365 Jobs: Weather Report

Friday, January 19, 1990

I'm mucking, disconnecting pipes around an old two-room cabin next to a creek whose water is rushing with recent rain.  After 50 years of settling into the forest floor, it's time to jack up the structure and pour a foundation. 

There's a quick wind.  Clouds scud overhead, framed in blue.  I like it that my job keeps me in touch with the weather.  Literally, in touch.  Today it sends icy prickles into my fingertips. 

Digging out a rusty pipe, I'm careful not to disturb a cheerful Castilleja — Indian Paintbrush — the last wild bloom of the old season.  Or is it the first bloom of the new?

Shutting off the water cock, I pause on hands and knees, peering closely.  From the funky earth, tiny sprouts of sorrel jut to the light — and here come swords of grass, fresh shoots of milkmaid and baby leaves of forget-me-not.  Excuse me but I'm thrilled.  Electrified.  The daily miracles of life on this planet.

At day's end I sit on the tailgate of my truck, pulling off boots. Overhead a vee of birds crosses pink wisps of cloud.  Children’s voices in the dusk beyond the trees.  A dog comes loping through the meadow weeds, tongue lolling, eyes bright, on the scent of something important.  For just a moment our gazes meet; souls touch.  Then he's off at a gallop.

We agree.  Work is hard.  Life is good.

365 Jobs: Honking for Janelle

Saturday, January 17, 2004

Eight miles from the highway via a twisting dirt road I arrive at a faux-stone McMansion.  It sits alone on the side of Langley Hill surrounded by oat grass and the occasional craggy oak.  Janelle, who has probably heard the approach of my truck for the last ten minutes, greets me as I step from the cab.

"You made it," she says.  "Not everyone does."

Janelle has gray hair in a braid down her back.  Near the brand new house is an old barn where I repair copper pipes that their handyman accidentally cut through.  Janelle and her husband Gary watch me work and chatter constantly at me, two sweet people, lonely.  Upon learning that I'm a published writer, Janelle pumps me with questions.  She seems starved for intellectual conversation.  Gary, meanwhile, asks about water quality.  He's a retired software executive, struck it rich in stock options.

In the fields are no cattle, no horses.  A couple of deer are grazing.

It strikes me as odd: they buy 40 acres, build their dream house, a view of sunsets, rolling hills of golden oats, the ocean nine miles away, the country life without livestock or crops — and they can't fix anything.  From their chatter it becomes clear that their neighbors frighten them.  On one side, a billionaire from Silicon Valley is setting off dynamite, blasting holes in the hillside for wine cellars.  On another side, an old rancher shoots any dog that enters his property.

From outside the house I can see a telescope on a tripod next to the vast glass window, facing the fields and ocean.  Their great view comes at a cost.  They're naked to the weather, exposed to an unrelenting uphill wind bringing fog and chill.  As I work, the air screams — literally howls — through cracks in the siding of the barn.

At one point Gary realizes that while he has been talking at me, his wife has wandered away.  "Where's Janelle?" he asks.

"I don't know."  I'm soldering pipes.

A few seconds later, I hear the honking of my truck.  Gary is leaning, reaching through the window, pressing the horn.  From deep in the canyon comes an echo, like a ghost truck.

Janelle appears.  "I'm here, dear.  I just went to the house for a moment."

Gary grasps her.  They walk into the howling barn, side by side, clutching hand to hand as I finish my work.

365 Jobs: Cranial Adjustments

Saturday, January 10, 1987

Caleb is an osteopath.  He says osteopaths have the same training as an MD, but I'm not so sure.  He's a friendly guy.  We have mutual friends and encounter each other from time to time.  He has two young boys who are like having two wild goats in the house.  My kids don't want anything to do with them.

About a year ago Caleb asked me to look at his bathtub.  One evening I dropped by after a particularly long day's work when I was too exhausted to be enthusiastic.  It's weird, but I have to sound enthusiastic about a plumbing job, or people won't hire me.  Maybe it isn't so for all plumbers, but it's true for me.  I need to instill confidence in my clients.  Anyway, Caleb gave the job to somebody else.

The somebody else couldn't have been too great, because now — it's 1987 — Caleb has called me for another job.  His two boys are somewhat calmer now, ages 3 and 5.  I install a new water heater, replacing 30 gallons with 50.  To comply with the building code, I put the new water heater on a stand, which necessitates some replumbing of the entry and exit pipes.  It turns into a full day job when Caleb adds some carpentry work: reversing doors, installing cabinet trim.

Sissy, Caleb's earth-goddess wife, waddles into the garage where I'm working.  With a smile she says, "Nice to see you again."  She's gorgeously, button-poppingly pregnant.

Joking, I gape at her belly and say, "Oh no.  Not again."

Sharply she says, "Well you have three!"  And she waddles out.

Sensitive subject, I guess.  Or my usual poor delivery.

Caleb follows me around for much of the day asking questions, watching, learning how I do it.  He tells me he bought a new Mac computer, just like me.  He got together with a group of 23 homeopathic practitioners and ordered 23 Macs, shopping for the best group rate, and paid less than I did.  There's a homeopathic program that runs on the Mac.

Try as I might, I can't make myself believe in homeopathy.  And now here's this guy who looks like a nice young Jewish doctor practicing wacko medicine.  Osteo makes sense to me, but homeopathy sounds like a con game. 

Unlike so many alternative providers who claim to cure everything from acne to cancer, Caleb is modest.  "I usually get good results," he says.  "I don't think I've ever hurt anybody."

Caleb does cranial adjustments, especially with infants.  In other words, he squeezes the baby's skull between his hands, reshaping it.  "It takes a leap of faith by the parents," he says.  "There's no scientific proof.  Just good results most of the time.  Here — look at this."  Caleb shows me two photos of an infant.  "Before and after," he says.

In the first photo the child looks tense and anxious.  "Your basic colicky baby.  Crying for two solid months.  The mom was going crazy."

In the second photo, the child looks relaxed, smiling.  "Five minutes after the first cranial."  Then Caleb laughs.  "It proves nothing.  But the mom was sure happy.  Tell me: after you install a water heater, has it ever blown up?"

"Not yet."

"Have you ever left a job worse than before you started?"

"Not lately."

He pretends to wipe sweat from his brow.  "I'm reassured."

Apparently he's forgotten, so I tell him: "You gave a cranial to my youngest.  Three years ago."

"At my office?"

"No, at my house.  You were visiting next door, and we got to talking, and you came over and gave my son a cranial."

"Uh oh."  Caleb frowns.  "Did I charge you for it?"

"No."

"Good.  Boy, was I green!"  He pauses, thinking.  "Why'd you let me do it?"

"I honestly don't know.  You must've seemed confident."

"That's an act.  For the placebo effect."

"Yeah.  Sometimes I do that, too."

"Placebo plumbing!  And that works on the pipes?"

"That, and a little solder."

"So now, how's your son doing?"

"He's great.  A happy kid."

Caleb sighs.  "I lucked out."

"Have you done cranials on your own boys?"

"Of course."  He laughs.  "That's what keeps me humble."

365 Jobs: I'm Still Here

The year has ended, but the blog continues. 


I posted 262 "jobs" in 2011, so to fulfill the promise of the title I'll aim for 103 more.  And maybe I'll go on beyond that.  I'm not number-driven, so I'll go as long as I feel I can maintain the quality.


A few of last year's posts were stinkers.  I'll be culling a few and revising a few more (I'm always revising, anyway). 


Mostly I'm proud of what I've written.  For the record, here are some of my favorites from the first three months:


January:
Frantic Woman
Marmalade
Chateau No-hub Reserve 1994


February:
Hugging Bill Ash
Screwdriver, Melted
Breaking Waves
Do You Believe in Miracles?
Dewey


March:
The Gorilla Method
House to House
El Niño
Grampa, Rainbow, Porch Lamp
Woodpeckers

365 Jobs: Bag Lady of the Suburbs

December, 1987

I'm working on a man's shower.  I go out to my truck for a tool and find a crazy lady peering over the tailgate into the bed.  My first thought is that she's looking to steal something but all I say is: "Hello.  You need something?"

She jerks back and says, "I live in the house next door up the hill."  She's old.  She has red scars on her arms like they'd been shot full of holes.  "This is my dog."

A scruffy mutt is dropping a pine cone at my feet.  He looks up at me expectantly, wagging his tail. 

The lady, too, looks at me expectantly.  "He wants you to throw it for him," she says.

So I do.  Again and again.  While I'm playing throw-and-fetch with the dog, she says, "I could use a handyman to fix a drain plunger.  And a screw came out of the vacuum cleaner.  The furnace doesn't make any heat.  The dishwasher caught on fire and I had to pull the plug.  I could make a whole list of things."

"Uh huh," I say.  From inside the house I see the homeowner glaring at us.  I'm charging by the hour to fix his shower, so I'll have to adjust for the time spent out here.

The woman is speaking: "I’ve been reading the instruction manual about how to drive my car.  I haven’t driven it in four years but I have to go to the dentist tomorrow because my tooth fell out.”  She sticks a finger in her mouth and makes her cheek bulge where the molar is missing.  “Did you think it only happens to children?  Happy Hanukkah, huh?  I like your shirt.  Now that I’ve sold the property across the street finally I’ve got the money to fix things up.  I only need you for an hour.”

I say, "What you've got sounds like it will take many hours.  Several days."

Suddenly she’s angry.  She draws herself up straight and says, “Listen, buster, it will take less than an hour because I say so.  I’m the boss.  Get it?” 

Back inside the house, the man says, "I see you met Nelda.  You wouldn't know it, but she could probably buy half of San Jose.  She owns six houses on this road.  For God's sake, don't work for her."

"I can't work for her.  She already fired me."

"Lucky you."

Back home when I'm unloading the truck, I realize I'm missing a toilet auger.  It had been sitting in the bed.

After a flash of anger, I feel sad for Nelda.  Is she really going to ream her own toilets?  She's a lonely lady with an old dog.  If she were poor, I'd help her for free; but she's loaded and she stole my tool — a rusty, smelly, ten dollar tool.  She's a bag lady without the bag, with property.  How do you help somebody like that?

Flossing the Deck

Today's job is cleaning out the cracks between the boards of my deck.  Since I have about a thousand square feet of decking with a dozen giant redwood trees dropping duff all over, flossing is a big task.  For 30 years I've done it on my knees with a screwdriver or a putty knife or by running my power saw with an old blade.

This year, I googled "flossing the deck" and found this wonderful tool.  

Deckhand tool

I called up the guy who invented it, placed an order (he'll talk your ear off), and I'm pleased to report that the Deckhand tool is worth every penny of the $35 I paid for it ($25 plus shipping).  It works fast and handles well.  It saves your knees.  What used to be a multi-day job I can now do in a few hours.  Fantastic!

Flossing the deck

And hey — Santa!  If you're stumped for a holiday gift for the somebody-who-has-everything, I bet your somebody doesn't have a deck flossing tool. 

(I paid for the tool.  I get nothing for endorsing it here.)

365 Jobs: Murder of a Client

Friday, September 23, 1988

Isabella my favorite decorator calls and says, "I've got a strange one for you.  He's an alcoholic.  He's wealthy but you never know when he'll drive off a cliff.  Get your money before you leave.  Are you game?"

It's a new-looking community behind a security gate in Cupertino.  The units are conventional, what you get when you build tract houses with a dose of quality.  Large garages, no trees.  Sterile.

Bob is an old man.  He smokes, shuffles around, and mumbles "God damn it" a lot.  He's white.  His girlfriend Lisa is fresh, young — looks about half his age.  She's black.  She says she's studying for the Law Boards.  On the wall she's framed her undergraduate degree: Princeton, 1979.

Lisa Hopewell, Princeton Class of 1979

Lisa lives here with her two kittens — and Bob.

The white kitten, Lisa tells me, has just been declawed so he mustn't leave the house.  Without claws, he's defenseless. 

"And the other?" I ask, indicating the black kitten.

"That little pussy has claws," Lisa says.  "She can take care of herself."

Okay, this is weird.  And none of my business. 

I remove a valence and install one of those multi-globe lights over the bathroom sink.  I'm good at this.  I work fast.  Unfortunately, the faster I work, the less I can charge for labor — just the minimum service call.  I use these small jobs as loss leaders because they often lead to bigger jobs later on.

Every time I go out to my truck for a tool or supplies, the black kitten climbs in.  Mewing, purring, curling up and beseeching me with kitten eyes, she's either very friendly or desperate to escape.

When I finish, Bob is gone.  Lisa inspects the work and says, "Hey.  You're good."

"Good" in this case means you can't tell I've ever been there.  She writes a check and follows me out to the truck.  I roll down the window, hand her the black kitten who has nestled into a cup holder, and I drive straight to the bank as Isabella instructed.

At the bank, they tell me the checking account has closed.

I call Lisa.  She apologizes profusely.  I return.  She pays me cash.  She seems like a spacehead.  Maybe she's stoned.  Anyway, an hour wasted.

Tuesday, October 4, 1988

Isabella sends me back for more work behind the security gate in Cupertino.  Another woman is working there, hanging wallpaper.  I'm installing wall sconces and an overhead track light.

While we're working, Bob and Lisa get into a shouting battle.  After cussing each other out, Bob yells, "You're a junkie!"

Lisa says, “That’s right.  I’m addicted to your love.  If you don’t quit, you’re going to die of cirrhosis of the liver.”

Bob: “I don’t drink that much.” 

Lisa: “You’re an alcoholic!  You quit AA, you quit every treatment program...” 

“Junkie.” 

“I haven’t had a joint in so long...”

The wallpaper lady finishes up quickly and somewhat sloppily.  Outside she tells me, "I'll never go back there.  Ever!"

I should probably feel the same.  These people are out of control.  But when I finish, as Lisa watches Bob writing me a check, a calculating look comes over her face.  "Could you replace these downlights?" she asks, indicating the living room ceiling.  "Is that all right with you, Bob?"

"God damn it," Bob says.

Apparently that means yes.  Lisa and I make arrangements for me to come back.  I give an outrageously high estimate — I'm not interested unless the money's good.  She accepts.

I don't know what Lisa's game is with the lights.  The robotic tone of her voice as she told Bob "I'm addicted to your love" sounded as if she were reading a line — badly.

Tuesday, October 18, 1988

Lisa is home when I arrive; Bob is out.  Good.  It's easier to work when they're apart. 

Everything goes well, working fast, but the blankety-blank electric supplier short-counted me and I have to drive to San Jose and back to pick up another can for the downlights, wasting an hour on a hot afternoon.  When I return, unfortunately, Bob is there.  He and Lisa commence fighting.   

She taunts him: "In eight days you're going to jail.  You got a string of DUI's.  They caught you driving with a suspended license.  You ready for jail?  They're gonna fuck your butt."

Bob throws a bowl of soup at her.  He’s shaky. 

In the kitchen is a placard: 

It is better to have loved and lost. 
Much better. 

I get paid and immediately drive to the bank and cash the check.  I never want to see them again.  Good money doesn't justify shit karma. 

January 10, 1991

Isabella calls and says, "Remember Lisa Hopewell?  She was murdered.  Isn't that awful?"

Immediately I ask, "Was it Bob?"

Apparently it wasn't.  At least he was never mentioned as a suspect, though Lisa was described as a "caretaker" of his "upscale condo" in Cupertino, and she was killed in that condo, and the killing had sexual overtones.  (The condo is not the same place as the house where I worked for them two years before.)

It's a gruesome story.  Lisa's hands had been tied behind her back.  Her face was bound with duct tape.  She died of suffocation and from knife slashes to her throat and vaginal area.

And then the wrong man was convicted of the crime.

Fingerprints on the duct tape led police to Rahsson Bowers, a drug dealer.  Bowers originally blamed "two white guys" for the murder, then changed his story when detectives suggested the name of Rick Walker, a former boyfriend of Lisa Hopewell.

On the stand, Bowers claimed that after smoking crack cocaine, Walker had forced him to wrap Lisa's face with duct tape.  Bowers described Lisa repeatedly gulping as she died. 

Bowers cried on the witness stand.  The jury was visibly moved.  One juror had to ask for a tissue.

Rasshon Bowers was found guilty of second degree murder.  Rick Walker was convicted of first degree murder.  

Bowers had lied.  He'd made a secret plea deal with John Schon, the Santa Clara County prosecutor.  Another witness, an ex-girlfriend of Rick Walker, also gave false testimony against Walker (after being coached by Schon) in secret exchange for lenient treatment of a drug charge.

In June 2003, after 12 years of hard time in San Quentin and Pelican Bay, Rick Walker was freed on the basis of DNA evidence, the result of dogged work by attorney Alison Tucher, the only hero in this sordid tale. 

From every house, there runs a sewer.

(Information about Lisa's murder comes from SFGate.com, from the San Jose Mercury News, and from the Princeton Alumni Weekly.)