Did it have to be Saturday?

The real bitch of it is that he loved surprises, and we had a great gift for him today.

Last year for father's day, Beth gave Dad an apron that said "Double L's Daddy..."

This year, we were going to give him a matching apron that was Laura Lee's size that said "Daddy's Double L"

He never saw it. 

Today came 15 hours too late.

Messin' wit' Sasquatch...

John's an avid watcher of the T.V.  He consistantly makes references to the comic or performer that had appeared on BET (or "numba fo'teen" as he calls it) the night before.  The other day, while we were undertaking another of our painting projects, John described his favorite commercial to me. 

I'd seen it before, and I suppose I'd thought it pretty funny the first time I'd seen it, but John's description of it made it all the more hillarious.  The ad in question is one for a brand of beef jerkey (the name escapes me, and John, for that matter)... but it's predicated on a couple of white hikers who play tricks on the proverbial Bigfoot, also known as Sasquatch.... "Messin' wit' Sasquatch!" John exclaimed without prompting.  "Maa' I love da' ad... Ole Sasquatch jus' sittin' down by the riva'... Mindin' hi' own business... Ain' botherin' nobody... Jus' tryin' to catch his'self a fish... all of a sudden... 'couple 'a white guys come 'long wit' they mirrors, start shinin' it in Ole' Sasquatch's eyes.."  John started to explain the commercial I'd seen scores of times earlier, but never really thought about.  "Bu' Sasquatch wa'nt havin' none 'a that... maa'... He track them foo's down an' beat they ass!" he explained with a laugh that was surely a derivative of the justice of the adevertisement's punchline.  "Maa' I 'on't know why you'd go 'round fuckin' wit' Sasquatch... Don' make no sense to me..." 

It never made sense to me either, my man.

And his dog...

John is a self sufficiant worker.  He understands that the way into his employers heart (and more importantly, his wallet) is to find work for himself until he's asked to perform some other task.  Typically, because of his unfamiliarity with the sequence of the project's work, John occupies his time by constantly cleaning the job site.  The sheetrockers habitually leave their personal and work related trash around the job site, and this typically provides two or three hours of job security for John, who take a dumpster on wheels around the building and picks up after them.  He'll sweep the floors, run the scraper to remove sheetrock dope from the floor, and pick up trash for as long as he can, and while he'd never say it, you can tell that he'd prefer other work on the job. 

Everyone on the job hates painting.  It's one of the most monotonous forms of work the job has to offer, and as such, painting work gets delegated to those at the bottom of the totem pole: in this case, John and I do most of this type of work.  The other day, I asked John if he wanted to give me a hand with the painting process, as I had about 10 concrete filled steel beams that needed to be painted black.  We divided the labor pretty evenly; I'd sand for a bit while he'd paint and vise versa.  Work like that leads to conversations about everything and anything... family, women, college, education, alcohol, the government, the "po-lice," and in this case... pets. 

Evidently, John's a dog person... "I own a pit ri' now... He a big mutha' fucka'.  You 'on't wanna mess wit' him, i'ma tel' ya'."  he explained.  Evidently, John and I share an affinity for big dogs.  I told John about my black lab, Hobbes, who has a personality of his own.  After hearing about Hobbes, John's eyes lit up in the same way some one's eyes light up when you tell them that you know their best friend.  "Maa'!" John exclaimed, "I ha' a big ole' bac' lab, too!  Ole' Tiga' Wood'."  At first, I thought that John had switched the subject to golf... but he hadn't.  "Ole' Tiga' Wood 'a ba' mutha fucka'... You lookin' him 'da wron' way... He run you into yo' house, and wai' on 'da fron' poach 'till you come out man... He didn't ta' no shit."  I kinda looked at John, without saying anything, hoping that my silence would prompt more oratory about John's big black lab.  John stayed with his earlier theme... "You don't wanna' fuck wit' Tiga' Wood' man...  Even 'da Po-lice know 'bout Ole Tiga Wood'... Maa' someun' go an' fuckin' wit' him... he chase 'em down 'da skreet! Into they house.  But he jus' wai'... fo' em.  'Ventully, the po-lice see 'im an' brin' ole' Tiga' Wood' back home."...

"Wait..." I interrupted... "You named your dog Tiger Woods??"

"Oh! Hell Yeah!  Boy he like dat name... 'Tiiiga' Wood!'"

"Why the hell did you name your dog Tiger Woods?" I asked him

He stood there for about five seconds, clearly not expecting that question and clearly stumped by it. "I 'on't know maaa'... Prolly 'cause he black?!?" he half stated, half asked.  I didn't have the heart to tell John that Tiger Woods was actually half black and half asian... but I think you'd agree, that's a great name for a dog.

Currently Listening Stadium Arcadium By Red Hot Chili Peppers Snow see related

Meet John...

 After an influx of breakins and vandalism at the job site in the past three months, my grandfather decided it would be a good idea to hire one of the locals to work with us and make sure the place was secure at night.  The interview process was relatively simple from what I could gather... I think granddaddy decided that he would hire the first person from the area who met the following criteria... 1. The person was seeking employment. 2. The person was willing to show up at 6am every morning (when we usually start working) and work hard untill 3pm when we quit.  3. The person lived close to the job site. 

His first applicant most certainly fulfilled all of the requisite criteria.  He was the first local to ask Granddaddy for work after he decided he would hire; he was willing to be there at 6am, as he is a self diagnosed insomniac, who "Can't sleep once da' sun start gettin' to comin' up... man." And he lives accross the street from the future site of the Petersburg Urban Ministries Technical and Vocational Training Center. 

John is addicted to opiates... something I learned on the first day while we were loading a pile of trash into the back of a dump truck.  After about a solid hour of loading shovel and hand fulls of used sheetrock, putty and various cups, boxes and bottles into the back of Jesse's dumptruck, John and I decided it was time for a breether.  I leaned up against the back of the truck and slugged about half of my jug of Lemon Lime Gatorade as I thought about how great it was to be back in the Virginia sun.  Meanwhile, John leaned against the shovel he'd been using for the past hour and asked if I had the time.  It was 9:15 in the morning... 15 minutes after we'd typically take our first break of the day.  "Oh maaa'n!  It ti' fo' me to take my medicine..." He reached into his back pocket and removed a translucent brown bottle with the remnance of a prescription sticker on one of the three sides and various warning stickers on the other two.  He took two large pulls from the bottle and I could see air replacing the liquid contents.  "What the fuck is that, man," I inquired... To which John quickly replied "Shi' maa' that co-dine!" 

Tuesday was crazy.  We arrived on the job site to find the right front door unlocked... "God damnit, John!" Uncle Blair cursed our absent coworker, who had been charged with the responsibility of checking to make sure the building was locked after the sheetrockers had left for the night.  We all thought the same thing, though none of us verbalized the scenario...  John probably got off work... took the money that he'd earned from a hard day's work and invested in one or more intoxicants...  I speculated to myself: couple of 40's of OE from the gas station down the street, 4 or 5 percesets and a fat ass strawberry blunt from one of the local dealers would make for a great Monday night for John and would also explain his absence to check the locks.  Blairs rage only intensified as he entered the building and quickly returned to the parking lot... "Somebody broke into the super secret room..." he said matter-of-factly.  Two skill saws, a chop saw, a hilti hammer drill, a saws-all, two boxes of hand tools and a roll of insulated copper wire had been lifted from the building by burglers the night before... about 2 grand worth of tools retail would probably fetch $750 or $1000 from a local pawn shop... the copper wire would earn the thieves $200 at a salvage yard if they exchanged it as it was... it would be worth twice that if they had the sense to strip the insulation first.  I was still in the car lacing up my boots when I saw John stumble out of the front door of his house accross the street.  John has M.S., which severely alters his ballance, making it difficult to identify John's level of sobriety... Most of the time, I just look at his eyes to see if he's fucked up.  As he hobbled accross the street and into the parking lot, John approached the car I was sitting in... "What's up John?" I asked, expecting some canned answer about fatigue or about the monotony of life and doing the same thing every day.  "Maa' I got' stab'd las' ni'... maa'..." He said, as though he was telling me what he'd eaten for breakfast. "Wha'd you say?" I asked to make sure I'd heard him right... "I GO'T STAB'D, MAA'..." he repeated louder and slower "Ri' he'... in 'da shoulda'"  He pulled the collar of his shirt hard to his right to reveal a white bandage that was covering his wound.  "I 'on't know if I ca' work 'day, maa'... I cain't fee' my arm." I just looked at him, hoping he'd tell me more of the kick ass story that resulted in his getting stabbed.  "Da who'e t'ing numb maa'.  You think Mista Pete let me take t'day off?" he asked, rhetorically. "Cause I cain't fee' my arm... I ain't gonna' be no goo' fo' ya'll.  I 'on't e'en know if I can lift it..."  He tried lifting his arm and moved his appendage about a foot.  "No maa'... I jus' slow ya'll down t'day... man!" 

John was clearly fearful that by skipping a day of work, he'd be replaced.  This job is his lifeline, and it can't pay that much... Just a taste of life in the ghetto. 

Currently Listening 40 Oz. to Freedom By Sublime Krs-One see related

I love being employed by members of my family.  My favorite jobs are the crazy ass odd jobs that my uncle will often request of me.  Last Christmas, for example, Whit called me and asked if I wanted to make a couple hundred bucks...  He had me drive over to the airport, put a helocopter platform on blocks, take the wheels off... drive to the ghetto of a city about 60 miles away, and then haggle a price to get the wheels refilled with reinforced foam.... he gives me little to no information regarding the task...  Literally says, "go take the wheels off the platform of 203HA, drive em down to Leet Tire, and make sure you don't get fucked on the price... use the company truck."  That was it... nothing about how to change the wheels, not a word about what tools I might use, didn't go over where the hell Leet Tire was... But that's what's so cool about working for him... He knows I'll figure it out, and that I probably won't break anything, and that I probably won't fuck it up. 

I've gotten this a couple of times... "take the Altima up to Manasas Airport... it's out in bumfuck... bring a six pack of some good beer... nothing dark... get some Becks or something... be there at 6, I'll call you.  Notice, Whit puts more emphasis on what beer to buy than the actual substance of the work I'm doing... come to think of it... he doesn't tell me what I'm really doing.  That is really the coolest part of doing shit for my uncle... He'll tell me what I need to do, but won't tell me how what I'm doing fits with the larger picture.  His latest errand is a classic example of this... I got into town at 11:30 last night, and went straight to bed... I was so tired, and so I didn't see any of my family until today.

First thing my uncle says to me after he shows up to the house, gives me a hug, and goes through the obligatory small talk regarding graduation is, "I've got a job for you..."  This is the way working for my uncle goes, by the way... He'll tell me he has a job for me and ask me if I want to do it before he tells me what the job actually is.  "I'm in..." I say, "What am I doing??"...  So here's my job for Saturday, in Whit's words... "OK... I'm gonna need you at my house at 7 in the morning... You're gonna drive the Altima to Newark Airport... Leave the car in the cheapest parking lot you can find, in an even and rememberable parking spot number... DON'T leave it in spot number 4,183 or some stupid number like that... leave it in like number 5000...  Then, you'll get on a plane, and fly home to Richmond..."

Seriously, my first question: "Newark... like New Jersey???"...  "You just take 95, right??"... "Timmy, take 95, it'll be on your right."  

So, I'm not sure why... but I'm driving to New Jersey this weekend.  God I love my family.