I had to do some manual labor outside this evening, specifically painting the wall I recently repaired with my father (well, he repaired it, but I was with him while he did it.) This sort of thing (physical labor) is not something I do very often.
Now that's not to say I've never been accustomed to such labor. Growing up, I certainly did not lead what you would call a pampered life. My brother and I, at various times in our upbringing, worked on cars, reshingled roofs, dug pits, broke rocks, dug up palmettos (a ridiculously tedious and arduous process,) fed livestock, lugged 80 pound bags of salt, laid tile, installed toilets, and more than once moved a cast iron bathtub that weighed at least 500 pounds up and down a rickety wooden staircase.
We did some shit, is what I am saying.
But that is in the past. I don't have to take orders and perform menial labor every weekend. Now I own my own home, and I serve only one master, my wife. Well, her and the homeowner's association. So I still have to get out there and perform muscle power tasks now and again, but it no longer feels familiar; it's a novel experience every time.
And because it is so outside my wheelhouse, I tend to draw instead from movies when I seek to tie it in to recent life experiences. And therefore, whenever I am outside working at some menial task, I constantly imagine the following scenario:
The car's tires crunched along the gravel and came to a stop, the engine dying. I could hear the ticking sound of metal cooling, telling me that the vehicle had come a long way. That wasn't a good sign. I continued rolling the paint onto the grey concrete wall. Smooth, even coats was the secret. The car's door opened and behind me and I heard the sound of nice shoes on my dirty driveway. That was a worse sign. No doubt the next thing I would hear would be-
"Mr Crumpler?"
The voice was young, crisp, unaccented; professional. They were always the same.
"Sorry. He moved away a few years ago. Think he's up in Maryland these days."
Another car door opens and shuts. Boots this time. That means he came himself. This would not end well. I dipped the roller back into the tray and slathered it with more paint.
"Hey, Ace. Long time."
"Carmichael."
"Nice place you have here."
"Uh huh." Another even coat of paint.
"We need you Ace."
"Nobody calls me that any more Carmichael. And I don't do that kind of work anymore."
"Oh right, I forgot. You're a what...a theatre teacher now?"
I try not to sound defensive. "Yeah. Any problem with that?" I fail.
"No no, of course not. But it does seem a little...boring."
My tray is out of paint. I stand up and face him for the first time. God, the years have worn at him, his skin creased and his hair grey and receding, retreating away from the horrors he faces every day.
"I like what I do now. I have no interest in returning to the work. Good day, Carmichael." I walk over to the paint can and refill the tray.
"There's a case. It's a bad one. Real bad. I need the best."
"I'm out of the life. Out of practice, out of shape, hell I probably couldn't even fit into A4 harness."
"We'll get the tech boys to let one out. We need you."
The paint sloshes over the side of the tray and droplets of paint land on my shoes. "Get Andrews."
"We already did."
The silence hangs between us for a moment. I hear the younger man shuffle uncomfortably.
"Dead?"
"We don't know. Just get in the car, I'll explain on the way to the airport."
I hold up the paint roller. the paint runs off in long, ropey strands like blood from a stiletto. "Do you see this?" I ask, allowing the anger I feel to slip into my voice for the first time, "this is my life now. I have to get this wall painted so the homeowner's association doesn't fine me. That's what I worry about these days. I'm out."
I begin to paint the next section of wall.
"I could make things easier for you with your homeowner's association. Talk to some people."
"Not interested."
"I could also make it harder."
The paint roller stops, excess paint running down in drips. This one will not be a smooth and even coat.
"Yes, I could make it harder for you with lots of different people. Inspectors, bosses, cops, IRS. Talk to some people."
"Is that how you want to play it, Carmichael?"
"Like I said Ace, this is a bad one. We need the best. We need you."
I put the roller back in the tray. "Just let me go and tell my wife and get changed."
He smiles and shakes his head in that way that always makes me want to murder him. "Not how it works, old friend. We'll let your wife know, and we'll get you everything you need. We have to leave now, just get in the car."
I look down at myself. "You're gonna get paint on your seats, you know."
He gives a genuine laugh. "Won't be the worst thing we've had to clean off. The Agency always cleans up our messes, don't they."
Utterly trapped, I get in the car and accept the dossier Carmichael hands me.
"When this is over, and I've done my duty, I'm coming for you Carmichael. Know that."
He gives his old smile again. "We'll see. By the way, what color is this paint that is now staining the upholstery?"
I look longingly at the half painted wall of my house as it grows smaller through the rear window of the car.
"Pinky White Sandstone. Got it at Wal Mart."
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