The White Deer 3

   

Part three of my serial in an attempt to get me to finish something I started.

Part 1: http://dumbasscarpenter.blogspot.com/2011/09/im-still-drunk.html

Part 2: http://dumbasscarpenter.blogspot.com/2011/10/white-deer-2.html

Pulling into Cary's windy driveway I can barely recognize it seeings how it's full of cars. I mean, typical rich people cars. Liberals. People with more money than brains. And everything is much greener this time of year too.

    I weave through the Priuses and Hondas with my smoking, knocking Diesel as carefully as I can without a spotter. His driveway is long as hell, but filled up on both sides, so I end up parking right by the side door, right where I was parked the last time I was here in February. Everybody is so worried they'll get blocked in but I ain't. I ain't leaving early.

    When I turn off my truck, I can already hear the party just around the corner. Sounds like it's in full swing. I grab my cooler out of the back and march around without even going to the door. The first person I see by the gate doesn't bother to help me get it open--it's a big cooler--and barely smiles when I say -Howdy! How's it goin'?

    After I let myself in I look for Cary or his girlfriend Staci--I don't know how she spells it, but in my head I see an I on the end. I see Cary by the pig. The big, half pig on the big, homemade cinder block grilling contraption. I make a bee line because I already know without really looking around that he's the only person I know here.

   -Hey, man!

   -You made it!

   -Yeah! It's pig! It's free! And I even brought beer!

   -Beer. Yes. Please!

   He sticks out his hand and I drop the cooler, open it and hand him a Miller.

   -You said you had beer.

   -That *is* beer. It's the champagne of beers!

   -That ain't beer.

   -It's close enough.

   -It's horse piss!

   -It's beer...for people who don't like beer?

   -Who doesn't like beer?

   -Me?

   He looks at me and shakes his head. -Keep it.

   I shrug and smile to that asshole's face. -OK. I say and pop it open.

   The heat from the grilling pig wafts in my face and I'm surprised how hot it feels. I shove my beer into my mouth and watch Cary look around the yard and towards the house squinting in the sun and smoke. He shouts across the sea of hipsters. -Staci!

   I look in the direction he's hollering at and I hear her before I see her. 

   -Yeah?

   -Could you get me a beer? She steps out from under a funeral tent thing.

   -What?

   -Beer me! He shouts.

   I watch her duck back under the tent, hunch over a cooler and come right across the sea over to us. -Hi! she says to me, handing the beer to Cary.

   -Howdy!

   He and she exchange thank you's and you're welcomes and then she turns to me and asks -You wanna put your cooler in the shade?

   Turns out I do! -Sure.

   -This way.

I look back at Cary, who's poking the pig with a pig poker type hook thing and obviously he's too busy to be any fun. It's so late in the day, I thought the pig would be ready by now, but maybe he ain't the pig-picker he thought he was...and I hope they got snacks.

   -Right here. She says pointing to an open spot on the ground under the folding funeral slash party tent. I drop my mud-stained, shitty little cooler among the pristine Igloos and Coleman EXTREMEs and hope no one notices. 

   -Got one for me? She asks smiling at me, sunglasses on her forehead.

   -Maybe. I say. -It's the Champagne of beers...you cool with that?

   -Perfect. She says.

   I kick the top off the cooler and reach through the ice water and hand her a just-opened-for-her beer. -There you go.

   She nods a weird little 'thank-you' and takes a swig.

   -Thank god! No judgement! I say laughing.

   -Never for free beer. Though it isn't the usual fare around here. Even if it is the champagne of beers.

   -I get the feeling that Pig ain't the usual fare around here either. I throw a chin-nod to the table of veggies and stuff that hungry nerds are picking over while waving flies off the food.

   -You'd be surprised. She says. -They're not all vegeterians. It's just taking someone so fricking long to cook the pig. Heck, meat ain't so bad.

   -Tell me about it. I raise my beer way high and flex my bicep as I suck on my beer. -It does a body good.

   I watch her giggle. -You need more meat. she says.

   -Don't we all? I ask.

   She turns her bottle up and I watch her take huge, manly gulps of ice cold beer, and I hafta say...I like watching her.

    She drops her half empty beer and says. -Indeed.

   I look out over the yard that's peppered with people. The further back the yard goes, the wilder it gets. The yard is lined by a collapsing wire fence. Beyond the fence, it's pretty much wooded and wild-looking. It'd be a perfect hiding spot for an urban deer.

   -Pretty big yard. It's nice. I say.

   -It's huge.

   -Lots of room for the kids. Hey, where *are* the kids?

   -At Cary's ex's. They'd hate the pig-picking anyway.

   -I bet they love the yard. Bet they spend all day out here in the summer.

   -Not without WiFi.

   -Maybe they need a little more incentive.

   She takes another pull on her beer. I can't help but stare at her lips. I'm really loving the way they kiss the end of that Miller bottle. Maybe it's the three I had on the ride over--it's a long trip--but I do my best to put on a good show.

   -What do you mean?

   -I mean...what about an epic tree house?

   -A what?

   -Yeah! Get Cary over here. I mean, it'd be no sweat. I got mad skills. Stick it back over yonder in the corner...in WiFi range, but far enough away you can't hear the dang kids.

   -That's right, you build houses.

   -That is right. I mean, I used'ta. Now I do anything for a dollar on account of this depression we're in.

   She tilts her bottle all the way up and sucks it dry. I watch the last bit a foam disappear into her mouth from the clear bottle. -Thanks. She says. -I need another one.

   -Help yourself.

   -No no. I actually do need a real beer. But thanks.

   -Ouch! I told you, someone, I don't really like beer. I like the alcohol.

   Shaking her head and grinning, she says -I'll be back. I'll grab Cary for ya.

   I watch her walk off and beeline for the recycling can marked Bottles Only! that stands in line with all the other cans each with their own little labels. One for every type of trash. Her empty clanks on into the can the way beer bottles do. A few heads turn.

   I finally finish my beer and clank it in right after hers and start on my next one. I sure as shit don't know anyone here. I shake a few hands and introduce myself to a few of them, but I'm not really all that interested.
   I ain't even hungry even though the smell of pork is swirling all around. Of course, I ain't all that tight yet either.

   I catch a dude's eye and he wants to know how I know everyone.

   -I just know Cary and Staci I guess. Friend of a friend. I say.

   -Oh, Do you drive?

   -Yeah, I drove here.

   -No. Auto cross.

   I shake my head at him and drink my beer.

   -That's how I know them. I thought maybe that's how you knew him.

   Not knowing what the fuck auto cross is, I just say -I guess I'm more of a drinking buddy. And that does it for this guy. He does his -Well, it's nice meeting you. And walks off with his phone in his hand.

   I see Staci pulling Cary over to where I've wandered to and as soon as I can I ask him. -What's auto cross?

   -Racing. Race cars.

   -I didn't know you did that. Weird. 

   -It's fun. I don't do it often. It's expensive.

   -Hunh. I had no idea. Not too green is it?

   -He's not very good at it anyway. Adds Staci. -Has to baby his car. It's the only one he's got.

   -Well, you need a tree house out here anyway. Save your money for that. I say.

   -Yeah. Says Staci. -What do you think of that?

   -You know. He says, looking around towards the back corner, where the weeds get wild. -That would be pretty cool. No real trees back here though.

   -That's no sweat. We'll plant our own. Four six by sixes? Bam. Done.

   -I think it'd be really neat. The kids will absolutely love it. She says. Good, I think.

   -For about two weeks. Cary says, backpedaling a bit.

   -Shoot, we'll do it up nice. You'll have to shake them out of it when I'm done. When we're done. I throw a light *punch* onto Staci's arm.

   -Me? 

   -Yeah, if you help, you can say you built the thing.

   -Well how much would something like that cost? He's back.

   -I have no idea. Just materials. No labor. Just me! I'll have it done by Christmas.

   -That fast?

   I wonder if he's kidding. I mean, that's pretty slow...but pretty fast for free labor. -Yes? I say. -A little here, a little there. It'll give me something to do too.

   Cary stands there and looks at Staci. She shrugs at him.

   -Well I guess. You put some real number together for me.

   -Shit, half the stuff I can steal.

   -That's great, I guess. He says.

   -And much cheaper. Staci says. 

   -Sounds fun. He says. He wipes some sweat off his face with a greasy, pork-soaked towel. -I better turn Pumba. Goddamn, this pig is taking forever.

   He walks off and Staci stays. She's armed with a real beer now. I see berries on what looks like a homemade label and know right away I'd hate it.

   -You're gonna make me help?

   -If you want. It'll be fun.

   -I think so. I've done a Habitat House before...well, one day in the rain. It would have been a lot more fun if it hadn't rained all day.

   -Well I can promise you we will only work sunny days, sunny weekend days.

   -All right. I'll help when I can.

   -I ain't paying you. I joke. -But, like I said, you'll have major braggin' rights.

   I hold my Miller bottle out and we tap bottles and toast on the thought.

   We walk together back towards the larger crowd.

   -You'll have to introduce me around.

   -You don't know anyone. She says, rather matter-of-factly. I'm hurt.

   -That's a fact.

I half expect myself to take her hand as we walk, she's that close to me, but I'm a few beers away from bold, tasteless moves.

   As we walk, I think about how I just gave up a few weekends for pretty much nothing. How I'll be driving out here to work for free and how I'll end up out of pocket poorer than when I started. But of course, at least, I'll have a bitching tree stand when I'm done.

   

Eight Things You Should Never Ask a Drinker.

There's an article, some say stupid, going around about the twenty-two things you should never say to a non-drinker. I'm not sure why we need an article like this though it may be true that us drinking folk need more guidance than the non-drinking set.

As a binge drinker, it might have been helpful if someone more sober than I had offered me advice. Well, here's some advice...here's 8 things you should never ask a drinker if you're not ready for a party.

1) You're gonna let me drink alone?  This is always worse on a Friday afternoon if for some reason you're in a bar together having just slipped out of work a tad early. The really bad news is it means you'll hafta to get up Saturday morning and retrieve your car...or worse, your car will be in your front yard (or your neighbor's) when you wake up at the crack of noon.

2) Do you have to drink to have a good time? This is a trick question, but the answer is yes depending on the company! Sometimes drinking makes you more interesting and funnier than you really are. The alcohol just stops us short from saying something like, "Goddamn! you're boring!" The booze keeps us smiling and nodding and our eyebrows raised creating the illusion we care.

3) You wanna beer? Yes. Yes I do. If you're offering me a free beer out of your fridge, it means you're also offering me ten to fifteen minutes of your undivided attention...and hopefully another free beer and another ten to fifteen! Later on I might regret it...or you might regret it when I'm still there the next day on your couch with a trash can full of vomit beside me, but until then, it's all fun and games.

4) Want a roadie? Want one for the road? Nothing sets you up for disaster like having a beer in your lap when you hit the road for home...though I have to admit, as a younger man, I did indeed enjoy driving around during the cool spring days before the humidity set in after a long, cold winter with a window down and a beer in hand. If my favorite mixtape was on a continuous loop then the experience was all the better.

5) How many have you had? Who're you working for? The Highway Patrol? I didn't know I needed an accounting degree to get tight in your company. Maybe beverages are like Lays potato chips. Or maybe the number consumed is like a woman's age and/or shoe size. The point is, why are you asking? Is it because I fell up your stairs or sprayed a little spittle in your face while I was speaking to you? It reminds me of when someone asks you if you've farted. That's when you respond by saying, "No I always smell like this."

6) Are you gonna drink on an empty stomach? That's the plan. Of course, as soon as I pour a Miller Lite down my throat, my stomach ain't empty anymore. Alcohol is food according to my seventh grade PE teacher/coach....toacher, if you will. It's not my fault waiters the world over ply you with drinks before they'll even take your solid food order. If I had a dollar for every time I gave a food order to the back of a waiter's head as he walked away to get the drinks, well, I could open my own eatery.

7) Have you been drinking? Another trick question! I know that if you think I've been drinking I'm probably doing something stupid like lighting a bonfire or dusting off a chainsaw at ten o'clock at night. So you got me. Beer-breath notwithstanding, I could lie and say no, but it's a fifth amendment moment at best. Rhetorical questions to someone who's been drinking can trigger sobering bouts of thought. Not a good idea as it kind of negates the drinking all together. It's best, perhaps, to just assume I have been and join in.

8) Are you drunk? The answer is always, "No" or, "Not yet."

Oh? A Splinter in My Eye?

Recently we’ve been bombarded by “Don’t text and drive” admonitions from every…one…we…know… Frankly, I’ve had enough. Stop preaching to me (I understand it’s not personal by the way) to stop snapping photos of the world around me as I hurtle down the highways or share in text my thoughts on that world around me.

If you are so inclined to preach to me, to try and remove the splinter from my eye, then you too need to stop giving into distraction like messing with the radio while driving down the road, including messing with the iPod or the flash drive or the charger cable to the iPod, iPhone or whatever while you’re driving down the road. New touch-screen dash in your car? Cover it with duct tape—you needn’t be distracted.

You need to stop eating while driving down the road. One hand on your burger? One on the wheel? Where’s my napkin? Ouch that coffee is hot. Yeah drinking and driving can be hazardous too, not just alcoholic beverages, though, most of us do that too—perhaps not entirely illegal depending on your intake. Stop taking Benadryl and hitting the road.

You need to stop putting on makeup while driving down the road.

You need to stop speaking with your passengers. Those dummies can sit in silence while you get to where you’re going.

You need to crate your cat or dog so it isn't running amok inside your car blocking your view or crushing your gonads. Talk about a distraction. As an aside, however, having dogs in the car (as well as pizzas and boxes of fried chicken) usually make people better, safer drivers...people lurve their pets.

You need to stop messing with your navigation app or device.

The sad truth is, some people shouldn’t send messages and drive because they’re not good at it. Like some people shouldn’t have chainsaws or skateboards or, like me, shouldn’t have motorcycles and/or ATV’s. Some people just can’t do some things. Hell, some people shouldn't even be allowed to drive! Me? I’m good at multitasking. 

If you’re going to send messages of text and drive, or poke around in your “contacts” list or poke around on your iPod while driving, do it smart!

Hold the device in front of you, up over the steering wheel. Keep the road ahead in your field of view. It’s not illegal to mess with your iPod or telephone while you drive, and if you get stopped for such, mention that you weren’t messaging anyone to the cop…and eat your weed (which you need to stop smoking anyway because it’s illegal—for now). Never ever try to hide your device from “the man” by having it down at your side. You’re hurtling down the road! The time your eyes are off the road is translated into feet…sometimes yards.

Don’t mess with your phone in heavy traffic. Don’t even try to read a post if you’re coming up to an intersection…wait for the red light—the perfect pause to wax or read. Now’s a good time to hook up your charger too.

We’re all gonna do at least one of the above things. Admit it. I can’t drive in the morning without an open cup of coffee or a Big Orange soda; it’s a Mothershead birth defect passed down from my mom. We all just have to do it smart. 

Accidents happen and you don’t need a phone to blame it on, usually all you need is a few moments of distraction.

Mmm, there's nothing like Fire.
The irreversible
"I"ll not see you again,..."
Smoke doesn't ask.

Not my graduation,
Not a Moon landing,
Not a president:
Cuttin' and running.

There's not a 
Tonka Truck made,
Or a Lego square formed,
That can't be dirt...or smoke.

Prepared are you for being Old?
For being the guy:
Throws away the goblet--
(When they were young,
And I didn't have to be).

Maybe if...
One more picture,
Someone had taken.
Or if you'd had
Just one more Friend.

No One thinks when it's now:
"Sit down; you're not right,
You're not you."

When you are you,
When you are you,
At the edge of speaking thus,
Walking too,
Trapped inside a mumbling mouth's truth,
Like a deaf one's Dance.
A tumbler away from greatness.
Or a tumbler away from grace.

Not me.
I gave up.
I took a tumbler too much,
I took the Teacher's Key.
I'm not wrong, nor right.

I just see to the fire.
Erase what I want:
The people before me...
Who packed what they wanted;
Nary a shrug now.
Just the prattle of broken glass...
And folded brass.

Me?
I leave the matches,
So people after,
Can be anything they want,
Anything I hope,
But like me.

rbm

When Hello is Just Hello

I like instant gratification. I like getting in my car, with the kids or all alone, and going somewhere besides "work" to do stuff and more importantly, to buy stuff...for me...and, if I have to, the other people in my family.

So, the cold winter's Saturday morn, when the wife was asking, "What are you gonna do today?" while I was still in my jammies with one hand in the waistband and one hand on my coffee, all I could say was, "This is it."

Shaking her head she mentioned the dumpster I'm supposed to be filling up with collapsed barn out back. I listened to the wind howling outside. But then she slipped, she messed up and gave me an easy out. "Or...you could get that entertainment center."

And of course that was that. I knew what I could do without having to go outside all day...but that's not the weird part.

The "entertainment center" was in a "Thrift Store"...I think that's the name of it. It's either that or "Consignment Shop", whatever, it doesn't matter. Heck, there are two, like-minded stores side by side, and both are full of wonderfully cheap, second-hand stuff. And the closer-to-me one had brand-new, in the box, entertainment centers. 

So that's what I got. And two speakers. But that's not really what I left with, I mean, that's not what I've been thinking about for three days.

While I was there wandering around, adding things up, measuring up end tables and coffee tables for fit and figure, a gorgeous young lady came into the store. And she started wandering around too, happy in her surroundings as I was, that is, until she saw me. The change was clear. She literally shrunk in front of me. Like a dog that lays its ears down to disappear before a threat, she withdrew from my presence in that grimy store aisle as best she could without leaving the store.

The absent-minded smile went away. She stopped looking at stuff with her hands and just used her eyes. She had to because her hands went into her pockets. I could feel this revulsion just as surely as I could see it. And the store isn't all that big. There aren't alot of places she and I could be without being able to see each other.

I hadn't covered the entire store yet, but I was feeling so uncomfortable by her reaction to me that I quit "shopping" and just went up to haggle with "the girl" and her boss for my loot. And that's when things got even more awkward. She came up to inquire about something she'd wanted but had disappeared from inventory. Now she she had to stand right beside me.

The feeling I get, looking back, was that she was just waiting for me to say something to her and that she was doing everything in her power, without stabbing me in the face, to prevent me from doing so. The very last thing she wanted was for me to hit on her. I know it. I got the signals, loud and clear. I wasn't about to say a word. 

I imagine she gets "hit" on all the time. She probably has to gird up her loins everywhere she goes. I was just another "dude fixing to get ready to lay some line on her" in her eyes. I'm sure of it. The checkout girl doesn't feel the same way about me because I'm a customer I reckon...she puts up with the lame dad jokes and the constant borrowing of the store tape measure with a smile on her face.

Anyway, the whole short episode made me feel bad. Made me feel bad because I'm not a creep. The upside was, when we both had stepped up to the check-out bar, I let her go first and get her info--cute? yes. Spending money? no--and leave. I can only imagine the pain I would've caused if I had to ask her to move her car seeing's how she'd parked right behind my truck in the parking lot making loading my super-goddamned-heavy, particle board entertainment center (remember the entertainment center?) impossible.

I hope she wasn't being racist. This time of year my tan has faded, but part of me can't help but imagine that possibility. I wish she didn't have to wander around feeling threatened by old, forty-something dads and any other male within a twenty foot radius. Being too good-looking is a problem I've only dreamed about...and in my dreams, it's never a problem.

I got a daughter.

So with that on my mind, I went home to my family with my loot. I had an assistant with the assembly of our Sauder Center and together we rendered slab after slab of cheap, veneered particle board into three dimensions. I told her and showed her some tricks I had to make assembly a snap, and I got her to hold stuff for me.

Mainly a supervisory position.

A few days before, she'd started to build her own, also cheaply made desk and bailed on it. She got the drawer done and deferred the rest to me. I'm pretty sure she just didn't want to do it. And I like that about her--the direct approach.

One day, she'll figure out that she too is a beautiful young lady and that she'll be approached by creeps and forty-something dads in thrift shops (though harmlessly I'd hope)...or coffee shops...or classrooms. I can't stop it from happening, but I would like to think that I could help her form strategies that do not involve hiding in plain sight.

Today, in our foyer, I showed her how to knee a "hugger" in the crotch and whap someone with her elbow...I know, weak, but it's a start. I'm not sure she's ready for what's to come her way. I know I'm not.

Can't Never Could

"Fixing a bad fix is always harder than fixing the original problem."

True. My god that's true. My buddy the gunsmith made his bread and butter and turkey with gravy fixing firearms that someone had tried to "fix" at home. One of the worst framing jobs I'd ever been on was one where the home owner had framed the walls to his dream home and contracted us to frame and finish the roof. The plans had read "8' wall height" so he'd cut his 93" studs off so the wall would be exactly 8' tall when stood up...I can only imagine the night mare of finishing the inside.

But. He did it. And I was there holding his hand as we cobbled his roof together atop walls an inch and a half too short. Now he has an understanding of blue prints, hip roofs, and why framers put a "band" around the top plates of walls to make running  jack rafters, hips, and valleys as easy as pie. I bet he'll be able to do the next one faster and more efficiently... however, I bet he never will!

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (you knew it was coming) is almost a manifesto for do-it-yourselfers. It might be bragging to say that I was a kid who liked to take stuff apart and fix things way before I ever read the book in the 1990's, but that was the case. It was the book that seemed to codify (there's no other word for it really) my approach, good or bad, to the world around me. That approach had little to do with math and offices and even other people for a while.

A life of early poverty and a long line of hunk-of-junk autos kept me deep into manuals and parts stores and junkyards. How do you replace the fuel pump on a 1976 Corolla wagon? Well, taking a used one out of a junkyard Corolla is a good place to learn. Reverse steps to reassemble.

Obviously, Pirsig wrote his book way way before computers took over our lives. The internal workings of one of them things can be foreign to a "Man of Action" like me...I've been know to beat the side of a PC as if it were a TV with a snowy, flipping image. But when you do get that printer to work, or when you do get that red exclamation point to go away from your list of "things" on your PC, you'll have a warm, fuzzy feeling.

He wrote:

 It should be inserted here parenthetically that there's a school of mechanical thought which says I shouldn't be getting into complex assemblies I don't know anything about. I should have training or leave the job to a specialist. That's a self-serving school of mechanical eliteness I'd like to see wiped out...

You're at a disadvantage the first time around and it may cost you a little more because of parts you accidentally damage, and it will undoubtedly take a lot more time, but the next time you're way ahead of the specialist. You, with gumption, have learned the assembly the hard way and you've a whole set of good feelings about it that he's unlikely to have.

Naturally, the older I get, the lazier I get. I've stepped away from things that I could've done with enough time. But more often than not, I've had success in doing things myself. Maybe because I'm working with things that have substance, that have ghosts or personalities, like cars, houses, rifles...

Success can be measured many different ways. I mean, I've called the experts after I've tried all I know to try--turning things on and off: rebooting! And what I don't know about changing a circuit breaker could probably kill me dead. But I have a little success story I want to share. It's an easy read.

And just like that, no shivering in the cold waiting for "the guy".

I reckon not every attempt will end in achieving the goal of "fixed", but don't be afraid to dig in and try. You'll learn so much, and you'll accumulate so many tools that you might be able to wow your neighbors when you just show up one day, turn a screw, and solve all their problems.

I mean, like I've told myself, and my kids, a thousands times, "Hell, it's already broke. You can't break it. Fix it."