I'm building a deck. Not only that, I'm painting the exterior of the house.
Actually, I'M not doing any of this. There are perfectly capable people to tackle such endeavors, and I'M in the business of hiring them to ply their trade.
Sounds like normal domestic undertakings in a town of homebodies, eh? Pick out the colors, tell 'em where the deck goes, then make a beeline to the golf course before it gets dark. Right?
Decking is (Oedipus) complex
Wrong.
Let's start with the deck. A chap who could be the conspiratorial, abandoned child of Bob Vila and Margaret Thatcher shows up for Stage 1 of deck building.
I'm not certain if I should offer him a beer, interview him for the National Observer, or get an autograph.
"Where's it goin?" he mutters.
I point to the backyard, figuring I'm inching dangerously close to piling in the car and heading out to Oak Knoll Golf Course. I'm overlap gripping.
"What about this flood wall?"
I'm thinking this is a test. Why would I have a flood wall? How could I have a flood wall and not know? Do I live in Holland?
He's pointing to a 2-foot cement slab that runs along the rose bed.
"Oh, that flood wall," I respond without changing breathing rhythm.
"You'll have to notch it."
I nod knowingly. Heck, I know all about notching. I've discussed notching possibilities with environmentalists, and notching impossibilities with County Commissioner Ric Holt, regarding the Elk Creek Dam. I'm hip.
Then we get to the shape. At the deckbuilder's suggestion, I circumscribe the layout with a garden hose. I look like Oedipus killing a snake.
He grunts approvingly, then whips out a tape measure of such use-and-abuse it could double as cyclone fencing.
"Split level?"
I hadn't thought of that.
"Absolutely," I say, resolutely.
"Uhhh. What kind of decking?"
The questions come rapid fire, like a hail of computer blips in a video game.
"What kinda wood for the railing?"
"What kinda wood for the lattice?"
"What about corner caps?"
The round of golf died a natural death. I was devoting myself to protecting bedtime. And this was only Stage 1.
Painting myself into a coroner
Enter the painter.
He looked like a gunslinger who just bought an outfit from the local general store for the sole purpose of preserving the memory of a long, lost appaloosa stallion. He had more spots than Jackson Pollock's dropcloth. A casual glance and he could be confused for a dalmatian with an advanced case of ringworm.
You get the picture.
We walked around the outside of the house, as that was the intended object of his inquiry. He pursed his lips now and again. I alternately dug my hands deep in my pockets, followed by a firm hitch of the pants.
We traveled in silence. There was a solemnity in his manner - a twitch in mine. Imagine Matt Dillon oiling his gun with Chester looking on.
"What about the rain gutters?" he drawled.
I had no idea what that had to do with painting the house, but I nodded. I've discovered over the years that when in doubt, vote "Yes." You may get in a bunch of trouble, or it may cost you a ton of dough, but you won't look ignorant.
"The rock wall in front of the house?"
"Yep," I said, growing confident. (See previous paragraph for my reasoning.)
Take that to the bank, sucker
I figured I was done with my part. I'd lost an entire day, a round of golf, dinner, and got to bed late. I couldn't have been more committed if I had brought my own isotopes to the Manhattan Project.
Naturally, I was wrong again.
The deckbuilder and the painter got together. Seems the deckbuilder doesn't paint. Or stain. And the painter ...
They discussed the job. I was in the room, albeit as vestigial as tonsils on a T-Rex. As far as Bob and Maggie's son and Mr. Dillon were concerned, I could have been a piece of furniture. Most likely a footstool. Occasionally, passing reference was made to the dimwit (footstool) who was paying for the housing overhaul, but the joke was on them.
That dimwit wasn't me, but rather the unwitting loan officer at the bank who was in the unenviable position of floating a line of credit to pay for Bob and Matt's summer vacation.
Larry Berteau
