Look Evelyn, Duck Dynasty Wiper Blades. We Should Get Them.: A Collection Of New Essays (11 page)

I tried, “Ahhh. No.”

“How are we going to row back?”

“Maybe we could swim,” I suggested, “Or you could swim and bring back help.”

“I’m not swimming. There’s sharks in there.”

“There’s people on the beach, maybe we can get their attention.”

We both tried waving, wincing at the pain.

“No,” Geoffrey said sadly, “We’re too far away. We’re going to have to row. Help me pull up the anchor.”

With a lot of complaining, we managed to pull the anchor over the side and took an oar each. It was excruciating to bend so we used the oars as paddles. Geoffrey dropped his and we had to let it go so we took it in turns with one. We didn’t cover much distance and we needn’t have bothered as a larger fishing boat came past and rescued us a few hours later. They radioed ahead to have an ambulance waiting. Due to a communication error about picking up two sunburnt and dehydrated fishermen that had obviously been drifting for days, possibly weeks, there was also a couple of reporters with cameras from the local news station waiting. We were on the news that night, the video clip showed Geoffrey and I being loaded into an ambulance on stretchers. A reporter asked Geoffrey how long we had been adrift at sea and Geoffrey answered, “All day.”

We were in the hospital for a week, covered head to toe in Vaseline. They put us in the same room though so it wasn’t all bad; Geoffrey invented a game where he would tap randomly on his bedrail and I had to guess which television commercial it was.

“Here, give me a go, ” said Holly. She pumped three or four times then squeezed the inflatable killer whale to see if it had gotten any bigger.

“Okay, you take over,” she said.

“Try on your cap.” Tom called out, “Your head must be getting pretty sweaty from all that pumping.”

“Yes, thank you Tom, I might try it on later this afternoon. When the beach clears a bit.”

Holly glared. “You’ll hurt their feelings,” she whispered, “That cap cost twenty dollars.”

“You wear it then.”

“Just put it on. And pretend you like it. I’ll scratch your back for ten minutes later.”

“No.”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Fine.”

Back scratches are a form of currency in our house. They range from five minutes for emptying the kitchen bin to thirty minutes for attending work functions or doing the vacuuming. Both Holly and I hate doing the vacuuming. We bought one of those little robot vacuum cleaners called an iRobot but what they don’t show you in the commercials is all the banging into furniture and beeping when it gets stuck. You also have to pick everything up off the floor before it runs and clean it out every time it’s finished. It takes it about two hours to clean an average sized room. I’d rather suck the dust up with a straw than listen to the horrible thing whirring around banging and beeping for two hours. If we leave the house with it running, it manages to clean approximately four square inches before getting stuck. Once we found it upside down and another time it disappeared for a week when we left the back door ajar.

“Actually,” I said to Tom, “My head is getting a bit sweaty.”

I took off my Fedora and put on the cap.

“I told you it would,” he replied, “It looks good. Very high. It makes your face look longer. No, don’t try to push it down, you need that extra space for good ventilation.”

“It does have good ventilation,” I admitted, “You were right about that. Plus now everyone will know that I would rather be fishing without me having to tell them.”

“You can wear it gardening,” Marie added helpfully.

“That’s true, I should plant some corn.”

I went back to pumping. One of the fins on the inflatable killer whale filled out a bit.

“Try pumping it faster,” Holly suggested.

Twenty minutes later, the inflatable killer whale was still only partially inflated. I declared the pump faulty and continued the job by mouth. Tom fed Cheetos to seagulls, Marie repeated her story about colourful bridges because she had forgotten the bit about the cats being able to talk, and Holly kept a running commentary on how inflated the killer whale wasn’t.

Tom removed his cap and kicked off his flip flops.

“I’m going for a swim,” he declared, “Are you coming in Marie?”

“No,” Marie replied, “I had some of your Cheetos so I should wait half an hour.”

“Cheetos don’t count,” said Tom.

“It’s better to be safe than sorry,” answered Marie.

“Fine. Holly?”

“In a minute,” Holly replied, “I’m waiting to take the inflatable killer whale in. It’s going up pretty quickly now.”

Tom headed down to the water. A wave crashed and ran up the sand to cover his feet.

“It’s warm,” he called back to us.

He walked forward until he was up to knees.

“It’s like bath water.”

“Is the tide coming in or going out?” I asked Holly.

“Out I think, why?” Her eyes widened.

Tom took a few steps deeper. He stopped, peering at something just below the surface. Reaching under, he pulled Bob out by the tail. Two crabs were attached to Bob’s face.

“Who would have done this?” Tom asked horrified. He cradled Bob like a baby. One of the crabs had fallen off, Tom had beaten the other off with a flip-flop. Most of Bob’s face was missing. “Someone threw him in the ocean on purpose, look, there’s a rock under his collar to weigh him down!”

Holly looked at me. Tom and Marie looked at me. I was a bit annoyed at Holly for that; if she hadn’t given me away, I would have been able to feign outrage that someone would do such a thing and say, “It was probably kids. You know what kids are like.”

“He wouldn’t sink,” I explained.

There was a lot more yelling than listening after that.  Things were said. Things about appropriate social behaviour and things about appropriate grave depths. Marie cried and went back up to the beach house, Holly chased after her. Tom threw my Fedora into the ocean. I threw Tom’s new folding chair with the built-in cup holder into the ocean. He picked up the knife he had brought to cut limes.

For a few seconds, I actually thought he was going to stab me. I’m pretty sure there was a moment where he at least considered it, even though he has told me since that he didn’t.

“No, don’t!” I yelled, stepping back. My fight or flight response is definitely geared towards the later.

Tom stabbed the inflatable killer whale. Three or four times. It was exactly like the shower scene in Psycho. Except with a big ‘pop’ instead of screaming and it was sunny and we were wearing well ventilated caps. He then kicked over the cooler, emptying the contents onto the sand, placed Bob inside, and closed the lid.

“Thanks for ruining the family holiday,” he said and stormed up to the beach house carrying the cooler.

I tried to find his chair by walking around in the water feeling with my feet, but, knowing there were crabs in the water, I didn’t try very hard. I did find my fedora though so that was lucky. Holly’s parents packed their belongings, cats and the cooler into their car and left.  Holly and I left an hour or so after them.

I visited Home Depot a few weeks later to buy Tom a replacement chair. They’d run out of blue, so I got him a green one. He still wasn’t talking to me so I quietly left it on the front porch by the door. The cooler was also on the porch so I cracked the lid and peeked inside just to make sure Bob wasn’t still in there.

“We buried him,” said Tom. I hadn’t heard him open the door.

“Oh,” I said, startled, “Where?”

Tom’s eyes narrowed, “I’m not telling you.”

This summer, I tentatively asked Tom if he’d booked a beach house for this year and he told me that he and Marie had decided to spend the money on a gazebo for their backyard instead.

I knew my neighbour Carl was going to be trouble the first time I met him. He’s a short man and short men are angry, horrible things. Being born short is something a woman can live with - it’s seen as cute - but a short man will never forgive the world for such a cruel blow. Short men hate normal sized humans, they wish cancer and car accidents against them and have dreams about being the size of a mountain and stomping on people. Short men have short fat wives with tight curly hair and they are angry about this as well.

We purchased our property when the trees were in full bloom. It’s a nice, unpretentious place with a wraparound deck on a few private wooded acres with trails and a river nearby.

I’ve never owned a house before. The day Holly and I signed a foot high stack of documents and were given the keys, we drove to our new property and walked from room to room discussing what we would do to the place. It wasn’t a new home; it was built in the eighties and had certain design elements pertaining to that period. People really liked glass bricks in the eighties. And pastels. And carpet with flecks that looks like someone has spun around in circles while holding an open box of cake sprinkles.

“We have to paint first,” said Holly.

Every room was a different colour or technique. The previous owner must have watched one of those DIY shows where they show you how to sponge paint onto a wall to create a textured effect but missed the part apart using shades of the same colour. The base colour in the living room was battleship grey, the highlight lemon yellow. It looked like someone had thrown custard at an elephant.

“Then we’ll put in floorboards, rip out the kitchen and bathrooms, and make the master bedroom bigger. With a large walk-in closet. For me. You can get a set of drawers or something.”

“That will cost a fortune” I said.

“They don’t have to be good drawers, ones from IKEA or something.”

“No, the renovations will be expensive.”

“No they won’t. We’ll do all the work ourselves. We’ve watched a thousand home renovation shows.”

“Yes, but the people in the show have a show because they know what they are doing.”

“Not really. That blonde lady that buys the old houses and does them up is just winging it and her stuff turns out alright.”

“The one that says, ‘Why the hell would they cover that up” at the start of each episode? I like that show.”

“You love her, don’t you?”

We painted the walls (Valspar silver dust) and the house looked a lot better. Encouraged, we tackled a bathroom. Enthused, we did another bathroom and the kitchen. Then the floors. Holly mainly supervised. Her expertise lay in complaining about dust and asking why I didn’t hang up plastic sheets before doing dusty things. She could use a screwdriver when she had to but pretended to be incapable of operating power tools.

“What’s the NO button for?

“What?”

“The button that says NO.”

“You’re holding it upside down.”

My friend JM was very helpful though. He’s a builder by trade so whenever I completed each project, he’d visit to tell me what a terrible job I’d done.

“Did you check if that wall is load bearing?”

“Well, no, but...”

“The entire roof is going to collapse and you’re going to die. Also, remember to change your smoke alarm batteries every six months, the rewiring you did in the kitchen is a tragedy waiting to happen. Have you ever been in a house fire?”

“No.”

“You will be.”

I knocked out walls, added walls, stole space from other rooms for walk in closets, stained the deck, added to the deck, stained that. For six months, I lived in cargo shorts, knee-pads and sturdy boots. I wore a measuring tape on my belt and my pockets were full of drill bits and carpenter pencils. I knew the names of all the staff at my local hardware store and purchased every tool they stocked.

“David, didn’t see you yesterday.”

“Well I was here. You must have been working in the shelving aisle. I was in plumbing. How are Brenda and the baby doing?”

“They’re good. What are you getting today?”

“I actually just came in for a hinge but I’ll grab this reticulating saw, orbital sander, bench grinder, air compressor, extension cord and 36 pack of AA batteries as well. ”

Then the money ran out.

What’s this charge on Visa for six-hundred dollars?”

“From which day?”

“Tuesday.”

“That would be the Oxy-Acetylene welder then.”

“What are you welding?”

“Nothing, it’s just handy to have.”

“You’re taking it back.”

I was like a junkie without means to my next hit.  For a few days, I wandered aimlessly about the house staring at walls that needed doors in them and doors that needed to be walls - possibly with some kind of rustic faux-brick application.

I measured things and nodded sadly. I stopped watching the DIY channel; it was like watching porn with both your arms amputated.

“Why don’t you do some work outside?” Holly suggested.

“Hm.”

“You could build a pond.”

Plans were drawn, shovels sharpened, the recommended water depth for Koi researched.

Digging the hole took longer than I’d anticipated. The soil was compacted and there were a lot of rocks. Not good rocks, useless fist sized rocks that clanged when struck with a shovel and send shock waves through your hands and wrists. I developed trigger finger. It’s a real thing.

A week later, Holly stood at the edge of the pit watching as I poured concrete over contoured rebar and mesh. The materials had cost several hundred dollars but it had been Holly’s suggestion to build the pond so it was unfair for her to carry on about it.

“It’s pretty big,” she said.

“If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.”

“Sure. What are you going to do with all the dirt you’ve removed?”

“I don’t know, maybe make a rockery.”

“That sounds nice. Where are you going to get the rocks?”

“You can find rocks anywhere.”

I located a few decent rocks down the creek behind our house. They were heavy and took about an hour each to roll up the hill. I positioned them around the pond. Very natural. It needed more rocks though. I searched the creek again, with a shovel this time, and dug up a few more. I positioned those aesthetically above and behind the other rocks with dirt in between. It needed more rocks.

“I think you have enough rocks,” Holly commented as she fed our new Koi.  She’d named one Gene Simmons and the other Glimmer - it had been a long day and I couldn’t be bothered arguing.

There were approximately two hundred rocks of various size and shape. Some were a greyish colour, others bluish slate. My favourites were those with lichen and moss. I’d planted ferns and ivy between the larger rocks - the largest of which I moved into place using a pulley system devised between two trees after researching ancient Egyptian building practices. It had taken me several days but it was beautiful.

“What?”

“I said I think you have enough rocks.” Holly replied.

“You can’t possibly be serious. There’s a space between the north rockery and west rockery that needs at least another five large rocks and ten average sized ones. I was also thinking of extending the South rockery all the way to the spitting duck.”

It had become an obsession. Everywhere I went I thought, “That’s a nice rock.” I kept gloves in the car so I could stop and take rocks if nobody was looking. I spent a lot of time on the Geographic Information Systems website for our area. GIS is similar to Google Maps but shows an overlay of property lines. I planned routes well out of my way so I could drive near public creek beds and rivers. I had dreams about rocks and woke up thinking about rocks. 

Rockeries appeared everywhere. The problem was that the rockeries looked so good, it made areas without a rockery look like they were missing something.  I was working on a rockery near our driveway when I met Carl. It was autumn.

I’d caught a few glimpses of him riding back and forth across his lawn on his ride-on mower as the trees between our properties shed their leaves. He was an old man. Late seventies I’d guess. He always wore the same blue shorts and never wore a shirt. His nipples hung from large saggy flaps, swinging and flopping as he rode over bumps and around turns.

I was rolling a rock into place when he just kind of appeared out of nowhere. Short men are very sneaky. That’s why most of them are pickpockets. Carl stretched his mouth into what I suppose he thought was a smile. It looked more like a grimace. His small teeth looked like the tombstones you see in old cowboy movies, tilted and discoloured, apart from one gleaming white one. It at least provided some distraction from his chest flaps. As did his Invicta watch.  I don’t like Invicta watches. I’m not a watch snob, I just don’t like Invicta watches or the people who wear them. I realise there is a market for Invicta watches but there is also a market for singing fish. I sometimes flick over to the shopping channel where they sell Invicta Watches just so I can yell at the television.

“Up next, we have the Invicta Armada IV in 100% real gold plate. This stunning piece is almost as thick as it is wide, see how the dial covers our model’s entire arm?”

“Oh my god! $699 or $30 per month over 24 months for that?”

Holly usually tells me to stop watching if it upsets me so much and I tell her that I just want to see the next one...

“Oh my god! ! It’s worse than the previous one! Who is buying these dreadful things?  The dial looks like a Ball jar lid and there are bits sticking out all over the place. Who needs twelve buttons on the side of a watch? I can’t handle this.”

“Then change the fucking channel. We’re missing Below Deck.”

“I just want to see the next one.. Oh my god! Look at it!”

Below Deck is my favourite program on television which shows how much I dislike Invicta watches. Short men like Invicta watches. And child porn.

“Hi. I’m Carl.”

“David. How do you do?” We shook hands.

“Good, good. I just wanted to ask if you knew where the property border is.”

“Sorry?”

“The property border.”

“Er, yes. It’s near the tree line. Why?

“No, it actually runs parallel two feet from your driveway. All of these rocks are on my property.”

“Are you serious?”

Carl frowned, “Yes, of course I’m serious.”

“Actually, the property border is near the tree line,” I corrected him, “There’s a metal pole in the ground over there.”

“No, that pole’s wrong.”

“Yes, I know. According to the Geographic Information System’s website, the pole should be about eight feet closer to your house. I wasn’t going to bother about it though, you know, because it would seem a bit petty.”

Carl’s face turned red and contorted with anger like one of those Indonesian god masks people hang on their walls near a big vase with wiggly sticks. A small version of the mask obviously, hung way too low. I was taken aback for a moment.

“Right! You want a fucking problem? You’ve got a fucking problem. We’ll let the man deal with this.”

“What man?” I asked, looking around.

“The man. The law. Are you stupid?”

“I’ve just never heard it called that before. Is it a Sixties thing?”

“Everyone calls it that.”

“No, I’m pretty sure they don’t.”

“Yes they do.”

“We’ve lived here twenty years,” shouted Carl’s wife.

She’d appeared from behind a tree like a magic elf. She was short and fat and had tight curly hair.

“Sorry?”

“We’ve lived here twenty years.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Carl and his short fat wife stared at each other with their mouths open like those furry things on Sesame Street that try to communicate with a rotary telephone.

“We’ve lived here twenty years.” she yelled again.

“Right, well I should probably get back to my rockery but it’s been a pleasure. Brownies might be the traditional welcoming gift but having tiny lunatics yell at you about invisible lines and occupancy periods is probably the next best thing.”