Mean Old Man

Well if and when Jack ever retires, I’ve decided I won’t ever complete a project again. Since losing days of work moving David to school, I decided to try and catch up a bit over the weekend, transcribing some interviews and writing editorial captions. But nooo. Just a few minor distractions every five minutes has drastically hindered my progress, so I’m giving up—as writing this may indicate. I’m writing this to the sound of the severe banging on the front door. No, I didn’t lock him out, but he tore down our front porch, steps and all about two weeks ago. As I’ve peered into the sheer drop off, I’ve reasoned that coming through the front door would be very difficult indeed for would-be robbers, so I’ve lived with using only the back door for a while. Right now he’s reattaching whatever it is he’s attaching.

This morning Jack announced that when we were in the Home Depot last week he forgot all about flashing. “Thank goodness for that,” I said. Actually, flashing is that metal stuff that you do something with during construction. As you can see, I’m into detail.

Before that, the tremendous, hammering and shaking came from his removal of an entire section of concrete slab around the pool. We’re searching for a leak. It wasn’t there. Don’t get me wrong. Jack is a very handy guy, but he just doesn’t know when to quit and call in the people who have equipment for listening for leaks which I suggest before we tear out more concrete yardage. He finally relents.

Next he comes in for a break and tells me that something is wrong with the television. He looks at cables and punches buttons, muttering about the “damn thing.”

Me: “The cable is probably down.

Him: “Don’t push any buttons! We can’t both be pushing buttons!”

(Well actually we can because we have about 20 remote controls all of which control one separate and mysterious function each. Sometimes I’ve literally given up on turning on the television and taken a shower instead.)

Me: “Before you waste any more energy on this, why don’t you call the cable company and find out if the cable is down in our area?”

Jack has reached such a state that he is actually looking in the manual—a sight I thought I’d never see. He punches another button and the screen says, “Going into deep sleep.”

“That can’t be good,” I observe.

“Maybe we need new batteries for this one remote,” he suggests. I bring them. No go.

“Maybe you should call the cable company,” I repeat like a broken record, as he wedges between the wall and the set to check wiring.

Finally I hear him on the phone. “Oh okay. Yes, I thought that might be the problem. So when do you think it might be back up? Okay. Thanks.”

I walk around the corner but before I say a word he says, “Don’t say a damn word!” as he tries to strangle me.

Okay, he’s off to another project and I once again try to write a caption. Jack comes bursting into the back door yelling, “Those kids down there in the cul-de-sac are burning something. There’s smoke everywhere and everything is dry as a tinderbox!” He calls the fire department.

“Gosh Mr. Wilson. Are you sure they started a fire? Teenagers have to go somewhere, you know.”

“That’s what the parks are for!”

He’s looking out the windows and announces, “Here comes a fire truck. They’ll at least keep them from setting the whole neighborhood on fire.”

“Are the fireman cute?” I ask.

“What kind of question is that?” he asks.

“A valid one,” I think.

Anyway, the threat of the blaze is over. “I hope they think that our neighbor across the street called,” I say, because she frequently complains.

“They probably will,” he assures me, then laughs and adds, “Works for me.”

"Well you've certainly had an exciting, tyrannical day," I tell him. "Needless to say, I haven't written 'War and Peace.'"

"Yes, it's been quite adventurous," Jack says.

"I think most of the adventure has been self-generating," say I.

"That it has been," he agrees, leaning back in his recliner. "That it has been."