Man's Work
by Wayne Scheer (no relation)
"Well, what do we do now?" Darlene asked her husband while staring at the wet clothes in the dryer.
"It's probably the heating coil," he said authoritatively.
"Can you fix it?"
"Sure, if I knew what a heating coil was."
Darlene remained focused on the immediate problem. "What do we do with the wet clothes?"
"No problem. I'll build a temporary clothesline in the backyard while you see if you can find someone who still knows how to fix things."
Rob sauntered to the garage, testosterone surging. Surveying his collection of garden tools, paint cans, assorted scraps of wood and junk that he imagined might be useful someday, Rob asked himself, "What would Mannix do?"
First, Rob searched for two poles tall enough to act as a clothesline. All he could find were four-foot tall tomato stakes. Too short, he thought. Maybe I can tie two poles together to get some height. Rob checked his toolbox, the one his son bought him as a Father's Day present a long time ago because other dads had toolboxes.
"Aha," Rob shouted, instantly recognizing what Newton must have felt when he discovered gravity. He pulled out a spool of fishing line, carefully aligning two tomato stakes to a height of about six feet and tying the line around the overlapping pieces of wood. "Damn," he cursed, as the line cut into his index finger, drawing blood. But not enough blood to stop a man from completing his task, he thought.
Now Rob searched for something to cut the line with. Another brainstorm struck as he grabbed a pair of hedge trimmers. Although clumsy, he cut the line. He did this in four different places to offer support, each about four inches apart. Marveling at his craftsmanship, Rob repeated this process with two more stakes.
Feeling like a combination Mr. Fix-It and Caveman, Rob carried his two poles to the yard imagining himself bear hunting with nothing but his homemade spears. His revelry was disturbed quickly, however, as a new dilemma struck. How was he going to set the poles into the ground? He couldn't just hammer them in, he reasoned. The top pole would just slip down.
"Where there's a will, there's more than one way to skin a cat," he mused aloud. Returning to the garage, he came out with a shovel. Awhile later, he had two holes dug about a foot deep and ten feet apart. Into each, he planted his newly crafted six-foot pole, piling the earth high and adding additional dirt from the garden as an extra precaution. Everything was working as planned. He swaggered like a cowboy entering a bordello after the final roundup.
Now all he had to do was string line between the two poles. He tied one end as tightly as he could at the top of the pole and did the same to the other. Just to be safe, master craftsman that he was, Rob repeated this process a few more times.
Rob Jamison, handyman and skilled artisan, stood back and admired his work. It wasn't pretty, he admitted, but it was functional. Darlene will be impressed.
"Darl," he called, thrilling to the sound of his manly voice. "Darl. My masterwork is done," he said as she came to the back door. "I've created a clothesline. It's time to air your dirty laundry." Rob knew the laundry wasn't dirty, merely wet, but he figured after an accomplishment like this he was entitled to a little poetic license.
"Oh," Darlene said. "I was wondering what you were doing out there. I brought the laundry next door to Jan. It's about ready."
Rob was silenced, but still proud. "Come out here, anyway. I want to show you something."
Rob took off his perspiration-soaked shirt and placed it on the center of the new clothesline. He watched as one pole and then the other slowly tilted under the weight, forming an imperfect crucifix over his shirt now spread out on the ground.
"Never mind," he shouted to his wife. "When's the repairman coming?"
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© 2004 by Wayne Scheer. All rights reserved. Distribution via hyperlink, e-mail, disk, print, broadcast or any other form is prohibited under U.S. copyright law without express permission of the author.
After teaching writing and literature in college for twenty-five years, Wayne Scheer recently retired to follow his own advice and write. Some of his work has appeared in Flashquake, Literary Potpourri, E2K, Laughter Loaf, Hiss Quarterly and Quintessence. In 2002, he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife, and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com. Some of his stories and essays can be found at fictionwarehouse.com.
