Yesterday. It overwhelmed me. I want to put it in the rearview mirror. . . but it will be impossible for awhile. And yet. . . it seems my health has returned. I don't know. Yesterday is a goulash.
I went to the gym. I did half a workout. Everything was fine. Tennessee was there. He would come on Wednesday to repair the pipes on the guest bathroom sink. He said it would be easy. I never believed that.
Just before I left for the gym, though, there was a knock at the door. It was Mr. Tree.
"You don't return my calls," he said.
"You don't leave messages," I said. "I don't return calls if there is not a message. They are usually drive-time calls, people going somewhere who are looking for distraction. Just hey, man. . . what's up?"
We sat outside on the deck and chatted for awhile. Then. . .
"I was here yesterday. I walked around your yard."
He began to tell me what tree work I needed.
"Man, I'm tapped out. This is a bad time of year. I have a lot of big bills that come due in December and January."
"You can pay me next year," he said. "I need to keep my guys busy."
WTF? I walked around the yard with him. He showed me things.
"How much?" I asked.
He said prices had gone up, but I was his "brother" and he'd take care of me. I caved. Before I got out the door to go to the gym, the big trucks were here and the fellows working.
On the street, the city's workers were still doing the work to put the power lines underground. There were big trucks and heavy machinery lining the street.
When I got home from the gym, I needed to eat. I cooked up three eggs, sliced some sourdough bread to toast, and sliced some tomatoes. I'd see how my belly handled that.
When I finished, I was going to take a soak and a shower. The phone rang. It was Tennessee.
"Do you mind if I come over now to fix the sink?"
And the ordeal began. He brought in his bag of tools. Turns out, he didn't bring the one we needed. We took the pedestal sink apart to move it. All the bolts were rusted, though, and wouldn't turn. He tried to cut the bolt, but the tool wouldn't work. He pounded and pried. Once we had finally unbolted things, he dissembled the pipes. The one running into the wall was a problem. It was the one that would require us to tear into the wall to get to the coupling where it went into an old cast iron pipe. The flange on this end was gone.
We made a run to the hardware store.
The new pipe didn't fit. It needed to be cut. We didn't have the right tools. I tried to hold the pipe steady while he cut it with a saw. We needed two vices and a different tool. I tried to steady it with vice grips against an iron deck chair. The vibrations were so great, I almost broke a bone in my hand. Twice.
After half an hour of this, the pipe was cut.
The pipe now fit, but it was a Jerry rig at best. It was either this, though, or tearing into the wall. He attached everything and we moved the two part pedestal sink back into place. Attaching the brackets now, though, was problematic. The bowl of the sink was sitting on the bracket ledge and I lifted and shifted it while he moved the pedestal into place. Shift left. Shift right.
I suggested we run some water in the sink to see if the Jerry-rigged pipes leaked. They did.
A roach that had been in the long unused drain ran across the floor and behind the door. I closed it to step on the roach. When I opened the door, though, I stepped on one of the tools lying on the floor. I stumbled and grabbed the broken door handle I hadn't fixed right since Red broke it one drunken night a year ago. The handle came off and I started to fall. I reflexively put my hand out to the sink to balance myself.
The sink, the brackets, and six tiles came tumbling down. T caught the sink. I looked at the mess.
"Fuck me!"
We considered what to do. We decided I would have to buy a new sink.
"They are one piece," he said. "I can replace the tile. If you get a cabinet style sink, none of this will show anyway."
He pulled up sinks online. The bathroom is small. A cabinet style would shrink the room unbearably, I thought.
We put the sink outside on the deck. Just then, the big claw thing across the street roared into action. It tore into the roof. The house began to crumble. Above and around us, the tree guys were working. Neighbors were lining the street to watch the house come down. Everything was total chaos.
"Wait a minute," Tennessee said. "I think I can put this one back up."
He began to explain. It would not be as solid, but. . . . . I just shook my head.
"Whatever."
As he worked on the pipes, I went to the garage where I had some leftover tile. I brought it back. It was the tile from redoing the other bathroom a couple years ago. The tile in the bathroom we were repairing was 4.5" x 4.5". The new tile was 4.25" x 4.25". Fuck!
"You can get some at the Tile Depot," he said.
"Nope. No I can't. They don't make it now. The manufacturers do this on purpose so you have to redo everything."
I went online. I was right.
"I'll have to do a deep dive in the garage. I may have some of the old tile in there."
I doubted it, though. The last time I used the 4.5" tile was 1996. It was probably long gone.
The day was fading when T got the pipes back together and the sink in place. He turned on the water. The pipe didn't leak. He began to caulk things, but we would have to finish the whole thing tomorrow. We needed some hardware. But right then, we needed a beer.
We sat on the deck watching the tree guys and the house across the street go down. The contractor building the new house drove up. He is a filthy rich motherfucker we know from the gym. He is not one of the gymroids, though. He doesn't go out with us. There are reasons. His is a long and dirty story not to be told here.
He saw us and came over with a shitty grin looking at the neighbors in the street.
"It's a crime," I said.
He shook his head. "I'm just hired to do it," was his reply.
He stayed a minute then left.
"He's a weird guy," I said.
"Yes."
We spoke ill of him for a bit. Then we went back into the house to clean up the mess.
It was dark. The tree guys were still working with flashlights. The house across the street was just a pile of rubble. T called his wife to tell her we were going to get something to eat. We were both still in our gym clothes from that morning.
"Let's go to. . . ." I named a fancy place on the Boulevard. He laughed. We were heading to Taco Tico instead.
We sat at the bar. I was uncertain, but I ordered three pork tacos. I'd see now if my belly was able to handle such a meal.
We ate. We kibitzed with the barman. We watched the crowd. Pretty women, big, pumped up men. I felt small, old, dirty, and incompetent. We talked about the mishap.
"Man, I was just about to have it all hooked up," T said. I could say nothing. I just nodded.
Back to my place. T loaded up his tools and headed home. I was wiped. I cleaned the tub and ran hot water and Epsom salts. It was nine o'clock. I lay in the tub and tried to bring the day into focus. Everything was upside down.
After showering, I sat down for a minute. I turned on the t.v. "Maison Close." That is the name of the French brothel series. It DOES take place in the late 18th century. The sets and cinematography are beautiful. I envy the colors, the textures, the furniture, the blankets and ink jars. . . . It is all so "me."
A couple of pills and off to bed.
I wake in the dark, just before dawn. I make the coffee and open my laptop to the news of the day. Holy shit. My personal chaos is just a microcosm of the state of the country, of the world. Trump World.
I hope you fuckheads are happy.
They are.
I need to find some serenity. It doesn't seem possible.