Bev blow-dried, I stepped forward. But, no, Bob had more work to do; had to blow his tree garbage onto his neighbor's driveway.
Bob turned off his leaf blower. "Jeez, Bob, the way you work that leaf blower, one might think you have erectile dysfunction, or something."
Bob threw a castrating eye my way. "This is a power blower; twenty-seven point two cc." He gestured towards his neighbor. "Jeff's got a leaf blower--pussy electric. Word has it, you got a broom. Now what does that make you?"
"Sane."
"Sure, if you call a girl fussing with her training bra sane."
"Oh, ya, and this is sane?" I gestured at the mess on the neighbor's driveway. "You, behaving like your eight; having it out with the neighbor kid."
Bob didn't say anything, but the gesture he made with his power blower made me think I'd pushed his buttons enough.
I followed the yard-warrior over to his open garage door, where he craned his neck for a place to plant his power. There was no floor left in his garage, his valued possessions stacked chin high. Having laid his 4-stroke on a stack of plastic lawn furniture, he closed the garage door.
"Damn I'm thirsty," Bob said, heading for his side door. "Let me get a drink, then I'm ready."
I followed Bob up his punky side steps, over his rotting threshold, into his avocado kitchen. "There she blows," he said, lunging for the center piece of his daisy-themed table. He grabbed his girl, took a chug. Having said, "Ahhh," he set the gallon of gin back on the table, taking care to position her just so.
"Thirst quenched?" I said.
"It will be," Bob said stepping into the hallway. "As soon as I take a sip of myself." Bob checked his teeth in the mirror, fixed his hair, then made a face for himself. From where I stood--by the dish-filled sink--I could see that face in the mirror.
"OK," Bob said, heading for the door, "let's check out this Metals chick of yours."
I was all too familiar with the look a woman gives a mirror before going out. But the look Bob had given himself spoke volumes on gender specifics. I pulled out my pad and pen. "A woman looks in the mirror to see how she'll feel. A man looks in the mirror to see how he'll kill."
Bob had wanted to commission some jewelry for his new girl, Joni, so I'd arranged a meeting with a metals major at ACCW: Alicia.
Walking through Metals, guy-guy Bob had to detour into the room where the students beat their metal into teapots and whatnot. No, nothing like room full of mighty anvils bolted to tree stumps to bring a guy's testosterone to a boil.
Bob found a scrap of metal on the floor. "Anton, find me a hammer; I want to beat on this."
I dragged my eight year old into Alicia's studio. "Bob, this is Alicia. Now, I know you have business to discuss, so I'll leave you two to go at it. Bob knows where to find me when he's done." I looked at Bob, nosing around Alicia's studio. "Bob; where will you find me when your done?"
"Alicia," Bob said, raising his scrap metal, "Got a hammer? I want to--"
"Bob!" I seized the metal out of my boy's hand. "The shack I want to show you is out back of Metals. Go out back when you're done with Alicia. Got it?"
Bob made a face. No, nothing like the snot-face to bring a parent's ire to a boil. I raised the back of my hand. Then again, a hit from dad never hurt as much as mom's skills at parenting.
Shoving Bob's metal under Bob's nose, I said, "Want your toy?" When Bob reached for it, I pulled it back. "Well, son, you just lost your toy." I turned to Alicia. "Sis, you just got yourself a new toy." I chucked the metal onto Alicia's cluttered bench. It knocked something over. Nothing precious, though; just some tree made of wax.
On my way out of Metals, I stopped by the anvil room. Earlier, in the heat of dragging my boy out of there, I'd spied a big nail next to an anvil. I needed a big nail for my shack--to hang stuff.
Ah, there it was.
Walking out back of Metals, filing my finger with my nail, I took to thinking of the wisdom of leaving womanizer Bob alone with Alicia in her thesis studio.
"Rest assured," I assured myself. "Alicia's no longer Bob's type."
When Alicia had arrived on campus three years ago, she'd put the moves on Ezra. When Ezra wouldn't have her, she came chasing after me. Though I wasn't attracted to her--clothes overdone, face overdone, hair overdone, neither was I cruel, so I attempted to foul her love-eyes by making the devil out of every subject we talked about. Then came the day last Spring, when, making the devil out of something or another, I looked up to find Alicia was no longer overdone. In fact quite underdone--as grunge as the rest of us.
Be warned fair moms; ACCW will squeeze the doll out of your daughters.
Entering the pine grove behind Metals I threw my nail in my shack, put on my gloves. OK, then, time to spruce things up, get ready for that killer tour I was determined to give Coral.
What's this? Out of my scrap pile I pulled a sheet of paper. Ah, my sheet of shed instructions. Squinting, I read the first sentence. "Your new shed can be built in a day." I laughed. Hell, it took me well over a week to bang the damned thing together.
I looked at my shed. Of course, the modifications I was forced to make didn't help. Which reminded me, I'd better start rehearsing my tour.
"You're right there, Coral; shakes would have made for a more attractive roof. But, see, the roof shakes that came with the kit were faulty. No, you know your cedar shakes are faulty when you go so far as to sharpen your nails and the damned shakes split anyway."
Let's see, what else might Coral grill me on? "You got that right, Coral, the double doors were faulty, too. Well, the hinges, anyway. Nope, next to impossible to hang double doors true with faulty hinges like that. That's why I up and nailed the double doors together, made this sliding door of sorts. Oh, sure, the gap on this one side is a bit much, but security aside, it sure is handy, reaching in like this, getting a tool without having to unlock the door."
Confident I could handle all grilling on tour, I got back to my shed instructions. In the margins were notes in my handwriting. No doubt words of wisdom I'd jotted down in the heat of construction. I reached for my reading glasses, eager to impress myself. But, no, there was no wisdom in the margins; only dumb Fiber Art questions I'd prepared for Coral.
I turned the sheet over. Though covered in dirt, the backside was blank enough. I pulled out my pen. No, that's the problem we writer/groundskeepers faced; we couldn't get to the sprucing up for all the blank pages that needed fill.
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