June 1984, September 1986
On the phone he'd said, "This will be a delicate job."
Gordon
greeted me in his driveway, where he had been standing, waiting,
wearing a pinstripe suit. Immediately he ushered me into the house
where a coldly furious woman sat at a table. "This is my wife, soon to
be my ex," Gordon said. "She has the list. Do whatever she says."
Then he departed.
It was a large house in Los Altos Hills, a
pricey suburb. There they'd raised six children, of whom the youngest
two were still in college. Gordon's soon-to-be-ex sat at the table with
a pen and a pad of paper. She wrote down my every action — for later
haggling in Divorce Court, I imagine. To her credit, she offered me a
glass of milk and a cup of decaf coffee. I accepted both. I
scrupulously avoided conversation. I had the distinct impression that
anything I said could and would be used against me — or more likely,
against Gordon, who had hired me and was paying the bill and who, I
admit, had my complete sympathy. For all I knew, she might be a lovely
woman, but fury is ugly.
I repaired walls, doors, floors — the
innocent damage inflicted by six growing children over a thirty year
span. It took three days, and the soon-to-be-ex monitored my every
moment.
Later, Gordon called me to settle the bill and to say, "I
want to thank you for entering a tough situation and doing a good job.
And for being who you are."
Two years later — September, 1986 —
he hired me again. He had a townhouse to remodel. He seemed many years
older. He had glaucoma and a limp. He still wore a pinstripe suit.
He explained his job to me: “When someone threatens to sue IBM, I’m
supposed to talk them out of it.” The bitter, hate-filled divorce had
left him sad, not angry.
A disassembled player piano was spread over the floor of his garage. Gordon asked me to reassemble. It would need some new parts, which would be costly, but of
course he'd pay for them. "I bought it for my midlife crisis," he
said. "I needed something beautiful and fun."
To be a
showpiece it would need more than new parts. Gouges, water stains,
cigar burns marked the woodwork. This would be a monster of a project.
"I have no idea how to assemble a player piano. But for pay, I'll give
it a try."
"I'll start tracking down the parts," Gordon said.
As
I rewired the garage, Gordon chatted with me. He seemed to regard me
as some kind of parallel universe that he might have entered but had
chosen not to. He wanted to know about my adventures in the 1960s as a
war-protesting, pot-smoking, hitchhiking hippie. And the girls. Was
everybody really fucking everybody?
Well, no. I told him it
wasn't nearly as wild as he might imagine, that I'd had a steady
girlfriend who was now my wife, and that mostly in the Sixties I had
been work-studying my way through college as a dishwasher, fry cook,
school bus driver, and light bulb changer.
"I completely missed the Sixties," he said. "Back then, I was still trying to be president of IBM."
A
young woman showed up. Gordon introduced her as Miranda. She looked
as I would expect a daughter of Gordon to look, except instead of the
female equivalent of pinstripes, she was dressed as a college student
and had the body of a dancer, lithe, light on her feet. She had lift
as they say — a posture as if a skyhook were attached to her chest,
lifting her as she moved. Dark-haired, energetic, she was carrying an
armload of college textbooks including Introduction to Art History. I liked her immediately.
"Are you fixing the piano?" she asked.
"Maybe," I said. "It might be more than I can handle."
"Isn't it weird?" She laughed. "Like a jukebox from another century. He bought it for me."
Gordon
coughed. Recovering, he asked me to build a platform in his garage
where he could store some boxes and suitcases. "I know I should do it
myself," he said. He swept his hand in a circle, indicating the entire
townhouse. “I’m planning to stay here for the rest of my life and have
to accept the fact that I’ve reached the point where I have to pay for
certain services I used to take for granted.”
Miranda blushed. I hadn't thought Gordon was talking about that. But she blushed.
A couple months later, Gordon called me: "Remember that player piano?"
"Yes. Did you get the parts?"
"No. I want that thing out of my garage. You want it? Will you take it away?"
I
was tempted. Wouldn't it be cool to have a player piano in one's
living room? But I declined. Already I had three little kids at home,
beautiful and fun.
Now, though, twenty-five years later,
sometimes in daydreams I look back. The pleasure, the trophy I might
have had — impractical, lovely, ridiculous. The time, the money, the
hard work it would have taken, the space it would have occupied in my
house and in my life — the player piano is one of those things that got
away, like a woman to whom I might have said "Let's get together
sometime," and never did. Thank goodness.
Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part Twelve
Birthday, August 19, 2010
Disrespected by English Departments,
Yet pleasantly I putter at Plum Court Apartments.
I free a bath fan mucky with dust,
loosen a tub drain hobbled by rust,
sand smooth some plaster where it feels warty,
silence a chair squeak with WD40
while among computer cables running through hallways,
a cat chases a marble.
Play is play.
Always.
Back home, late, family gathers. As the honoree,
once rising young author
now turning sixty-three,
I blow out candles, cut cake slice by slice.
Unsung bard, good handyman,
I'm twenty-one thrice.
Note:
Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the on-call
handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental units —
or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story dwellings in
a subdivision of Sunnyvale, California. It's steady money. As a minor
league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize the experience in prose, but verse seems to work best. This is Part Twelve — and the end — of the series.
Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part Eleven
Ladder Work: One
Mrs. Robert T. Bunn
The proper lady, powdered,
introduces herself as
"Mrs. Robert T. Bunn"
so already it's going to be weird.
Eighteen feet up a ladder I unscrew
a floodlight when, how freaky,
it simply
EXPLODES.
I almost fall.
Glass shreds my arm
like I fought with a tomcat
in midair.
Blood trickles down chin and neck.
"Oh dear.
What have you done?"
says Mrs. Robert T. Bunn.
Ladder Work: Two
Sunnyvale, California
Climb a ladder to inspect
the roof and suddenly
above dreck and sprawl
here’s a crisp
clear day
in Autumn…
Surrounded by sunlight.
Cooled by sea air.
Thank you, warm star.
Much obliged, San Francisco Bay.
A ridge of golden mountain casts
long shadows
over busy rolling beads
of bullshit traffic.
I feel blessed…
Note:
Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the on-call
handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental units —
or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story dwellings in
a subdivision of Sunnyvale, California. It's steady money. As a minor
league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize the experience in
prose, but verse seems to work best. Most of the events took place in
the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is Part Eleven of a
series.
Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part Ten
An American Dream: Thursday, May 14, 1987
Replace another dishwasher. Hot day again.
Carrying out the old one I heave it up
to the dumpster — by myself —
and feel a POP
in my spine.
Why do I lift dishwashers?
Here's why:
Ice strapped to my back,
I squat stiffly with pangs
as I tuck in my five-year-old. He says,
“I don’t like to go to bed because sometimes I have dreams.”
“Everybody dreams," I say. "Every night.”
He: “Once I had a bad dream. It was called The American Dream.”
Me: “Oh really? What was it about?”
He: “It was at the beach. There
were all these bright color rocks.
When you look closely at them, you can see little aminals."
(That's what he calls them: aminals.)
"A big wave came.
It was so big, it followed us home.
It went up one side of a hill and down
the other side into another ocean.”
Me: “Why was that called The American Dream?”
He: “I don’t know. That’s what it said it was in the dream.”
I have a dream, many nights, which I don’t tell my son:
I’m walking naked down a crowded sidewalk.
Nobody notices. Nobody cares.
That’s the writer’s bad dream. It comes true.
We share love, myself and this boy.
That’s why I lift dishwashers.
We dream. Sometimes badly. But we dream.
Note:
Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the on-call
handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental units —
or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story dwellings in
a subdivision of Sunnyvale, California. It's steady money. As a minor
league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize the experience in
prose, but verse seems to work best. Most of the events took place in
the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is Part Ten of a series.
Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part Nine
Young Man
Young man clean-shaven
dressed for biz with a
go get 'em
suit and tie,
in a dark apartment
watches TV
at noon.
Why?
Young Woman
Steamy from the shower,
hair dripping,
her actual name, Cherie,
sweetly commands:
"Don't look at me."
Short robe, bare legs,
dimpled smile, so pert,
she waltzes
in bubble wrap,
where no one
gets hurt.
Note:
Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the on-call
handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental units —
or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story dwellings in
a subdivision of Sunnyvale, California. It's steady money. As a minor
league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize the experience in
prose, but verse seems to work best. Most of the events took place in
the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is Part Nine of a series.
Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part Eight
Quickie
I hear music from the upper floor.
Lickety-split I shut the door,
ring the bell. No response so I
let myself in again shouting my mission:
"Halloo! Handyman! I'll be in the kitchen!"
One must learn the rules, to be a handyman complete,
One respects tenant privacy.
One is discrete.
Loosening the faucet,
beneath the woolly bushing,
one slips an O ring,
gently pushing.
Next, one lubricates the threads with something smelly:
a dab of plumber's petroleum jelly.
Deep within the valve
where the leak is streaming,
one inserts the grinder
for a thorough reaming.
Let's not even mention,
(such things need no talk)
yielding with a sound like a squawk,
from the tube one squeezes
a fresh bead of caulk.
All the while with my repairs
I hear mellow music, murmurs,
human motion upstairs.
"All done! Goodbye!"
Too busy,
they make no reply.
Closing the door
the key needs a jiggle.
From the window above
the sound of
soft giggles.
Note: Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the on-call handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental units — or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story dwellings in a subdivision of Sunnyvale, California. It's steady money. As a minor league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize the experience in prose, but verse seems to work best. Most of the events took place in the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is Part Eight of a series.
Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part Seven
Bountiful Gifts
Back is cramping
sacrum misaligned
as in stabbing pain I replace
another garbage disposal while
the petulant blond babysitter
watches afternoon television.
She tells the toddler: "You can't come out
of the playpen until you stop crying."
She leans toward the screen, oblivious,
a loose blouse — nice, doubly nice —
we gaze, comrades, he and I.
The kid stops crying.
Sciatica, gone.
For a blessed moment
there is no suffering.
Note:
Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the
on-call handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental
units — or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story
dwellings in a subdivision of Sunnyvale, California. It's steady
money. As a minor league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize
the experience in prose, but verse seems to work best. Most of the
events took place in the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is
Part Seven of a series.
Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part Six
Somber Couple
Somber couple
speaking in whispers,
thick carpet with a
grand piano plus
hulking Hammond organ,
needlepoints on walls,
hushed, immaculate, church-like,
the kind of place where
I would not smile and
dare not fart.
I'm so wrong.
Later, working outside,
from within I hear rocking,
booming, booty-shaking
gospel.
No Choice: Sunday, July 3, Holiday Weekend
It's hot.
The whole world is at play.
Mostly I enjoy this gig but
must I work today?
Yes — no choice — to repair
leaks from a sink plus a loo that won't flush
for the young man
who follows me
with a toilet brush.
His wife watches,
freckled and frowning,
checking the to-do list
like deadly accounting.
He's puckered, mustached,
on his knees as he scrubs.
Must he clean after me
so soon and so much?
As if reading my mind,
he explains with a shrug:
"I'm sorry, you see, but
we're hopelessly Dutch."
Note:
Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the
on-call handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental
units — or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story
dwellings in a subdivision of Sunnyvale, California. It's steady
money. As a minor league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize
the experience in prose, but verse seems to work best. Most of the
events took place in the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is
Part Six of a series.
Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part Five
Sometimes a Hero
A man is lying on the sidewalk on his back.
Heart attack.
A crowd gathers.
He's breathing hard, staring up at the faces.
Nobody knows how to help.
You're just a kid, not a doctor.
You wish you knew what to do.
At the playground two teens start fighting with knives.
You're just a kid.
You hide behind a bench and watch.
Ripped T-shirt. A shriek. There's blood like spilled paint.
A cop could stop them.
You wish you knew how.
Years pass.
College degree.
You follow the money,
try to act like a grownup
but veer from the path.
Now you appear at Plum Court
where she's at the edge of panic: the pipe exploded
or the toilet backed up
or the garbage disposal makes a funny noise and smells like,
like garbage,
and you're the guy who knows how.
The little kid watches, squatting.
He wants to touch your tool belt.
You're the guy who knows what to do.
Note: Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the on-call handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental units — or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story dwellings in a subdivision of Sunnyvale, California. It's steady money. As a minor league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize the experience in prose, but verse seems to work best. Most of the events took place in the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is Part Five of a series.
Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part Four
Eviction
Tenants splash and float
in the pool. A baker of a day.
Sweat streams as I work.
The dude trashed the unit.
Holes in two doors.
A chair rammed through a wall.
Faucet ripped out, flooded.
Dishwasher disappeared.
The new occupant, a single woman,
Japanese, has a voice like music.
On a pedestal she spreads
an embroidered pillow
with ornamental blanket
on which she beds
her Princess telephone.
There will be no trouble here.
Note:
Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the
on-call handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental
units — or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story
dwellings in a subdivision of Sunnyvale, California. It's steady
money. As a minor league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize
the experience in prose, but verse seems to work best. Most of the
events took place in the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is
Part Four of a series.
Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part Three
New Tenants
Arabian girl
explosive hair
olive skin
pubescent
so thin
bare toes curling on the floor.
Father wants
a deadbolt lock
on her bedroom door.
Quietly she glares
eyes of dark jade.
He keeps both keys.
I do as paid.
Love Baby and Teen Boy
Last night a man kicked open her front door.
"Nothing like this has ever happened before,"
Manager Larry says with pursed lips.
The lady is cradling an ebony
infant in her arms.
"This one's my love baby
and he's all mine," she tells me.
"Love," she winks, "with a restraining order."
As I rebuild the splintered frame
a teen boy scowls in silence from across the room,
leg twitching, soul aflame.
Note:
Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the
on-call handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental
units — or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story
dwellings in a subdivision of Sunnyvale, California. It's steady
money. As a minor league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize
the experience in prose, but verse seems to work best. Most of the
events took place in the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is
Part Three of a series.
Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part Two
The Gal in Twenty
Manager Larry says, "The gal
in Twenty is crazy.
I hate her. She’s throwing a fit.”
"What should I do?"
"Humor her. Fix something.
It's the same old shit."
A towel rack is loose,
the shower head dribbles,
a door latch won't catch,
so many quibbles;
the vent fan rattles,
she can't switch on the light,
the phone has no tone.
She's entirely right.
Mucking
Mucking with a garbage
disposal as the young woman
applies make-up in her slip
— lush lips! —
ignoring me
while her roommate showers,
emerging damp-haired,
wrapped in a towel.
I exist as a handy
not as a man.
Note:
Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the
on-call handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental
units — or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story
dwellings in a subdivision of Sunnyvale, California. It's steady
money. As a minor league writer, I need that.
I tried to summarize
the experience in prose, but verse seems to work best. Most of the
events took place in the 1980s though a few are more recent. This is
Part Two of a series.
Don't Blame Me, I'm Just Here to Fix the Garbage Disposal: Part One
Plum Court
Plum Court Apartments is a clean sanctuary offering
asylum from all but a select part of the natural world.
There are no plums. Nor trees of any sort.
Upscale units surround a concrete courtyard
engirdling a blue swimming pool. Interiors
are furnished in plush style, most seating aimed
at a television.
Each unit has a tiny yard fenced in wrought iron.
All summer, near-naked multi-colored mothers
will be toasting in harsh sunlight while children splash
in the pool. Kneeling, white-shirted, straw-hatted,
an old man will be planting bright flowers
in the itty bitty gardens.
Tinkering with a faucet here, a light switch there,
I wander wide-eyed, a tourist with a tool belt.
Or the short version:
You might call me a failure;
I call it a sport.
Regardless, here I am:
Handyman, Plum Court.
Note:
Among my contracting jobs, for many years I've served as the
on-call handyman for a group of townhouse-style apartments — or rental
units — or whatever one should call an enclosed square of two-story
dwellings in a subdivision in Sunnyvale, California. It's
steady money. As a minor league writer, I need that.
I tried to
summarize the experience in prose, but verse seems to work best. Most
of the events took place in the 1980s though a few are more recent.
This is Part One of a series.
February 13, 1988
Scheduling
small jobs always involved a certain amount of guesswork — and
inevitably, downtime. With an hour between appointments you could often
find me at a public library shedding sawdust into my chair as I
scribbled furiously into the little notebook that was my journal. One
day I was doing exactly that at the Menlo Park Library while a man at a
nearby table was doing pretty much the same thing, minus the sawdust.
Then suddenly he started whispering…
Her Breasts
The white-haired doddering gentle old man
in the crushing silence of the public library
blinking through spectacles
writes with shaking hands
in a pocket notebook
unaware that he is muttering to himself:
"Her breasts! Her breasts!"
Eyes peer over books. Pencils pause,
except the old man's. Fingers
mark pages. We await,
expectant, puzzled. He has pulled a dusty volume
from the shelf of his memory
and still writing, whispers, hissing:
"Her breasts. . ."
I want to know: Was it in moonlight?
Hurried? Forbidden?
Dear woman, do you know that after half a century
not only your lover but a whole reading room
of men and women are sharing — are in awe of —
your stunning warmth:
"Her breasts! Her breasts!"
October 1983 to July 1985
Lila
Spear was a spry old woman living on the side of a hill in La Honda. I
liked her instantly. The ceiling of her bedroom was sagging, leaking
strings of dust from the attic onto the tufted coverlet of a double
bed. There was a single pillow, not in the center but off to one side.
When I quoted my price, she flinched, then accepted.
That flinch still haunts me.
She
had a bearing of pride mixed with resignation. The interior was
slightly spooky and had seen better days, but she kept it tidy. She
offered me drinks while I worked.
There was a shed-like garage
full of old lumber, which she said I could use. The lumber was silent
testament to the absent pillow — like a ghost. Every house needs
somebody to watch over it.
We'd chat, Lila and I, though I can't
remember what we talked about except that once she asked if my back was
hurting. "It always hurts," I said.
She nodded. "We just keep going," she said. "What else can we do?"
A
year or two later I got a call from a lawyer representing her estate.
Lila had passed away. Teenagers were breaking into the empty house and
holding beer parties. Would I go over and board up the windows?
"Of course," I said.
As it happened, I could do it right away. There was lumber in the shed.
Lila Spear
had a wavering voice,
when I met her,
and a house full of memories
needing repair.
February 4, 1986
I
worked an entire weekend, Saturday and Sunday, repairing a fence and
installing a gas pipe. As I toiled, a tree crew was taking down a
madrone.
My client had no fireplace. Score! I loaded about a cord of unsplit firewood into my truck and brought it home.
Nobody mentioned at the time that the trunk had been covered by poison oak. By Tuesday, though, it was obvious.
I have severe reactions.
I could try to write poetry that's uplifting, or inspirational, or philosophical. Mostly, though, I just try to be true:
Aargh!
Bumpy red rash
head to toe
and it itches, itches, itches.
I'll scratch 'til it bleeds,
cursing at sons
of bitches, bitches, bitches.
February 3, 1985
I Never See Them But
I feel them
scuttling
through my hair.
Are they really there?
Hundreds of
nits.
Out of my
wits!
Not nice.
Head lice.
In February 1985 my children were ages 8, 6, and 2. I wonder what inspired this poem…
February 1, 1986
Elegant lady
floats through McDonald's like a
swan in a bathtub.
Going
through my old journals, I'm reminded that I used to try to write at
least one poem every day. They served the same function as an
illustration — a sketch in the margin — nothing more, nothing less. I'd
jot them down on my lunch break. On February 1, 1986 this haiku
appeared. Not a bridal gown but she was wearing a white dress, white shoes with high heels. Untouchable poise…
A disassembled player piano was spread over the floor of his garage. Gordon asked me to reassemble. It would need some new parts, which would be costly, but of
course he'd pay for them. "I bought it for my midlife crisis," he
said. "I needed something beautiful and fun."