Smiling and Swallowing Sawdust

When I first brought all my worldly goods out to California, the stuff in my storage unit fit nicely. It was neat and organized and there was a path down the middle of the space so I could get to everything. I even knew where just about everything was, even though I'd had no time to label boxes when I had to move in a hurry (long story). But, stuff happens, ya know? I took cold weather (hahahahaha) clothes out and put warm weather clothes back, books out, books in, etc., and I wasn't always careful to repack perfectly.

Then my father wore me down and got me to go back to Florida to pack up as much of my mom's things as I could ("so they won't be stolen after I die"). The things that survived the awful, horrible, untrustworthy, did I say horrible? people at UPS had to go into the unit, too. The stacks went higher and there was no longer a pathway in the middle. After trying to get something I needed one day and being saved from death-by-avalanche-of-boxes by my guardian angel, I gave up retrieving anything that wasn't within a foot of the door. And the stacks of boxes are leaning precariously, and who knows what's happening to the stuff in the bottom boxes. It can't be good.

I thought that a few six foot long 2x12s would be the solution. Stack up some cinder blocks (less than a dollar a piece) between them and -- Bob's your uncle -- shelves! But Home Depot wanted about ten bucks a piece for the boards. It quickly turned into a $40. or so idea, and wouldn't be all that sturdy. Then a friend said he'd give me some boards, that it was no problem because he had scrap wood, blahblahblah. He lied. He didn't get them for me and now he never will.

So the whining began. I swear, it comes so easily to me that I don't even realize I'm doing it. That goes for pouting, too. I'd bang around the kitchen, making lunch or dinner, and grumble about something. John, my landlord, would ask what I was going on about. I'd say that I wasn't talking to him, but since he asked I couldn't get to such and such because my storage unit had become an unfriendly place, and I couldn't buy another such and such knowing there was one in my storage unit -- heavy sigh, lower lip protruding -- somewhere.

He asked if I'd looked at Craigslist to see if anyone was giving away shelves. I had. No one was. He announced yesterday, when the power in our neighborhood was off all day long, that we'd go to Home Depot and price the lumber necessary for him to build me two storage shelves. He'd do it for free, as long as I paid for the materials.

Most who know me know that my opinion of John changed dramatically after Gwen got sick and went into the hospital. And that he did something so despicable that Rick had to teach me self-defense techniques. (I am stuck here for the time being. No one reputable will rent an apartment or a room to someone with no job, so I can't simply move.) But, after weeks of barely speaking to him, except to mention that I'm armed, he's stopped that behavior. And I looked at this as an opportunity to see how "those" women live. The ones who live with men (men they only pretend to like or love, as they make them miserable, refusing to share affection, etc.) while using them as meal tickets. One really shouldn't judge until one knows what they're judging. The closest I'd get to knowing would be this sort of situation. So I went to Home Depot with John.

2x3s are ridiculously expensive. Seriously, the cheapest ones were about 2 dollars each. This time the total was going to be about $50., for a crappy set of shelves that would forever live in the dark of my storage unit. I gave up. But John said I should just keep checking Craigslist every day, because you never know.

I checked Craigslist this morning and the first thing listed under the Free category was, "Wood." The pic showed a big pile of lumber and plywood and gave a number to call. Praying that it wouldn't be located so far away that the price of gas would make it impossible, I called. It was in Oxnard! I went running into the living room and yelled (partly out of excitement, partly because John is hard of hearing), "Free wood in Oxnard!" John wanted to know where in Oxnard, as if somehow the next town over might still be too far to drive, depending. I told him it was 12 minutes away (made that up) and he approved so we left to check it out.

John doesn't like Oxnard. At all. The entire town. Because a lot of Hispanic people live there. That he ever seemed like a nice guy is part of the power of Gwennie. Somehow her love shined so brightly that it hid John's dark side. As we drove slowly down a side street, looking for the address, John announced that he felt like he was in Louisiana, and I knew that probably wasn't a good thing. But I didn't say, "They have less money in this neighborhood, John. It's not a crime or a disease." No, I kept my thoughts to myself because I was using this man to get the material thing I wanted and couldn't get for myself.  I felt slightly ill.

Joe, the wood owner, came out and we introduced ourselves. We walked through his backyard to where the lumber was stacked on the side. It'd been there a while, and some of it was in bad shape, but he wasn't selling it. John started disparaging the condition of the pieces and, feeling embarrassed, I said, "Let's remember the price here, John. Free." Joe smiled and nodded his head at me, obviously not all that bothered by anything John said. He told us we should go around to the other side and check the pieces there. We did, and they looked better to John. He went to move his truck and told me to start bringing pieces over to the front, and put them over the fence so he could load them into the pickup. Joe looked a little upset.

I grabbed a 2x6, all of which were from 8 to 10 feet long, and walked across the front yard and deposited it on the other side of the fence. Joe grabbed one, obviously helping me because John wasn't going to. John is 75 and he doesn't have the strength he once did. I wasn't surprised that he expected me to do the heavy lifting. But, boy, Joe sure was. Then I felt bad because Joe was giving us this wood for free, and now he felt obliged to help me move it, too. So I moved faster. Then I started to pick up a piece and it was two 2x6s nailed together. I didn't think that'd be a problem, and it was two in one trip, so I started back to the fence. Joe turned and saw me and said, "Whoa. You're buff!" Well, no, I'm not, but it was ever so nice to hear. I smiled sweetly. Poor Joe then felt obliged to carry two pieces at a time. All the while John just put one board into the truck at a time, and told me how many more we needed. Maybe you had to be there, but it was uncomfortable and funny at the same time.

I thanked Joe profusely, John ignored him, and we stopped at Home Depot again for a particular kind of screw or nail. I waited in the truck to guard the bounty. The pieces that had all been "not too good, but they'll do" were suddenly temptations for all the other men with pickup trucks who happened to be in the parking lot at the moment.

Back at the house, I unloaded the truck while John moved his power saw (it's on a table with wheels) from the garage to the patio. He had a long discussion with himself about how to build this thing. He'd convinced me that two, 6 foot by 3 foot shelves were the best idea. Now that he saw how much wood needed to be cut to size, one 6 foot by 6 foot shelf was suddenly the only way to go. I truly didn't care. Shelves. Get my stuff organized again, and not have one box crushing another. That's my goal. I waited for him to stop drawing on one of the boards, made comments like, "Um-hum," and "If I knew how to build this, I wouldn't need you to do it," and finally he announced how many of each size we needed. The final total was: a lot.

We had to cut 6 six foot long boards, 8 three foot long boards, two 78 inch boards, and 16 boards that were first cut to 16 inches, then in half to make them 2x3s. Anyone who's cut lumber needs no further explanation, but let me just say to the rest of those reading -- that's a lot of lifting, holding, bending to place in piles, and enough sawdust clean up a medium-sized oil spill. And John had me pick up each and every board. He measured, and he sawed. I'm not a fan of power tools, but I really would've preferred his job after a while. A 2x6 that's 10 feet long is not light.

Today was gorgeous, weather-wise. Sunny, in the mid-60s, with a nice breeze. My sunglasses kept slipping, so the glare blinded me as I held onto the lumber that John was sawing. My hands were sweating inside winter gloves (couldn't find my work gloves -- they're probably somewhere in the storage unit), and the freakin' wind kept blowing the sawdust into my face. I had my eyes closed a lot of the time -- while working around a 10" power radial saw -- but I breathed in way too much of the stuff. Why I didn't put on a mask is one of those mysteries of life, right up there with how I can think I'd know if someone is lying and then not recognize it until I'm hit over the head with the lie, and on my list to contemplate at some later date.

I lost count of how many times John asked me what we were cutting and how many we needed. I've known for some time that his memory is worrisome enough that he should go to a neurologist and be checked out. But it's not my place to suggest it. He had Gwen, and she didn't broach the subject with him. He has a wife, and either she doesn't see him enough to notice it or she doesn't want to say anything, either. I just answered him each time he asked, and suggested we finish the project tomorrow, after all the cutting was done. He was in favor of that, and said I could clean up. Could. As if doing me a favor. But, hey, I couldn't fit all that lumber in my Saturn and I don't know how to build this shelf. I'll know by the time we're done, but for now it's outside my skill set. I smiled and cleaned up.

The most annoying aspect of working with John was that I was doing most of the work and he was acting as if he was doing all the heavy lifting -- literally. He's practically preening over how he's building this thing for me, and how my life as I know it will be immeasurably improved because John deigned to help me with this problem. And I'm smiling and nodding and thanking him. Because I want the damn shelf.

This is a small thing. Unless something unforeseen happens, we should finish it tomorrow. I will buy him lunch (I've already given him $5. for gas), and refuse to let him pretend to help me with my stuff. He can deliver the shelf to my unit and go home, and I'll spend a couple hours moving things myself. It'll be over, though I imagine he'll want to bask in how wonderful he's been for some time. And that will bug me, but life is full of little annoyances that we have to deal with. I'd never do more than smile falsely or thank insincerely to get something, and after this experience I doubt I'll go this far again. It's dishonest. It's going on my permanent record, for sure. And I'd rather be too nice, too trusting, too generous, and ultimately too gullible, but be free of guile.

I can't imagine how women stay in marriages or relationships with men they are using for financial reasons. To stay with someone, most especially someone you loved and respected at some point but no longer do, because you want the nice house or the good school district for your son, must kill your soul. That's the lesson I learned, along with how to build a shelf.