Deductions

“I’m depressed,” Charlie says.  “The house isn’t getting done fast enough, even with subs.”

“I’m excited,” I say.  “Someone else is finishing our messes.”

“How can we be in the same situation and come up with completely different deductions?” I said.  I like my view of the situation better, for once.  It’s too tempting to be negative when you live in camp Kosovo.

The roof is the first situation today.  The roof was so bad we propped up the trusses with 2x4s.  You couldn’t walk a straight line in the garage without bumping into one or two, like you were walking through a forest; a 2x4 forest with a leaky asphalt tree canopy.  When we see the neighbor across the street, he says, “I wake up every morning, look outside and see your roof waving at me.” 

Friday, a bunch of people jumped around our roof, tearing it off.  Saturday, the roofer sistered up the trusses.  It took him all day.  He planned for a few hours.  We’ll pay extra, but his one Saturday is nothing compared to the Saturdays it’d take Charlie and the skater boys.

The roofer was up there all Monday laying boards and rolling sheeting of some sort.  I didn’t pay attention because he was quiet.  Today, he’s hard to miss.  Even the cat is freaking out.

The roofer has a rhythm going: four taps and a pause.   The pause isn’t even for a second.  It’s tap, tap, tap, tap, pause, all morning long.  He hasn’t slowed down for two hours.

Charlie came by during his lunch break to see how it’s coming along.  I have been too busy trying not to listen that I haven’t gone out and looked up.  Half the house is done.  Charlie starts yelling up to the roofer and he decides to take a lunch break, too. 

“You ever heard of that South Beach diet?” the roofer says.  “I was on that.”

“You?” Charlie asks.  “You’re young and in shape.  Wait ‘till you get my age.  Of course when you get older, you just avoid the mirror and get bigger pants.”

“No, you should have seen me before,” he said.  “Then I started the South Beach diet.  I’d go up on the roof and I’d have to stop working before lunch.  I didn’t have any energy.  I have to have carbs.  Roofers need carbs.  I have carbs now.”

Charlie had a look at the other sub downstairs, Kevin, the finest finish carpenter we know.  Somehow we roped him into sheetrocking the downstairs.  Don’t get near us if you have carpentry skills.  We’ll put you to work.

He came upstairs in a great mood.  “I love having subs around,” he said.  “I thought I was slow, but the roofer said he’d be done in two days.  He said he’d need a day to tear off and a day to install.  It took four.

“Same with Kevin.  He thought he’d be rocking for two days and it’s been four, too.  I don’t feel so bad.”

The retired neighbor walks over close to the roofer and starts talking.  The neighbor can talk and talk.  The roofer is paid by the job not by the hour, so I know he’s going to have to be rude if he wants to get back to work.  I would place bets on how long it’ll take the roofer to figure this out, but that wouldn’t be nice.  I like the neighbor.

While I’m watching out the window at the neighbor distracting the roofer, my oldest son pulls up in the driveway.  He’s been out of work since February, when he and his technological genius brain got tired of slumming at Blimpie’s and quit out of the blue.  He’s spent his time hanging out with a lot of girls and reprogramming his Xbox.

“I got a job,” he says.  “I got sick of being unemployed and went to a temp agency.  I’m smarter than I thought: I got 100% on programs like Excel and Lotus 1-2-3.  I’ve never seen a spreadsheet in my life.

“I got five job offers right away.  I worked temp and thought about it, then I got two more.  One offer was from The Mac Store, which I applied to over a month ago.  They’re opening a new store in Beaverton.  I know everything Mac, so now I get to tell rich people which expensive toys they should buy.”

“I wondered when you’d get tired of being unemployed,” I said.  “You did pretty well not working.  If you don’t have to, I mean, who wants to work? 

“I got tired of being broke and eating free burritos from my friend’s store.”

“That’ll do it,” I say.  “Nobody can make you want to change your life if you don’t want to.  I’m so proud of you.”

He had to run off, probably to get another free burrito for lunch, and I noticed the roofer still talking to my retired neighbor.  I noticed my newly employed son getting in his car quickly and leaving before making eye contact.  He’ll do just fine.

The roofer resumed his tap, tap, tap, tap, pause.  Out the window, I see the retired neighbor still standing there talking.  Now I feel bad I haven’t stopped by and see how he’s doing.  How lonely would you be to run out of your house to chat with the neighbor’s roofer?

The vegan skater boy drove up right behind Charlie coming home from work.

“I went to the orthodontist all by myself,” he said.  He’s never driven there alone.  His orthodontist is on Pill Hill, by OHSU, full of steep, windy, blind-corner roads.  It’s an art and a science both to drive there with his manual transmission.  If he can do this, he can do anything.  Maybe even get a job someday.

“I forgot you had an appointment.”

“You didn’t have to remind me,” he said.  “Come with me to SK8 Church.”

“You’re 18.  You’re legal to drive by yourself, you know.”  I thought he’d want some distance from us.  We tease him a lot and he’s supposed to be at his Dad’s this week.

“You’re coming, and we’re picking up Speed Racer.”

Speed Racer, who used to be called Country Boy until he stopped listening to Country music, tripped on his way out to the car.  Charlie laughed at him, and Speedy imitated his laugh.  They sounded like a couple of turkeys.  The vegan and I laughed at their laughing.  Speedy make Charlie’s laugh sound fake.

From then on, anything was funny.

“When we drove into the Senior parking lot,” the vegan said in a goofy voice, “there were buckets in the parking spaces.  Buckets?  Why are buckets parked here?  Buckets don’t go to school.  Buckets don’t need an education.  I’ve been mad about buckets all day.”

“You’re such a pansy,” Charlie said.  “What a pussy.”

This sort of teasing is the reason the vegan leaves without saying good-bye.

“Which is it?  A pussy or a pansy?” he said, jokingly.  Good.  He’ll say good-bye.  “Make up your mind.” 

“You’re like a little girl.”

“I’m not a little girl,” he said now imitating Arnold Schwarznegger.  “I’m a big girl.  I’m big.  I’m a very big girl.”

Charlie started laughing and Speedy immediately imitated him, which made Charlie laugh more, which made the vegan and I start laughing too.  We laughed so hard, people in other cars stared at us driving by on I-84.  I’m sure you could hear the turkey noises even on the freeway.

We drove into SK8 Church still laughing.  “Can I get a $1 for something to drink?” the vegan asked.

“I don’t have any cash,” I said.  “Here, take this.”  I handed him a handful of pennies out of the ashtray.  “That should be $1.”  You have to do embarrassing things like this or your kids will end up just like you.

The $1 drinks at SK8 Church weren’t enough and they insisted we stop at Albertson’s for Gatorade.  “It’s 10 for $10,” they said.  Why they know this and they don’t know how to put their dishes in the sink, I will never know.  We decided to stop, if only to get out of the car for a while.  You can’t believe what they smell like after a hard night of skateboarding.

While I’m paying, they both play with the lazy Susan at the checkout counter until the clerk stops it.

“You broke it,” Speedy says. 

“You looked like you were having too much fun.”

“I was,” he said.  “Not as much fun as the guy who came in here wearing nothing but a bag over his head.

“Is that true?” I ask.  “A guy came in here wearing nothing but a bag?

“Yes.  It was a cold day, too.”

“How do you know about that?”  I ask the Speed Racer.  “Unless . . . Was that one of the days you don’t have school?”

“It wasn’t me,” he said.  “I heard about it because I wish it was me.  It’s one of my goals.”

“That’s a different deduction than I’d make,“ I said.

“I wanted to do it at Homecoming but I chickened out.  I had it all planned.  I’d run from the bleachers and do a couple of spins.  I wouldn’t be boring and walk into Albertson’s with a bag over my head; I’d do it with some flourish.”

“When your Mom says you’re just like your Dad,” I ask.  “Is that what she means?”

A little help? [] 7:28:34 PM