We settle into bed early tonight, Sunday night. She has to get up really early. I'm reading as usual.
Suddenly, a sound like an ambulance siren on drugs comes wailing up the street outside the bedroom window. An otherwise quiet comfortable evening is invaded by the most annoying noise. It stops and starts and waivers this way and that and then there seems to be electronic drums and the siren noise now reveals itself as some kind of keyboard. Whatever it is - it's way too loud.
Why am I always the jerk who has to complain. Why, I wonder to myself as I have wondered for decades, why does everyone seem to put up with the one source of the disturbance. Hey, I don't live in suburbia and I don't expect manicured, military-style stillness.
This is really loud noise.
I get up and get clothes on, grab a jacket and head out into the night. A guy at the corner stands looking in the direction of the suspect house, smoking a cigarette. "Kind of loud," he says to me. "Yeah," I reply.
I move intently towards the source of the sound and see a third-floor room, illuminated with a reddish glow, the window raised up. I walk up to the porch of the offending place and knock on the storm door. The primary door is open. The place looks decent enough. A rather tough-looking dog appears and barks. A smallish man with a beard appears and opens the door. "Yes?" he asks me. He seems instantly like a nice guy. But I hide my kinder self and steel myself instead: "What's with the noise upstairs?" I say.
"That's my grandson and son," he answers.
"They need to quiet down or I'm calling the cops. We have to get up around 5," I say convincingly.
"OK".
I walk home and feel rather stupid, mostly because the grandfather seemed like such a genuinely sweet guy. Again, I wonder to myself why I have to always be the ass who complains.
How would I ever survive in a place like Manhattan or L.A.? I don't know the answer to that.
Yeah, I know this ain't New York City. But even here in the Middle of the World we have characters who defy the age and modern places and remind us that order and reason aren't everything.
Now that I live in the area of town called Northside, a place completely quilted together with so many different types of human, persons of every stripe... high and low on the economic totem pole...mostly very liberal and socially invested but also the Taco Bell crowd and the lovers of the highbrow.....now that I live here again, I frequent the Ace Hardware in the business district.
A couple miles up the road is a fairly new Ace Hardware, all gleaming floors and clean, neatly arranged aisles, well-lit and comfortable to shop in. Brian the owner is a great guy.
But Ace Hardware in Northside is Bill's place and he's been here since the dawn of time. It used to be open at all hours but Bill is old now and in bad health. He can hardly walk and even with a cane it takes him an eternity to get to what ya need and back to the cash register. His store is crammed floor to ceiling with an unbelievable melange of hardware items, most of them stacked or seemingly tossed willy-nilly on top of one another. It is an amazing feast for the eyes this hoarding of hardware, bulging at the seams, jam-packed into the dilapidated old space.
But ask for something - ask for anything - and Bill knows exactly where it is. He takes yer money near the old television usually showing some grainy game show or soap opera. He smiles slightly and, after handing you your change, he says "Here, take one of my books," as he hands you an Ace Hardware flyer. The flyer is carefully designed, spiffy, clean, nicely organized.
Nothing like old Bill's Ace.
I just scored my largest job ever. Big stone and brick house. Many rooms to do.
The clients at first told me....2 months till the walls are ready. Yesterday: "Fred says the walls should be ready in two weeks.". Fred is the builder.
No way. I'm busy. I'm working for my friend Sue on her large job that keeps getting delayed. Last week the lead painter fell down the single-story elevator shaft. He's OK but unable to work. We come in after the painters have finished.
I have to hire friends for parts of this job. Two weeks?? This is part of the age-old dilemma of the self-employed artisan.
Here's the other part: When I am really busy, all I can think about is having free time to do my own painting. When I have no work at all - and therefore loads of time to paint - I am usually riddled with anxiety about finances. Lack of money. Unpaid bills.
Still, this year the work keeps flowing in and it's OK. Yes, it's OK. I can pay the damned bills.
