In Wmstn, I try to do anything requiring a functioning brain before noon. Largely because later in the day I’m getting tired and irritable. That’s when I get really tired of the obnoxious stupid things messing with me. Not that I take it personally though. It’s when I’m pissed that I didn’t take out those last two nails on a board or the jagged metal plaster corner bead, that snags my shirt or pants or tool cord that I’m working with and I then have to dick around trying to get free. Or I can deeply impale my forehead on the meanest eighty year old board in the house that the crease becomes my new pencil holder. It’s when the extension cords become this complicated paradox of tangles. It’s a time when special things happen.
When the kids were young, we took then to oodles of fairs, carnivals and amusement parks. I would play those games of chance to win that big-ass Teddy bear. Throwing the ring onto the bottle tops. Pitching to knock off those obvious clowns. Using the glass encased hydraulic shovel to lift and drop the coveted prizes into the drawer. I wanted to be that bad ass alpha guy walking around strutting his male prowess; showing off that huge stuffed animal. “Yeah baby! I AM a provider!” But did I ever win those prizes? Hell no.
But in Wmstn in the late afternoon there is some funky shit going down. I become a master of the paranormal, Bob Villa on steroids. Or Norm the Crack Master. I deploy my latent Jedi skills, mystically defying all odds and decimating statistical probabilities. When I have that last flat head screw, perfect for the job on the second floor, I can drop it 8-10 feet and through the tiniest crevasse in the wall or floor, never to be retrieved. I can drop my hammer from a second story ladder, that performs the most complicated gymnastic tumbles, bounces and twists through cords and boards to eventually rest two floors down on the basement floor. I throw a piece of scrap wood behind my back and smash the only light bulb on the table. A board on the saw table will mysteriously move so that I cut it one foot shorter than what I needed. Or when I’m not looking, the miter saw rotates 45 degrees cutting an inverted angle, the opposite of what is needed. I make tools disappear before my eyes, or levitate and fly at the speed of light across the room.
It becomes a spiritual enclave that knows no earthly bounds nor yields to laws of physics. Where all inanimate objects become alive. I am Mickey the Wizard in Fantasia. Except these animated bundles of matter do not do the dishes or my bidding, instead acting of their own accord, despite my constant swearing. And I morph into the artistically uncouth poet, Beelzebub, and effortlessly string together paragraphs of the obscene that would make Linda Blair blush. And the innocent pedestrians who pass by the open windows and doors are captive to my poetry reading. An incendiary barrage of ear lobe frying expletives. I expect, any day, to see extra crossing guards directing children away from the haunted Swearing House at 302 E. Grand River.
It’s true. This really truly happens. And then I know it’s time to go home.