Waiting for stuff to get done

(Here's an envelope.)

Dear self,

Pardon the bad recent public diary entries: I’m stressed and thus in need of some mechanical act to perform, to alleviate my worries, and writing is the only act that I deem worthy of doing — I’m not going to take up knitting or learn to cook a hamburger — yet it’s precisely when I most need to speak that I have nothing to say.

(I was tempted to make that last part say: it’s precisely when I’d most like to sermonize that God gives me the silent treatment.)

The thing that’s bothering me today is that our driveway is getting repaved. Actually it’s not only that but an entire tear-up and new foundation PLUS a repaving. The crew that’s gonna do this work was supposed to begin on Tuesday, but they called and said “Sorry, all of our tools broke and we need to weld them together, so we’ll bug you on Wednesday instead.” I’m sure they’ll do a good job, because I’m a stupid optimist, but, until the event is finished, I’ll fill the wait-time with fret.

If we lived in a society where We the People collectively pooled our resources and took care of each other, so that all driveways got maintained as a matter of course, then I’d be as concerned about this project as I ever formerly was about the landscaping team that would routinely visit our old apartments to cut the grass and trim the shrubbery — which is to say, I’d not worry a bit. However, being a rugged individual who’s responsible for his own rectangular ranch-house, I’m a member of no collective, greater family or association (we are not communists here except whenever any neighbor needs help or when a newborn baby enters the world: then it’s “to each according to their needs; from each according to their ability”; I am, however, trying to get the local government to pass a law that would rack up huge debts for infants who breastfeed: cuz how else shall the mother recoup her loss: just because you decided to become a giver of life doesn’t mean that you should be barred from turning a profit), this means that I must fork out more U.S. dollars than the number of singing angels that John of Patmos claims he saw “round about the throne and the beasts and the elders” in his Book of Revelation (5:11) — that is, this driveway renovation shall cost ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousands of thousands of dollars. So don’t tell me I don’t have skin in the game, and don’t tell me I don’t have a horse in this race. I very much want my skin and my horse to WIN.

So a representative from this paving company told us that to make a smooth and pleasant transition between the driveway and the garage floor will require full access to the latter, therefore they need to know the passcode to the exterior door-opener’s keypad. Now, the instant they asked this, without pausing to think, my sweetheart opened her big mouth and blurted out our password; so I had no chance to do things MY way (the right way) — for I wanted to say to the company’s rep, “Give us a sec,” and then step a few paces back and huddle together with my sweetheart, so that I might whisper to her the plan that I devised:

“Let us change the garage door’s passcode to something else, just for the duration of this project, so that they (the employees of the paving company) can use that (the temporary code) while the job is underway; then, once the work is completed, after the workers have left for good, I will simply reprogram the keypad to accept our old password. Here’s my idea: For the paving company, I would like to set our door’s code to ‘666’, so that you and I will appear to be worshipers of the beast.” Again I’m referring to John of Patmos, who writes (in Revelation 13:18)...

Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.

Now a score is twenty, and threescore is sixty, so what John is trying to say is “six hundred and sixty-six” or “666” (pronounced “six-six-six”), but he’s not too clear of a communicator.

This beast that John speaks of, by the way, is introduced in the first two verses of that same chapter thusly:

And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy.

And the beast which I saw was like unto a leopard, and his feet were as the feet of a bear, and his mouth as the mouth of a lion: and the dragon gave him his power, and his seat, and great authority.

I just thot you’d find that interesting. So, next time you’re at a party and someone asks you “What’s your astrological star sign and your favorite animal?” you can answer: “I’m a Virgin, and I have a thing for the bear-footed leopard.” Or alternately you could refer to your love interest as “the lion-mouthed leopard-bear of the ocean which is fueled by dragon-power” if you’re a stickler for accuracy.

Anyway, as I was saying, my sweetheart ruined all plans to change our passcode to the mark of the beast, so we just gave them our regular boring secret code, which is the same as our bike lock, and I spent the rest of the day moving all the junk that we had been storing in the garage down into the basement. Most of the junk was what we inherited from the previous owner; but, unlike all the junk that he’d left in the house, this junk from the garage is semi-useful: it’s a whole bunch of tools and stuff. Lots of bottles labeled “goo” & “goop” & “gunk” — you know, cleaners & thickeners & adhesives, etc. And then there are a number of power tools, very frightening to behold; and bazillions of screws & various types of metal fasteners.

I had to translocate all this stuff, cuz I’m paranoid that the workers will forget to close our garage door after opening it. They’ll finish working and just walk away, leaving our poor house exposed to all passersby. And when passersby spot an open garage, they assume that its contents are free for the taking. So, thankfully, I cleaned ours out: now there’ll be nothing for them to grab except a couple scraps of wood, some rusty nails, and four snow tires wrapped in plastic (for use on a white hybrid motorcar). Moreover, as they say: He who would pilfer the wealth of the Indies must be able to lift it; and those tires are pretty heavy. But I suppose you could roll them home.

*

Now after running up and down the stairs wearing oversized gloves and carrying oddly shaped items from the garage to the basement repeatedly, I was asweat. That’s why I behaved so awkwardly when I heard our doorbell ring and went to answer it, thinking it must be one of our friendly neighbors, yet it turned out instead to be a financial adviser soliciting door-to-door. So I said:

“The reason I’m all sweaty is that we moved in to this house about a year ago but the previous homeowner left so much of his junk here that I’m still in the process of getting rid of it; I’m currently dealing with the garage: I’ve been working all day, running upstairs & down, manhandling objects; and that’s why these gloves that I’m wearing are clownishly oversized: I found them in one of the toolboxes that the guy left. His hands must’ve been quite a bit bigger than mine.”

And the financial adviser said, “That’s OK — I’m a financial adviser, and the reason I’m here is that I’m going around the neighborhood asking people if they’ve got a good plan for retirement. Do you have a retirement plan?”

Here I laughed loudly, involuntarily. Then I answered, “No, my plan for retirement is: Drop dead while laboring. I’m sorry that I laughed; it’s just that I make no money, so this concept of financial advice strikes me as comically absurd.”

And the salesman said, “That’s fine. What is it that you do?”

And I answered, “I’m a writer.”

“Oh? What kind of writer?”

“An experimental writer. That’s why I’m penniless. The imagination is of no worth in this country. Poetic genius is verboten.”

And then the guy said, “Oh. Well, is there a phone number I can reach you at?”

And I laughed again and said, “No.”

Then, after a moment of silence, he said: “Um, alright, well let me leave you with some information — my number and website are listed on this pamphlet, in case you’re interested.”

And I took the pamphlet, and the paper was quivering because my hands were trembling. For my nerves get inflamed by moneymen: I’m prone to break forth upon them.

And the LORD said unto Moses, “Away, get thee down, and only thou and thy brother shalt come up: but let not the priests break through to come up unto the LORD, lest I break forth upon them.” (Exodus 19:24)

So I guess that’s all I really have to say today: I’m anxious about the driveway project, and I had an emergency meeting with a financial adviser. Thanks for listening. See you tomorrow.