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no room for hipsters

the occupation of Ashley and Levon

(by Levon who is listening to the Dirty Guvnah’s “Song for my Beloved”)

I’m working construction and sort of mixed loving it.  I have a very serious tool bag that Frankie gave me so from the start all I have to do is stay quiet and I’m considered a skilled resource.  All day people ask me what I think and I agree with them.  If it doesn’t work and they must improvise I tell them, “that’s an even better idea.”  Confidence is key.  Hands that are willing are never phony.

Truth be told, I’m learning and tucking these lessons away for future phases of handymandyness.  After all, I have to impress Ashley and atone for my past restorations with their iffy compositions.

Good tools may ward off nicknames, but I still lack a trade or any resemblance of artistry that comes with being skilled with one’s hands.  My given tasks are mundane and often the most strenuous or tedious.  Scrubbing tile grout, moving stacks of wood, shoveling piles of gravel, or monkeying around up in the rafters or under floor joists.  My current occupation has been an improvement, hanging bathroom paneling.  I’m constantly double crossed by my eyeball’s attempts at precision.  As they say, measure twice (lose the pencil, forget the measurement, walk around looking for the tape, stare blankly at the board, measure again) and cut once.

I would be lying if I said I carry a chipper grin all the time, eager to hold course in stoic plight for a rock n roll glory should the stars deem me worthy or chanciful.  No, I fret and worry a lot, on the back end of a speeding treadmill mathematically in vain, the best scrambling odds I can get for the hope that I hold out.  My head feels like a bebop solo on a scratched CD in the back of a shared Mexico City taxicab.

ashley took as I was writing you, bag for sale on etsy.com

I was sleeping very stormily in the wee hours this morning under an open window.  Something suddenly landed in the middle of my ear and ran up my ear canal before I could realize it was no dream.  The terrified insect was fighting for his life, beating my ear drum with six legs and plugging the hole behind him to block all other sound but his own hysteria.  My hysteria was exponentially greater.  I jolted up from bed and began jumping on one foot and hitting myself in the head.  Ashley was staring at me in the moonlight and convinced I was hallucinating.

“There is a freaking…. sh.t!! there is a freaking… oh man…”  Pure panic.

I couldn’t articulate the problem and she was seriously concerned.  I ran downstairs for a Q tip but I knew we didn’t have any.  The bug was higher up the shoot than I knew it went.  All brain activity seemed to startle it worse and I kept hopping in circles, hitting my head.

piano stand converted to sewing desk

“Baby, come drive me to Krogers.  We have to get Q tips…ah  ah  eeeh!”  As she was coming I suddenly realized I had to turn my head the other way and let it run up instead of down.  With bug ear up, I think I stretched the passage wider so it could inch up a few more steps.  I screamed.  I walked out in the moonlight to give him a visual for the end of the tunnel.  I hit my head some more.  Then as quick as he ran in, he ran out and I heard him hit the concrete.  I turned on the light to get a sight of my torturer and found a beetle of some sort, nonchalantly thanking me for the lift back outside.

It was 5 am and I was at Krogers.  I got Q tips and decided I also needed Twizzlers.  And eggs to save a trip.  Then I was welcomed as a valued customer, as is customary.  As I stepped out into the parking lot I realized that anyone who had just seen my face was probably repeating the old Knoxville adage, “You never know what you’ll see at the Fellini Krogers on Broadway.”

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