It also never seems to be applied by a painter, exactly; the evidence
of my eyes suggests it was a nine-year-old trying to knock out the job in an
afternoon with a rubber spatula. It’s
uneven and dries and hardens in long drips, like amber raindrops running down a
windowpane caught in a freeze frame. From
observation of places where the paint layer is particularly thin, or has
chipped away, it’s clear that my off-white dining room used to be blue, my blue
bathroom used to be pink, and the strike plates on the doors didn’t used to be
painted. Next to the light switch in my
bedroom the paint has chipped away so deeply I can see the previous five colors
that room used to be; it’s like cutting down a tree and counting the rings. They
paint over electrical outlets and picture hangers and the pocket change left on
a windowsill.
There are no straight lines in my apartment. Windows are cut into the wall at odd angles
not exactly in line with the ceiling. Sometimes the ceiling itself has the
barest slant. This makes hanging a
picture evenly a task to be completed not with a level, or some other
craftsman’s tool, but rather with one eye nearly shut and the other eye bulging
(think Popeye) and a fair amount of compromise.
Every door in my place has been kicked in at least once. Long splinters of wood are missing from the
jambs, clearly ripped away by the bolt and replaced with more paint. Sometimes I indulge in the fantasy of a
Prohibition-era thug holed up in my bathroom while impeccably dressed cops or
capos kick at the latch until the door explodes inward. Collars are grabbed and sneering faces are
shoved into cowering ones. Maybe someone
was even thrown out of a window.
I feel less like I’m in an apartment and more like I’m in a tree fort
with electricity. It’s pretty awesome.
The quality of repair (if it can be referred to as such) once led to a
mildly embarrassing situation. I had
been living here for about four months before I had my first guest – it was our
second date. We were watching Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (I don’t go in for
rom coms, thankyouverymuch) when I excused myself to the bathroom. As this was the first time I had company,
this was the first time I had need to shut my bathroom door.
Trying to pee quietly when a potential romance is brewing in the other
room is harrowing enough. It’s a common
enough situation, I suppose, so I presume what followed has very little
precedent in the overall world of dating life.
I tried to leave the bathroom, but when I grabbed the knob I heard
something tiny and metal hit the tile.
The knob pulled easily enough, but the door stayed shut. The knob had come off in my hand.
I stared in disbelief at the object I held – a clear pseudo-sphere that
had been masquerading as the key to my egress and back to my potential make-out
session. The door retained a hole where
the knob had been, a semi-perfect round lip that matched the “O” of surprise in
my face.
This did not just happen, I thought to myself. It didn’t help. I tried pawing at the door plate
ineffectually like my cat does when she’s on one side and wants to be on the
other. That didn’t help either. A square shaped prong jutted out from the
hole where the knob used to be like a mocking tongue. Nyah
nyah, the door seemed to say. You’re stuck fella, and you’re not getting
out of this on your own.
I briefly considered calling to my date for help, but the bootheel of
my pride snuffed out that glowing ember of hope before it could catch fire. I squeezed the contemptuous prong with thumb
and forefinger, barely able to obtain a grip, and twisted with the might of
growing panic. I quickly determined that
only the strength of the wrath of God could get that to turn without a tool. The consideration to call for help arose from
my depths once more, but I shoved its head below the surface to drown. Visions of the door crashing in attending
high drama were replaced with visions of my date demurely letting me out as one
would a pet who was put away for the day to prohibit pee stains from occurring
on the carpet.
I am a man, I thought to
myself. A macho man who has done home repair.
A man who was suave enough to talk himself into a second date. I can get out of this. But these thoughts were only shouts in
the storm compared to the simple plank of wood, securely fixed, that stood
between myself and the hallway.
Suddenly I remembered the ting!
I heard at the start of my little adventure.
I searched the floor and found a tiny screw. Bitty.
Insignificant. Barely worth
notice. But worthy enough to be shoved
through an equally tiny hole in the doorknob, grip the metal protrusion, and twist
my way to freedom.
Success! I got the door open and
suppressed a derisive cry of victory.
The first order of business was to grab a screwdriver and fix the knob
with, at least, the illusion of permanence.
I couldn’t have my date suffer the same indignity I just had. I was simply grateful she didn’t go in first.
I rejoined her on the couch where we finished the movie and ignored the
fact that I a) took too long in the bathroom and b) developed a problem in
there that could only be solved with a fucking
toolbox.
I’m lucky I have other things going for me.
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