Rain Delay: III of IV

The rear view mirror reflects the cargo beyond the seats. Hoses, tubing, instruments, a scale, broken meters, a squirrel cage, discarded part boxes sans parts. Drawers are chock full of trinkets: severed thermostats, O rings, screws, L and T fittings, a rainbow of wire caps, various widths of electrical tape. An army green acetylene tank is bungeed into an interior well. On the road, the van rattles constantly. David thinks it’s like being inside a rainstick. Manuals with complicated diagrams form a portable, outdated, library along one wall in the back. The spines showcase logos. Nothing can be seen out of the rear windows because equipment obscures the glass.

David’s eyelids droop and snap up intermittently. John’s face resembles a stylized raccoon from the tan lines of his Maui Jim's. Stray black whiskers twist near his ears and protrude from pockets near the corners of his jaws. The back of John's hunk of a neck is bordered with coarse hair hungry for sunlight. He keeps a watchful eye on the side mirror for any sign of authorities. He sees the exhaust disturb the steam evaporating from the blacktop. He depresses the accelerator and watches the cloud grow and rise. The van shimmies and the air becomes colder.

Twenty feet above the van and fifty yards away, a four ton McQuay awaits repair. The roof is 114°F and rising. In the summer, every surface is baked by the viscid sun. All metal is a stovetop on simmer primed to teach lessons. Paint cracks and grows chalky. The corners of condenser units and seams along panels are spotted with ominous hand prints like Lascaux. Everything in sight radiates warbley translucent waves as though enflamed. David considers the environment reminiscent of Camus’ Algeria. The noon sun and August dehydration were enough to drive mortals to madness. The overbearing rays could drive you to criminality. Most of the rolled roofs were blindingly white. Cheek muscles ache from constant squinting. A few were rubbery and black, with bubbles two feet in diameter puckered in reaction to the heat.

Heat is not the only hazard. Beneath or behind panels nest unseen stinging insects. Lifting up the door to access to a unit’s kill switch was a game of Russian roulette. Most of the time the boxes stood empty save a breaker shrouded by wisps of cobwebs and the occasional dried leaf. Within 6% of boxes hung a tubular structure full of wasps, chagrinned heads twisting to lock-on to whoever had turned on the lights.

***

John’s parents were to blame for all of this in a way, although they didn’t mean to be. The Tinsley’s died when he was 22, in a plane crash of all things. They scrimped what they could from their Social Security checks and went on an Alaskan cruise for their thirtieth wedding anniversary. Instead of fishing for trout with 28 other guests in the same steam, they opted to do a fly over of the Kennicott wilderness. Their biplane was in the air less than fifteen minutes. The FAA concluded the crash was due to mechanical failure. The outfit was underinsured. To make things right, they sent John and his younger brother, Tim, a basket of fruit, a dinner for two at Red Lobster, and a surprisingly blasé bereavement card signed by a word processor to express Hinter Air’s condolences. Without an insurance payout, the kids had to pay for a proper burial themselves. By kids, he means himself alone because Tim couldn’t be bothered to cover his share of the arrangements. (He didn’t so much as drive down to pay his respects.) Inheritance wasn’t a factor. Probate revealed that mom and dad charged pretty much everything, including credit card balances. The house, cars, furniture, timeshare in Georgia, gun collection, sterling silver, Dooney Burke purses, Hank Williams LPs, and projection screen got gobbled up in an auction with every single penny of the proceeds going to Second National Bank of Southern Illinois Edwardsville. John didn’t raise his bid paddle once. He’s not the sentimental type. All he took for himself from the leftovers was his dad’s collection of Scotch and a photo album of family camping trips, more because throwing it away felt ornery or disrespectful. He never cracked the thing open. He’s pretty sure it’s in the spare closet.

So anyway, lacking the finances for dragging the shysters to court, John pawned off what he could—35 mm camera included—and took out a cash advance to cover the rest. Funerals homes are thieves. $2,500 for one casket? There weren’t bodies to be buried. The remains were Fed-Exed in a 10x13 business envelope. The crooks at Infinite Rest put some pieces of his mother’s costume jewelry and a steel rod his dad had as a memento from Korea into a concrete box type thing. Animals drug the rest away to parts unknown. That was that.

  

His parents dying was hard to get over. The three of them weren’t close like emotionally, but they were close physically. When John moved out, it was to live in the basement of a different house in Whispering Pines. Despite grumbling and promises of Never Again, they never failed to bail him out when he was in a pinch. There’s something to be said for that. It used to help knowing they were around and after they weren’t, he felt abandoned. Which was strange, he knew, since he was on his own and his parents were in their golden years, but that’s how it felt. Like being a baby on a doorstep. But no one was home, was the thing. He was on the stoop, squirming, crying, and hungry. He was fragile for months, zombie-ish, you know, on the move but ready to fall to pieces at the first bump or tug. John stopped shaving and started in on junk food.

He’d mustered the resolve to still work his shifts at GS. He didn’t run through the motions for himself, like to push through and put on a brave face, but to avoid a stink over past-due rent. The Bauman’s eviction threats didn’t strike him as empty. John was scared that if he started living out of his car he’d never stop. The interest on cash advances scared him, too.

And then one day this big-breasted chick with a half inch of foundation caked on looked up when he called Staci Liggione in the waiting area. She heard him but she didn’t get up. He said he was all set and she said oh, right. It was obvious she wanted to be there even less than John. He brought her back to what passed as a studio, clicked on the lamps, told her where to stand, and stand there she did stiff as a board with a sort of queasy look. He escorted her over to this faux marble column for ladies to lean or splay against and be sultry over but she wouldn’t get into it. The usual encouragement didn’t do the trick. All she’d do was cock her head and smirk a tight-lipped granny smirk. He practically had to beg her to loosen up. She said she felt silly. He told her the only silly thing about her was that denim jacket she was covering up with. Come on then. Take it off and show me pouty. Staci did neither. She stamped her foot and made for the door, asking what the hell was the matter with him in a way that meant she didn’t want the answer. But for some stupid reason he told her. Blurted out everything for her information. About his shoulder shredding in a practice of all things, and his parents lack of remains, and how great it felt to feel nasty and awfully bloated with pork rinds. She said she was sorry and he said so was he. They went back and forth, blubbering about all the terrible things that happened to them through no fault of their own. The bitching session at an end, she dabbed at her mascara with a tissue, squeezed his thigh and said come on. Almost like a reward, she tossed her jacket in the corner and she was wearing this top cut down to there. And the look in her eyes! He kept a couple of the negatives for himself.

One thing lead to another as they're known to do. He met Mrs. Liggione, who Staci was living with again. He met Olivia, who didn’t say a word but sat still like a doll around him. The three of them hung out more or less every day. He liked being a family man, asking for the kids menu and helping Olivia with the mazes, showing her how to fix the best grilled cheeses. It was going to be okay. It was worth shaving. John started thinking beyond the given day. He had to admit the Glamour Shots thing wasn’t going anywhere anyway. It could float a bachelor’s life barely, but a family? No way. He wasn’t management material and they had a knack for keeping him just shy of full-time. Plus, they frowned on the sorts of private shoots John was known to unofficially offer when he sensed the subject was a live one. So John scoped out the classifieds and saw some crooked numbers for wages in the Skilled Trades section. He could pick up a trade. He enrolled in night school at the community college. EJC was like North High with a more relaxed smoking policy and the guys could wear baseball caps in class. Students still clustered together by front doors and John still held his head high walking through them. This time around, he was all business. He even took notes.

  

Being the breadmaker felt natural. Being depended on sounded good back then. Every kid needs a father figure—as in one who’s at home on the couch most nights. John’s dad wasn’t the nicest guy, but he was around. At the very least, he was someone to catch hell from and blow some steam off at. And coming in and stepping up, not being scared of the kid, but manning up and signing on for parenthood? Talk about bonus points. He thought he'd have a lifetime Get Out of Jail Free card with Staci to lay on the table whenever he forgot to put the seat down or stayed out too late with the boys. But the card expired after all. Eventually, the good will runs dry and What Have You Done For Me Lately bubbles up. But while we’re on the topic, what has she done for him lately, besides making demands or sorting his laundry out of the basket to be left in an unwashed heap?

To make a long story short, he was on this hamster wheel. No rest in sight. No more family meals or even weekend trips. If you think about it, he spent his days slaving away to basically make the minimum payments on three separate cards, a second mortgage, an above ground pool with a pump on the fritz, and horseback lessons. What good was it to know how to ride a horse now anyway? When was that going to come in handy? But he paid for it because Olivia put them on her wish list and John wanted to give her what she wanted, no matter how stupid. What John remembered of his childhood was hand-me-down clothes that got him teased to no end and being the only kid to be left behind on the bigger field trips the trips cost money. All this despite his parents keeping the liquor cabinet well-stocked and Timmy in private school because of his “potential.” So you can forgive John for thinking love had a little something to do with money.

***

Integration into the District’s culture could not be described as seamless for David. The first morning set the tone. Bright eyed and bushy tailed, David crossed the threshold into the break room. About him slouched his now coworkers, thickened by decelerating metabolisms, legs splayed out wildly. These men passed the time either making lewd jokes, rife with expletives and homosexual in content, or bickering about politics and the country’s overall vector. In three of the break room’s corners sat men who cast suspicious glances at the newcomers, the classic insider-to-outsider look of unwelcoming. David averted his eyes to safer vectors.

Glen motioned with his finger to David and another young man, the only people in the room wearing non-blue shirts, to come hither. The two stood on either side of Glen, clutching their sack lunches. Glen’s eyes were on the clock. The moment after the red second hand crossed the threshold to 7:00 am, Glen spoke into the room. “Okay, guys…” The din remained.

“Alright, guys, listen up!” The laughter diminished to a couple titters.

Glen said, with a hand on each shoulder, “So first off, these are the new help.” David meekly grinned and barely nodded his head. From the tone of Glen’s voice, from the rise of snickers and grunts in the room, clearly the term was of tepid derision rather than endearment. With the introductory ceremony at a close, Glen handed out the crews’ orders on meticulously cut slips of paper. The help stood at attention in their spots, discretely fidgeting. David tried to translate the string of abbreviations and numbers contained in Glen’s soliloquy into meaningful objects, but remained oblivious.

The three intimidators wrote themselves as villains into David’s story. To them, the help were visitors, passers-by, spectators of their disappointing lives. Although seasonal employees endured the most hellacious months, they were not sentenced to life without parole. They were released in August back into the Candyland of college. As an outlet for their resentment, the more grizzled techs exploited the help. The youngsters were perfect for crawling into tight spaces or climbing up to precarious heights. On one occasion, David was separated from the ground by 40 feet of air and an 1/8 inch of sheet metal. He naively assumed the technician who directed him was assured of the maneuver's safety. In contravention of the humanoid figure shown leaning out of the basket with a meaty red 'x' drawn through it, David climbed out of the cherry picker and into the belly of a rafter-mounted air handler. (David was subsequently informed by the Union Steward and OSHA expert, Mitch Blevins, disembarking from a lifted basket is a Big Time No-No.) He then hefted a compressed air tank to blow out thirty year old dust lodged in an evaporator coil, the HVAC trouble-shooting equivalent of grasping at a straw. What left him with lingering anxiety was not the hindsight risk-assumption, but the way the handler's door attached to the unit. Being a Trane and, therefore, cheaply made, it was not secured by hinges and locking clasps. Instead, the t15 pound, 2' x 3' door was held in place by screws that didn't stop spinning so much as feel at best somewhat snug when tightened. The constant rattle of the rumbling motor and the foreboding absence of two of the four screws gave David visions of an errant kickball dislodging the door and releasing it to plummet like an ax head, free to cleanly lop off an extremity or split the lobes of a coed bystander below.

The tension between help and helped was to be expected. They contrasted better than they compared. David liked to read and think about abstract topics; the crew liked to sit in their vans and listen to talk radio. David preferred to remain silent; the crew preferred to hold forth on topics of which they were uninformed but nonetheless opinionated. David struggled to lift eight-foot aluminum ladders; the crew could lift 75 pound compressors with moderate grunting. The greatest discrepancy, though, was in the hands. David’s thin, never-broken fingers, crowned with clean nails and pristine, intact cuticles, were those of a polymath. Following the first morning’s introductions, a few hands were proffered for shaking. David’s were subsumed and compressed within mitts so cut and callused he felt emasculated. It was immediately clear to all concerned David was a boy among men.

Being a boy had advantages, however, the least of which being size and agility. To the men, David was a source of envy. He was young, had a good head on his shoulders, and a full head of hair on top of that. His die had not been cast. He was encouraged on a daily basis to not make the same mistakes they did. These included: not finishing college and thereby not making something of themselves, not wearing a collared shirt and tie and telling their bosses’ boss where to get off, and not betting some serious money on the Rams in 1999. Above all, they exhorted David to never—under any circumstances—be so stupid as to get married even once. The general consensus was cohabitating was permissible, but remember: common law kicks in at seven years, so you'd best pack your bags at six to be on the safe side.

Beside the trinity of villains and the slew of minor characters, the crew had a stray hero. David collaborated best with the hard-working, quiet types, the ones who never acted comfortable being assisted. George Ranslik was one such man. George was all business, undeterrable from his objectives. The machine would submit before he did; the environment would relent before he would. George did not boast of his deeds, did not embellish their intricacy. These characteristics were made all the more stark when compared against the constantly posing peers or self-important PhDs David was surrounded by on campus. He did not lament his assignments, did not bemoan their difficulty. Unlike the majority of techs, George went straight from morning meetings to van. He did not banter with Mel in the stock room, did not finish his second and start his third cup of coffee, did not prattle on about fishing trips while the engines warmed up, did not conveniently leave his mug on the table in the break room and, while he was at it, brew a fresh pot to start the day out right. He turned the ignition, reversed with gusto, and rattled off. George frequently consulted his digital watch to ensure he labored for exactly seven and a half hours a day, rain or shine. In the company of others, he kept to himself. With David, George orchestrated complex repairs without the aid of words. David offered various modes of assistance and whenever he alighted on fitting means, George nodded slightly. That was all. That was enough.

George was the simplest man David ever met. George was incapable of anything but succinct candor, unable to manipulate others, and unwilling to shirk any duty. Questions were answered as firmly as they were succinctly. George could not be baited into reminiscing about his past. He was a closed book. His singular interest lied in the task of hand, of repairing the disrepaired.

David observed George closely and weighed the few words he uttered scrupulously. Initially, David thought of him as a secular monk or Brahmin, someone beyond the reach of the world’s trappings. But for all of the deplorable attributes he lacked, George was also bereft of the slightest trace of hope. He didn’t look forward, didn’t daydream, didn’t even betray interest in clocking out. When asked about his previous night, George replied he ate dinner and went to bed as if the gaps between meeting physiological needs were irrelevant. David concluded he was a stoic taken from the mold of Hemmingway’s Old Man. He was essentially resigned—the authentic sort that didn’t make a show about it. To others, this silent, nonplussed demeanor came off as dreary. To David, it was exemplary. George was pure, an unalloyed substance impelled by an innate and ineffable principle like an ant on the sidewalk.

Although their fates were different, David and George were kinsmen. George had in him the same overbearing taskmaster David appreciated so much in Nietzsche and empowered in himself. The only true challenge was inward. The goal was not just to ‘make yourself’ in a self-aggrandizing French existentialist way, to become anything so long as you could own it. That was aimless. That was easy. The goal was to make yourself something dark and impervious, a thing that could laugh at pain, that lived to overcome trials, that would sooner bleed than run from danger. George was so made and David was in the making. Groaning against the world was futile. Complaining did not diminish what affronted you. Avoidance could not be indefinite. The facts were still there, only out of weakness you chose not to overcome them. The procrastinating Dave became the prolific David. He lived for results, an end beyond pleasure-seeking and pain-avoidance. If the means were painful, all the better. That was why he pushed himself so hard. The pleasure he had experienced, had wallowed in for years, was retrograde. It wasn’t memorable. It wasn’t unique. It was the tepid sort of pleasure used as a filler. It was plebian, humanity’s lowest common-denominator, the yearning for death that is languid passivity, grape-eating repose. David wanted nothing to do with it.

Whenever he wasn’t accomplishing, he’d be planning ways to make up for lost time. He reread his notes during meals. He listened to lectures on the way to class, in the car, and from his car to his dorm. Even in the summer, he kept a pad of paper and a pen in his jeans pocket. The paper was puckered with sweat and the pen scraped raw paths into his thigh, but he never had to worry about an idea floating away from him. Thinking of something to do was doubly effective, because it was at once something done in the present and secured something to do in the future. At night over dinner in his room, he’d review the day’s notes. The lines were consoling evidence of his accomplishments.