Neither That nor the Other

When the house repairman comes and I am not going to the factory, I am in for a day of work.  Yesterday he came to finish up the projects he had started. 

"You got a can of that paint?" he asked. 

"I don't know."

"Go check out in the garage and see."

And so it begins, a day of playing "gofer." 

And of course, there is a lot of talking.  His wife and he have problems.  She had him thrown in jail once for domestic violence, an act that he adamantly denies.  He was not allowed to go near the house after he was bailed out of jail for six months.  They haven't had sex in years, he says. 

"Is that normal?!?" he asks. 

"What do I know about normal," I tell him.  "Do you want to have sex with her?"

"Hell yes, but we've been sleeping in different bedrooms for years.  She doesn't even get dressed in front of me." 

She left him last year.  She handles the business end of things, and she took all the money, he says.  Went to Texas.  He was supposed to move out there with her.  She had him bring out all his tools when he went once a month.  She told him she was taking their daughter to the rodeo.  She was going all the time.

"Does that sound right to you?"

"Um. . . maybe she know somebody there."

"Yea, you goddamned right, some cowboy." 

He was living in their four bedroom house alone without furniture.  He got up in the morning and went to work six days a week.  Came home after dark.  Then one day, a sheriff brought him divorce papers. 

"She took all the money and says she needs more.  She sold off most of my tools," he lamented. 

She's back now.  They didn't get divorced after all.  One day he surprised me.

"She used to be a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader," he said.  "She's a pretty woman." 

He dug out a picture from his wallet.  Indeed, she was. 

"You should have her come to the studio," I said.  "I'll make some nice photographs for you."

"Yea, I'll bet you would," he sneered. 

He's always asking me to show him pictures. 

"Why don't you get me a woman?  You don't want to share, do you?"

"I don't have any women."

"What about all them young girls you have in your studio?" he asks perplexed.

"I told you before." 

"Yea. . . you're one lying sonofabitch, ain't you."

"Nope." 

A married man not having sex can only think about one thing.  His imagination goes wild.  All he has left are the stories of being single.  He misses that, he thinks.  But that is not what he misses, really.  It is the other thing, the thing in front of him that is not working.  And so the conversation went until late in the afternoon. 

"Man, I have to clean up.  I told a buddy I'd meet him for cocktails at five," I said.

And suddenly, like that, he was done.  I helped him clean up and jumped into the shower.  Early cocktails at my favorite bar.  You cannot make a night of that, though.  A couple hours later it is dark but early.  My drinking companion is a happily married man.  His night would not be like the repairman's.  And mine?  Oh. . . it is full of other things, neither this nor that.  My bedroom had been torn apart in the afternoon for repairs.  I had to sort through things that had not been looked at for years.  A drawer full of old Christmas cards.  I should throw them out, I thought.  They were beautiful and sweet.  I put them into a bag.  I'd decide later.  Perhaps they could be collaged or something.  I was hesitant.  Pictures of ex-girlfriends. . . my ex-wife with my now dead cat and dog.  Thirty bottles of essential oils.  Articles of women's clothing. . . whoa!  Books with notes, gifts. . . . don't start that tonight.  I can clean this up in the morning, I thought.  Emails.  Texts.  Writing with a scotch next to my elbow, music playing.  Hungry, I put an Amy's frozen pizza in the oven.  When it was ready, I turned on Netflix, watched "Orange is the New Black," and burned the roof of my mouth. . . of course.  Wine instead of whiskey.  Rufino and pizza.  I thought of the two fellows I had seen that day. Neither that nor the other.  I didn't really care.  It was O.K.