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."