like, Seamus made a deal for a million 2x12x16 PT, to go in that warehouse where you guys were? They got dropped off in Northwest, at a park’n lot owned by his friend Hank, with the understand’n they gotta be gone by 8, cuz some tour buss is park’n there. We gotta load ‘em onto Joe’s truck, you know the one? Monster Ram, diesel? Custom racks? Which, believe it or not, is why I’m involved, gotta be tall to get a board up there in the first place. Joe calls at like 7, I’m already on the way, says he doesn’t have his truck and could I pick him up at home and take him to it? I figure he went out, got drunk, couldn’t drive, left his truck… situation normal—all fucked up. He’s not that far away, so I go get him. Truck’s on Broadway near The Schnitz. Hilarious, it’s so big. Thought I was gonna have to give him a boost, alcohol on his breath, hangover, can barely see straight, talks the whole time. Once at the place, already run’n behind but still I have to ask, “What’s up Joe? You okay? Bender last night or what?”
“Fuck yeah!” He says, pat’n his pockets for a lighter, finds one, second time around, looks like he’s not quite arrived, “Went to Tull last night, at The Schnitz,” he says, “Tiff came down after work. She drove us home. That’s why my truck…” gets pissed he can’t get his cigarette lit, opens a door and uses it to break the wind.
“Jethro Tull?” Don’t know how I know this, “That one guy or a band?” I ask, deadpan.
“A band,” he says and laughs, realizes the old joke, “Friends we ain’t seen in like fuck’n forever, called and want us to go to this concert at The Schnitz. We ain’t seen ‘em in like, I dunno, a year? Tiff suggests we buy drinks beforehand, cuz they got the tickets. Fair enough… so we go to The Heathman. You know where that is?” I nod and we get to loading boards. He goes on, “There a couple hours… bill comes to like two-hundred dollars.”
I’m like, “Two-hundred dollars? You drank that much?
“Expensive drinks man,” he says, rubbing first finger and thumb together, “not that much really… for me. I’m fine,” takes a deep breath, pats his chest and coughs, “Classic! Better to burn out than it is to rust… wait, is that Tull? Did he do that one? I don’t remember. Anyway, we had appetizers, they ordered, cost almost as much… Tiffany put it on the business card, writes it off. We walked to the Schnitz. Went through the VIP line, with our ‘Personal Escort’—her badge said, met us out front, had huge tits. We sat, first fuck’n row! Jesus! I look at the ticket—$300!”
“$300?” I exclaim as we stagger over uneven asphalt, pitched by root cracks, carrying sixteen foot 2x12’s, “Jesus, that’s a week’s pay for me. Was it good?”
“Didn’t need a be in the front fuck’n row, tell you what! Good? I dunno. Guy’s like ancient! Thought he was gonna tip over once, dropped something… guitar pick, I think and got like stuck, didn’t know if he’s gonna get back up.”
“He’s old? Look in the mirror, bro!” I told him.
“I ain’t that old! Dude couldn’t be do’n this. That’s for sure! We’d be carry’n his ass! Not for rock stars, this shit. The End.” Eyes closed, Max said no more, started to snore. Tom turned off his light and closed the door.
Things with Isolt cooled a bit in the wake of this—their first flicker of conflict. But bounced back after a busy week, several nights apart and her realization that hormones probably prompted the rather hasty decision to give up on Tom. She got very sad when she bled and tended to blame whomever she was sleeping with for not being pregnant, even if she didn’t want to be yet. Tom apologized at breakfast the morning after and assured her he was undecided on kids, only said what he did because it is not something he would ever say… tried to explain how that worked. Isolt, yet in the downward spiral of her discontent, wasn’t interested and asked for silence.
Sometimes Tom said things just because it seemed possible, given the circumstances. The demand that what he said, should constitute a commitment or represent some essential aspect of his character, at anytime thereafter, always caught him off guard. This probably started with his dad. As a kid, Tom would occasionally say strange, out of context things, try a new word or phrase, sometimes in attempts to get attention or change the subject. His father mostly ignored these non-sequiturs, until… together in Huntsman’s, their local sporting goods store, Tom 13, shopping for the only pair of sneakers he would get all year. One week on the market and they were already out of his size in Converse leather. Tom had tried every day to get him there, because he feared this would happen and knew his dad would insist Tom get what they have in stock because he’s not coming again.
“I don’t know? Everybody wears 11’s, I guess,” the salesman, Brian Bowerman said in response, to Tom’s father asking how they ran out so soon? Unconcerned, Brian shrugged and looked away to some clamor, elsewhere in the store. A much celebrated local athlete, Brian lived on Tom’s street, starred in multiple sports, “We have 11’s in Chuck Taylors, I think?” He said, to no one in particular, still looking away, knew Tom didn’t want them but he was obligated to say. Brian got Tom into games at Wabash College, where his father was a coach. Brian vouched for him being good enough, regularly taught him new moves and ways to get around bigger guys, introduced him to varsity players. Tom idolized Brian and Tom’s father didn’t like it, wanted him to idolize successful men, who made a lot of money in business or finance. He thought Brian reckless and ‘too familiar’—a bad apple, who made the front page for getting thrown out of basketball games and starting brawls. Once, in the McDonald’s parking lot, he taunted players from a rival school, by blowing straw wrappers at them, until a fight broke out. During the melee someone took a picture of him landing a punch to the face of the same kid he’d been photographed punching in a game the previous season. The Journal Review put both photos on the front page and set off a huge debate in town, as to whether or not they were glorifying violence. A hero to local kids, many adults felt intimidated by Brian’s recklessness and indifference to authority, even though they loved watching him play.
Tom’s father pushed hard for Chuck Taylors, “They’ve been fine until now. What’s changed?”
“They’re like Blister City, man,” Tom said, groping about for something to say.
“What does that mean?” His father had zero patience for what he didn’t understand.
Brian leaned in, uncomfortably close, put the back of his hand to the side of his mouth, winked at Tom and to his father said, in a strange voice, “They ain’t cool. He don’t like ‘em.”
Tom felt exposed and ‘saw red’, as his mom used to say. That was about the worst thing Brian could do around Tom’s dad, who hated it when people talked strange or weren’t themselves. It was true, however, Chuck Taylors were very uncool and Tom hated them. But this was about performance! Tom was good and every good player he knew had leather shoes, Nikes or Converse. Brian had multiple pairs, the first in town to get them, when they came out. Tom had seen his closet. Even some younger kids had them. It was embarrassing, one needed leather shoes to be taken seriously and not get made fun of. But Tom knew his father would only see him being governed by the opinions of others and an opportunity to preach.
Brian sprinted off through the store, hurdling benches and chairs, as was his wont, to see if they might have a pair of 11’s tucked away in back somewhere, even though he knew they didn’t. Best give skittish customers a little private time to decide, the boss always said, who shouted, “Walk Brian, walk! This isn’t track practice!” as he streaked by. Everyone in the store laughed except Tom’s dad who, the moment Brian left, scooted close to Tom on the bench and grabbed his upper arm in a vice like grip so tight, Tom’s fingers went numb and he almost wept, “Don’t you ever do that again!” He hissed, “Speak how we both understand or keep your mouth shut. You will not be a smartass! Hear? You’re not him! Get up, we’re going!” He lifted Tom by the arm from the bench and said out loud as they left, “You don’t deserve new shoes after that display!” Tom did all he could not to cry, as Brian came back with a Converse shoebox, size 11.
A week later, his dad out of town, Tom’s mom took him back and bought them with her own money. Told him to keep them out of sight.