White Noise in the Gray Area of Seeing Green

Dave and I were lucky to still have our manhood. We'd both almost dropped testicles in the process of moving two boilers, two oil tanks, and eight cast iron radiators in the house where we were working. Morale was high as usual, though that owed nothing to the state of things. Even on sidejobs union guys know how to make our own conditions. There's nothing like a locker room joke to improve a standard day of residential plumbing.

Nature, or the three electrolyte-laced beverages I'd used to aid my hangover, was calling. I walked out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and into the bathroom. As I stood in front of the toilet I heard Dave's boots thumping louder against the hardwood floor. He must've thought I'd gone to retrieve the last remaining radiator.

"You need a hand with that big boy?" my poor partner asked before rounding the corner and realizing that I was urinating.

"Sure, come on in," I said through the bathroom door, my smile clearly audible.

"Wow. I walked right into that one," Dave said quite correctly. That type of set-'em-up, knock-'em-down routine was the norm for the many workdays we'd spent together over the years. It made me appreciate our time together for more than just the money. It filled a definite void. I'd venture to say that was true for him as well.

We finished for the day. It was more a cutting of losses than anything else. We needed more fittings to proceed with piping the boiler. Dave had somehow under-bid the job by fifteen-hundred dollars. There was a fax machine involved in the material list blunder that caused the catastrophe. A man of his word, he was not going to raise the price he'd given to the customer, even though I tried reminding him that he was in business to make money and had a family to feed. "That's not the way I am, Mike," just as I knew he'd say. It made me love the man. "We can try to use some of the material I had in my garage and send some of this new stuff back to make up part of the difference," he said. I wasn't going to kill him with my labor fees, either. After all, if he makes money I make money, the opposite also being true in the long run. When it came time to give him my hours I'd knock off a day's worth and hope he didn't notice. He'd do the same for me.

"You sure you don't want to come for dinner?" Dave asked as we loaded the last of the tools into our trucks. "Amy's going to order Chinese. I'll pick it up on the way home."

"I don't know. It's late and I might have to go make amends with..."

He cut me off before I could continue. "Come on. You have to eat anyway, whether it's with us or at home." The man had a point. I caved. "Go talk to my wife until I get back with the food," he said before hopping into his blue Dodge diesel. It sounded odd, as if I wouldn't've engaged Amy in conversation if he hadn't told me to. His phrasing was so simple most times as though he were an Indian chief. It furthered the honest impression he left upon me-- a straight shooter, though he never had time to come to the range when I invited him.

"Glad you could make it," Amy said as I sat down at the center island in their kitchen. An apple aroma filled the air. I lifted my nose to draw it in deeper. "Apple crisp. Dave's favorite. The oven's been on for awhile, though. I've got to cool it down in here before he gets home. He's hot-blooded."

"It's fine in here, Amy," I tried to assure her. "Take it from me. I sweat if I think too hard."

Ignoring my assessment of the temperature the good wife opened a window and turned on the exhaust fan. Then she poured herself a glass of wine, offering me one before opening the freezer for some ice cubes to chill her drink. "How about a beer?" she asked.

"That'll work," I replied. I didn't bother with the stuff at home anymore. It didn't do the trick like liquor and went through me so fast that it felt like I only borrowed it. A cold beer was more of a ceremony for me: an accepted token of appreciation for being invited into ones home. I twisted off the cap and took a long swig, pressing my knees together as I sat on the stool and being thankful that there was still something there to hurt after the day's back-breaking labor.

A dull ache in the tip of my left ring finger made itself known for the first time since I could finally rest for long enough to feel it. An ingrown nail-- funny, I seldom fell victim to those. I rubbed my finger for long enough for Amy to notice. "You'll have some gold there soon enough," she chided. "Did Dave ever tell you about the time he lost his wedding band at work?" I shook my head. "He was up at the prison renovating bathrooms. Everyone on that job had to be fingerprinted. The soap they used to get the ink off was very slick. He didn't notice until lunchtime that his ring was missing; figured he'd rubbed it off while washing his hands and tossed it with the paper towel. When he called and told me he was almost in tears. I told him we could buy a new one, but he said it wouldn't be the same. His foreman let him go dumpster diving for the rest of the day. I was shocked when he called me back two hours later telling me he'd found it. I'd never heard him sound so excited before. I hadn't realized what a big sentimental mush he was. I knew I married a warm-hearted man, but he sure didn't seem to care that much about the rings when we were buying them."

Amy took a small sip of wine to punctuate her narrative. Every word was perfect, every pause in place. She'd obviously told the tale before. I didn't blame her. She knew what she'd found and had every right to be proud. It was worth more than any ring.

We spoke of easy things for a few minutes: her three boys, the dog, the perfect September sleeping weather, Dave's insomnia. The discussion turned to Dave's side of the extended family, a topic he appeared to avoid. "What's his father like? That's the one on the wall with the Quaker beard, right?" I asked, rubbing my chin with thumb and forefinger to demonstrate what I meant.

"Yeah," Amy said, not hiding her disdain. "He's a mean person. Very hard on Dave especially. Criticizes everything he does."

It made sense. Dave was such a genuine, generous person who would do anything for someone he cared for; strangers too, for that matter-- case in point: the grand-and-a-half he was prepared to lose on his current heat job. "I can see that," I said. "Dave is such a good man that it seems he's trying to make up for what he never had." My friend's headlights pulled into his driveway, thus ending our conversation. It was proper timing. Enough had been said, enough had been reaffirmed.

"It's hotter than hell in here," Dave said as he came in with the grease-stained paper bag. Amy winked at me and opened another window. His three boys ran into the room and clung to his legs like piles in a pounding surf. My stomach lifted, my heart sank. He deserved this. Did I?

I was quiet through the meal, letting the high school sweethearts talk as I ate my General Tso's. I'm ashamed to admit that I was consumed by a jealous flame, even though the boys got rowdy in show-off mode and refused to go to bed after dessert. Dave's right-- What's a couple thousand dollars when you've got the world under one roof?

Amy made a small pan of apple crisp for me to take home, hinting that it'd be nice to have it returned with some sort of food in the dish. Brownies, my specialty, would do the trick. It was no fun making them for myself anyway. I said my goodbyes and headed out. The kitchen was already empty when I turned and looked back through the windows. They'd embarked on the rest of their evening unencumbered by the temporary speedbump of last-minute company. I did ten under the speed limit the whole way home. There was nothing worth the rush waiting for me there. There was no one opening windows to let the cool night air inside. Perfect September sleeping weather. Right.



Currently reading:
"Absence of the Hero" by Charles Bukowski.