CHAPTER ONE

THE BIG HOUSE, BABY FACE, MARY BETH, and LIFE IN THE HARD LANE

Down on Lawton St. just where it goes under I-20, there's a large, two-story residence known as the "Big House." I doubt many have discovered all the nooks and crannies hidden there, and I'm positive no one knows all the secrets the old house could tell. The expanded metal bolted over the windows as burglar bars serves to thwart unauthorized entry, and gives the Big House the appearance of a huge yellow insect, black faceted eyes mounted on its body everywhere. Unblinking eyes, tireless and alert, set to sound the alarm should any threat appear.

The interior is a labyrinthine maze worthy of a Minotaur, an arrangement that's deliberate and useful for the purposes of those who lurk within.

Fact is, the imposing structure's been carefully designed, over decades of particular trial and error, to serve the needs of those bizarre atypicals disposed to wander its environs. The mechanism by which their requirements are accommodated is directed and maintained by a small, wiry black man with catarac'd blue eyes, unsullied white hair brushed back from the sharp planes of his face, skin the color of asphalt dampened by the twilight fog of a passing day.

Those few privy to his Christian name address him, respectfully, as "Baby Face." And all fortunates enjoying his acquaintance are anxiously numbered among those very privileged to be acknowledged by the Baby … and perhaps grudgingly held in his high regard by virtue of some talent potentially profitable to him .

Included in the offerings of The Baby and the Big House are room and board, cheap liquor posturing in pricey bottles, sex, games of chance, two vegetables and a meat with bread and butter for lunch or dinner - $3.95 – no tax, a pay phone, idle conversation, and the promise of harsh violence should anybody dare gettin’ out’a line.

The Baby holds court, arbitrates disputes, and metes out justice. He entertains with stories of hustles and scams; manufactures, markets, and uses marked cards and loaded dice; tirelessly practices the shell game and three card Monte; and somehow manages to keep a tight grip on a situational mass that threatens going critical mass at any moment. The Baby is given to always having a hat on his head. That way it stays available to slap in the face of the unwary, blinding them just long enough to get their belly sliced for offering offense to his fiefdom ... the Baby always breaks away clean!!!

Individuals who work in any trade you can name hang in the bowels of the Big House. As long as you're careful and know what you're doin’, there's a pretty good chance you'll find someone willing to do you an acceptable job in return for a reasonable day's wage.

In searching for concrete masons and sheetrock finishers one summer day, I happened on the expansive front porch of the Big House. With understandable reluctance I challenged a painfully designed jamb of heavy black bars protecting a half-open screened door, my knuckles the worse for the experience, all the while acutely conscious I bore the scrutiny of several black men, each of them obviously at a loss as to why an overall'd white boy would come trespassing their way.

Considerable movement and hushed mutterings transpired before a man, who turned out to be The Baby, presented himself and cordially asked my business. Satisfied I intended no harm, he unlocked the barred entry and admitted me to a maze of dimly lit, impeccably clean rooms, leading me back to a combination kitchen/conference room where we could sit and further discuss the purpose of my visit.

No eyes but The Baby's made contact with mine until, on the way to the kitchen, a young white girl propositioned me ... sky high on a barb'd flight the equal of any ever eagle knew.

Ignoring The Baby's displeasure, she, in a dialect best described as ghetto-black baby talk, countered my rejection of her sexual offerings with the suggestion I give her a job. Her challenge provoked exactly the response she was after! Before I knew what foolishness I was about, I'd agreed to put her to work. Offering her hand, she gave me to understand I should call her, "Mary Beth," then promptly left The Baby and me to whatever business we might undertake.

The next morning, shortly after daybreak, I stopped by the job where Mary Beth was to meet me, more out of curiosity than any idea she might show. Dog’gone if she wasn't sitting on the steps waiting patiently and, while I attempted some measure of recovery from the shock occasioned by the fact she'd actually shown up, resourceful Mary Beth graciously took up the slack, smiled sweetly, and asked what she should start doing first.

Since the job hadn't been mobilized there really wasn't much of anything to do, and I was at a complete loss as to how this unexpected turn of the worm might best be handled when, as happens more often than we deserve, providence intervened. The thought occurred that the first order of job site mobilization is a thorough cleaning and let me assure you this sucker was a long way from being tidy enough to justify starting any reasonable rehabilitative effort. On the contrary, this soon to be raised-from-the-ashes derelict of a house included the filthiest, most vermin infested crawl space of any I could recall, and a tight squeeze at that.

My suggestions and instructions were eagerly acknowledged and I took my leave, confident that Mary Beth`s employment would be short lived and that, with any luck, it was possible that before giving up, she'd manage to start a clearing around the crawl space scuttle hole from which someone could operate while getting the rest of the area cleaned that she doubtless wasn’t up to.

Folks, I wandered back by the job something close to three hours later. Mary Beth was standing in front of the house next to a trash pile of impressive dimensions carefully stacked as close to the sidewalk as possible, but not so as to interfere with passing pedestrians. She was covered with dirt, cobwebs, bits of debris and scratches, and a grin that spanned ear to ear. Any fool could see I'd happened on an unlikely employee worthy of serious reckoning.

<<back to top>>

Chapter Two

BEA nee' MARY BETH MANAGES JEROME and ASSOCIATES

Bea's maiden voyage in depressed housing rehabilitation offered more than the usual array of problems and she handled them all with easy grace. Early on she displayed a willingness to assume the burden of supervision by making herself de facto foreman of those laborers whose task it was to keep the job clean, organize materials, assist the various trade specialists, and generally make themselves useful.

Numbered among her charges was Jerome, a thoroughly likeable, marginally useful master at the art of finding defensible reasons for there being absolutely no way to do what had to be done. The extension of this logic resulted in it being impossible for him ever to get finished however bland the challenge. And Jerome's attitude wasn't at all unusual among others of his genre. Under Bea's direction, however, Jerome and his cohorts developed a can-do profile that defied belief.

The job stayed spotless, a gratifying number of comments were made regarding the labor crew's willingness to seek out opportunities to be helpful, punctuality was their standard, they were observed to sweat on occasion, in short, a transformation of spiritual dimension was accomplished among men of the lowest repute. No one, including me, could fathom the change.

Baby Face surrendered the explanation for this miracle one evening after working hours as he and I rested on the porch of the Big House, surveying the passing parade while discussing the true meaning of life. The Baby always summed that topic by proclaiming, "You got to be a dawg!"

As was our habit, we conducted a half hearted debate as to which of us was the more deserving of being regarded a "dawg." Per usual the Baby bested me. With that tradition dispatched to a fare thee well I inquired as to the anlage of Bea's magic supervision style whereupon Baby Face proceeded to chuckle himself into a fit of thigh-slapping glee while gasping something about "That chile, Bea."

When he was able to recover himself, he explained that Bea would buy a pint of liquor every evening on the way home from the job. The next day, the pint would be rationed out to the most deserving of those laboring under her supervision. The trick lay in judging how often any one could be rewarded without seriously compromising his ability to work. Bea had it down to a science.

I never came on the job to be met with obvious inebriation, though, as a given day wore on, my arrival was sometimes met with a level of jocularity on the part of some misinspired soul sure to earn him the unfiltered blast of Bea's practiced censorious gaze.

<<back to top>>

Chapter Three

ENTREPRENEURIAL BEA

Over the next year or so, Bea proved a valuable asset on countless occasions. But the kind of money she could make with me never approached that to which she'd been accustomed while plying her charms as an agreeable physical diversion to those who could meet her price. Bea gave me notice and departed amicably with as much severance pay as I could afford. The next thing I heard of her was that she had found employment as a maid at a first cabin hotel in the exclusive business district of downtown Atlanta. I was a little hurt that she'd leave me to do something that didn't appear to be a step up, but rationalized she wanted to work indoors and was tired of dealing with the likes of Jerome.

Foolish me. No one knows better than I that Bea's a master at spotting and seizing on an opportunity to turn a profit. This career move proved yet another testimonial in support of her talent.

The next news of Bea was that she'd been fired ... not at all what those who knew and appreciated her expected to hear until elaboration made causes clear. It seems Bea had demonstrated sufficient initiative and ability to merit promotion from housekeeper to supervisor which put her in charge of an entire floor - a development posing no surprise given the recognized capacity of Bea to capitalize on the slightest opportunity. But unlike your standard manager, for Bea those empty rooms represented a personal resource.

After an occupant checked out, a room wasn't eligible for another guest until it was certified as being cleaned and ready. Bea was the certifier. She would simply delay submitting the necessary paperwork until one of her several ladies of pleasure had used the room to entertain a customer. Being refined business people, Bea's friends would prevail on their guests to pay some modest token for the use of such elaborate facilities, subject tokens going straight to Bea.

I can't help but think Bea's departure was a loss from which that hotel will never recover. All they had to do was find a way to redirect her energies and creativity to more acceptable ends. Or maybe take advantage of the end Bea had hit on! Initiative's a terrible thing to waste.

I never found out how much money Bea realized from her hotel venture. But the later news had it that she was doing well as a painting contractor, while supplementing her income with "gifts" from select, well heeled friends who know how to appreciate good company.

Sad update. Bea was found dead in her room at a boarding house where crack cocaine’s traffik’d on a serious scale. Over dose or disgruntled suitor, I never pursued the details. Her departure, be assured, is a decided loss -------- to all of us, you included.

<<back to top>>

Chapter Four

PAY ME NOW OR PAY ME LATER

"Fast Eddie," or "Fast," as he was commonly known, was distantly related to Baby Face, a pride-imbued fact apparently deserving of frequent mention in his view as he commented on the relationship given the slightest opportunity. Fast was, and doubtless still is, a skilled concrete mason, an acceptable shade tree mechanic and a formidable adversary if aroused. His nickname is a tribute to the speed with which he gets things done for you or to you.

I've known only two other men in construction whose eye-hand coordination equals Fast's. But I've never known anyone as difficult to pin down when negotiating the terms of a contract. The following typifies our dealings:

"How much you want to pour that slab, Fast?"

Fast undertakes any negotiation with care and deliberate deligence. He begins rubbing his jaw and squinting his eyes ... a parody of deep contemplation. Then he conducts a close inspection of his fingers, biting off an imagined hangnail that gets spit to one side with emphatic authority. This performance is invariably accompanied by weary head shaking and a Broadway long-run impression of Atlas' shoulders shrugging under the onerous weight of dealing with the vagaries of a misguided world. After leaving no doubt that he's a little saddened by my consigning him such an intolerable burden of decision, he finally responds, "I don't know, Bro. What you think?"

In this game, whoever comes with the number first loses, financially and in stature. We're both keenly aware of this fact, as are any lookers on.

"Damned if I know, Fast. Dudn't look like it'll take that long to me."

More agonizing on his part in an effort to arrive at an amount that will be mutually agreeable and arguably fair. An effort that invariably falls short as evidenced by his body collapsing to a despairing lump. It's a sad thing to witness. Finally he proposes, "Tell you what, Bob, let's just work it out as we go. That O.K. with you?"

I've had him maneuver me into this stacked deck more times than I can count. With nothing definitely agreed on, there’s simply no way I was going to come out whole and unscarred, but foolish pride compelled me to accept Fast's tacit invitation to a battle of wits. The dilemma lay in the fact that Fast was always convinced he was owed more than could possibly be justified by reason, production, or effort, however prodigious and, convicted of this misperception, he would take on the mantle of uncompromising righteousness and go to any length to establish what he perceived an equitable result ... that end excusing any means, none of which were ever in my favor. I don't recall the circumstances which resulted in his most creative effort, but I harbor to this day a deep admiration for his creativity and style.

During the course of what proved to be the last of our struggles to agree on who owed what to whom, I sensed Fast feeling aggrieved yet again. Accordingly, I prepared to thwart whatever tactic he adopted in his tireless pursuit of additional monies. At C.J.'s pragmatic behest, I had long since instituted inventory control and accountability systems that made it well nigh impossible for tools and equipment to walk off in the interest of lining Fast's pockets; and I felt sure someone would tell me if he attempted to use the crew to do outside work on my time. There was no way I could see Fast besting me save if I broke weak and folded under the pressure of his persistence. I knew that wasn't going to happen this time out of the blocks, no matter what.

My resolve was bolstered by my conscience being completely clear with respect to what I had paid Fast for the work he'd done. And, much to my relief, it seemed he'd finally achieved contact with reason and resigned himself to being satisfied with that generous amount to which I'd agreed.

The error in my comforting logic lay in my failure to appreciate the lessons of history and the unvarying consistency that typifies the behavior of men like Fast Eddie. Fast Eddie's notions of fairness had never coincided with mine and, in spite of my insistence on failing to heed the implacable inevitability prescribed by this historical fact, there was no way Fast was going to allow this instance to be the first exception to a time-worn rule.

I began to realize the extent of my mistake when I got the invoice for my company gas credit card. It was well over $400 more than it should have been.

Investigation led to the fact that Fast had taken the credit card to fuel the dump truck as was our custom. While at the station, he sold gas to all comers for 50 cents on the dollar until, in his estimation, he had pocketed enough to clear our account.

When I confronted him about it, Fast instantly acknowledged what he'd done, but in that admission, he made it clear no guilt should obtain. He went on to encourage me to accept the importance of our being even, a result he had engineered on this and countless other occasions in the interest of preserving our relationship, and only at the expense of considerable time and effort on his part. By that standard, there was never any question of my possibly seeking some legal remedy and, in fact, that option never crossed my mind since I knew Fast's wife, mother and children. However, my final accommodation didn't mean I was prepared to continue plowing this particular furrow!

It wasn't long after this final set-to before Fast developed problems with "high sugar" which sometimes made it problematical in terms of how much effort he could bring to bear on a tough job. That proved our mutually adopted unspoken excuse for gradually parting ways. We could have worked it out so Fast would've stayed around if I could ever have accepted the fact that he was simply more skilled than me at coming out on the best end of a deal. There's no doubt my wretched pride was mostly the reason that enviable companionship ended … I was just unable to muster sufficient reserves of character to do whatever would've made things right, end of story ....

I heard recently that Fast is still turning wrenches on cars and trucks, and doing a little concrete work. The guy who told me said Fast occasionally asks after "...his ol' buddy, Bob."

One last comment about Fast. Typically, if one of the construction crew anticipates my displeasure, he or she will address me as "Mr. Bob" or "Boss" or "Daddy" by way of acknowledging my dominance and requesting pardon. Fast Eddie never did.

Ol' Fast is what we call a stand up son-of-a-gun.

There ain't many around.

<<back to top>>

Chapter Five

BENNIE and THE BATHTUB

It's not true that every lawyer is a contemptible leech feeding at the spiritual jugulars of us all. I personally know four who are stand-up guys, admirable in every way. Be that as it may, one of the leech variety, Lawyer Gary by name, owned a piece of property in an area of Atlanta that was in the process of "coming back."

Coincidentally, a lot of the bad things I had done to that point in my life manifested themselves in the balance of my Karma causing Natural Order to kick in and dictate an adjustment. The result? Lawyer Gary decided to finish the renovation of his property and, against all odds and reason, I got the job.

My faithful helpmate C.J.'s forecast wasn't a happy one. I should have listened.

The dynamic of the job, Lawyer Gary, and me comes later. This is about Bennie.

Bennie went well beyond worthless. Worthless, in my view, involves a standard, however capricious, against which a person or thing or situation fails to measure up. In the case of Bennie, any suggestion of a standard was deserving of unbridled hilarity, a state of affairs recognized by all save one. Me.

The mission I took to my bosom was not to direct the labor of Sweet Bobby Trimble and his lifelong sidekick, Lucius. That would have been a productive course that might have reversed even this misfortune, a job born in hell. My mission was not to anticipate and defuse the drunken surliness of that nameless painter who had designs on shooting me for some unforgivable oversight known only to him, an act that would, in all likelihood, have come to closure absent the intervention of unpredictable Curtis Trice, God bless him wherever he is. It was not to recognize Lawyer Gary's ceaseless effort to get more for less, a practice which resulted in cash flow problem after cash flow problem. It was none of those things that need attending to if a project is to be accomplished with any hope of profit being realized.

No, good friends! My mission was none of these.

Rather, my purpose was destined to become an ever-accelerating process of expending limitless energies where all before me had tried and failed; my mission was to inspire lowly Bennie, thereby causing him to rise from his wretchedness and, from that nobler perspective, assume the posture of a contributing factor in the social equation.

Recalling the details of my effort to salvage and restore the wreck of Bennie is not an exercise I'm inclined to endure. The process was too frustrating and pointless. Having said that, there was one episode that sums the experience and illustrates a lesson from which most of us can benefit.

I decided what Bennie needed was the assurance that someone truly cared despite the lowest of the low stations in which he had entrenched himself through resort to betrayal, treachery and generally contemptible behavior beyond the descriptive mastery of a Dickens.

By a course of logic I can not now divine, I determined that if I brought him lunch every day, he would be sensitized to my concern that he do well in the context of what I perceived well to be. The extension of that sensitization would be a new Bennie. A Bennie ready to face the challenges of life. A Bennie ready to assume a position of value in the cosmos.

With a sense of duty approaching the gravity of holy vows, I brought Bennie lunch no matter what the inconvenience to myself and others. And not wanting him to suffer possible abuse from his fellow workers as a result of my attentions, I brought lunch for everyone else.

Never have I felt more righteous. The perplexed, if not suspicious, regard of those I fed, compounded by Bennie's failure to come around as readily as I had hoped, did nothing to dampen my ardor in any way.

C.J. labeling me a toad and an idiot hurt, but I forgave her with the same depth of spirit that sustained me in my quest for Bennie's redemption. The disdain directed at me from all sides was nothing more than one would expect from those who would not, or could not, see.

This state of affairs continued nearly a week before the gods ceased to be amused and they, in their collective wisdom, caused reality to raise its ugly head. It was messy and went something like this, to coin a phrase from the country music stage.

I was running late getting lunch to Bennie, so I stopped by the job to assure him that all was well, there was no need to doubt me or my concern, and that I would be back soonest with a bounty of fried chicken, biscuits, mashed potatoes and gravy, soft drinks, and whatever else the closest purveyor of fast food had to offer that I thought might tempt his, that is Bennie's, delicate palate.

He was nowhere to be found!

I realized everyone was taking note of my increasingly anxious forays to all quadrants of the job. They had to know I was searching for Bennie. And I knew in their hearts they thought I was acting the clown. A laughable caricature of innocence naive.

Ominous portent lay in the fact that everyone was attending to whatever task they could find at hand with particular care which was, for the most part, atypical, feigning unawareness of me and my foolishness, thereby avoiding association with my search or the object of it.

I spent an embarrassingly long time looking for the little so&so, feeling very much the silent screen cuckold dashing about at the cocktail party querying everyone as to the whereabouts of his wife upstairs with the villainous host who knew she wouldn't reject his effort to ravish her, thereby allowing him the wicked satisfaction of humiliating her hapless spouse … it's no fun being that hapless spouse, folks. No fun at all. 'Specially when you're doin' it to yo'self!

I finally tired of acting the fool bracing myself to face the fact that Bennie had abandoned the job. The weight of my resignation was too heavy for Sweet Bobby to ignore. He briefly met my eye as I approached and mumbled, "Bennie upstairs layin' in the tub, Boss."

MY FAITH WAS RESTORED!!!!

Bennie hadn't abandoned the job.

Bennie hadn't rejected me.

Bennie hadn't turned his back on goodness and decency.

Bennie had simply worked himself into such a state of unaccustomed fatigue that he had been obliged to lie down, rest, and compose himself for another heroic effort.

I bounded up the stairs at a clip exceeding the limits of propriety, but I didn't care. This was an occasion for rejoicing. I didn't give a doggone who thought I was acting more like a twit than a general contractor. Bennie hadn't let me or my noble intentions down! I was, therefore, somehow indebted.

I don't know exactly why I felt so obligated, but I did.

I was convinced this experience marked a watershed in Bennie's life as well as mine.

I felt, but ignored, the escalating incredulity of everyone on the job as I mounted the landing, pivoted on the newel post at the top of the handrail, and launched myself through the doorless bathroom entry to stand breathless by the bathtub in which Benny reclined, his body splayed in an awkward posture of dream time nether worldliness.

The clamor of my entry, compounded by the intensity of my relief and joy, were sufficient to rouse Bennie from his slumber.

He arched and strained a moment, affording egress to a barely audible rush of noxious gas. With that chore accomplished to his manifest satisfaction, he pushed himself up, blinked away the pseudo-paralysis of deep sleep, noted the absence of any groceries on or about my person, and, his face set in an expression of petulant irritation demanded, "Where's my lunch!"

Bennie departed for one reason or other and from that moment, I've recognized the wisdom of contributing to charities that, unlike me, know how not to indulge in the unproductive practice of "free lunch." Americares, St. Paul's Presbyterian Church in Orlando and the Shriner's Hospital nee' Children's Hospital in Atlanta are good choices should your quotient of judging how best to tend the needy be as lacking as mine.

<<back to top>>

Chapter Six

"YA'LL DON'T FIGHT!"

Lawyer Gary's property in Atlanta's Midtown was cursed. I believe the curse a result of the suspect context in which all Lawyer Gary's business was, and doubtless still is conducted, be it professional or personal.

As I've stated on a number of occasions to any who would listen, I will not be swayed from the conviction that my Karma nexused with his and seized on Lawyer Gary in his depraved, unclean toxicity by way of redressing all the bad things the two of us had done to that point in our lives, the number of which was likely well above the mean. That is to say, I got awarded the work Lawyer Gary was peddling as my pay-back from the gods for the dirty doings I'd managed to undertake. He got his right along with me … the two of us bound in a waltz on the justice scales as it were!!!

I look back on that fateful moment with distate ... a pivotal happenstance in that it resulted in my having to deal with impossible situations and impossible people, work on a job that refused to get done, live a life negatively impacted to a point approaching fatal on one bizarre occasion, and on and on and on, not to mention what it did to C.J.

Please be assured, however, that my lot was nothing in comparison to that visited on Lawyer Gary. The man was demonstrably a world class creep. No human's ever gotten savaged in the course of a renovation job like he did. No human has ever more deserved that lot.

Don't get me wrong, there's no such thing as a smoothly conducted rehab job that goes as planned, stays on budget, and gets finished on time. But there are limits to the madness.

Lawyer Gary's job exceeded those limits by a remarkable margin.

When C.J. and I mobilized the project, it appeared most of the electrical, heating and air, and plumbing work had been done by those preceding us. Coming on a job with these phases of the work completed is unusual, and I was mildly pleased since these tasks are typically done by sub-contractors who get in each others way, they involve several inspections which usually delay progress and the general contractor doesn't make that much money on them. My misapprehension was in anticipating lots of gravy with very few beans. It seldom happens that way in life, sports fans, as evidenced by the woeful error my expectations proved to be.

Lawyer Gary asserted the appropriate inspections had been conducted, and that he had paid for all work other than whatever was involved installing plate covers, plumbing fixtures, HVAC vents, and the attendant stuff included in finishing a job.

He couldn't have been more mistaken.

A brief get-acquainted inspection of the building we were to convert into an "interesting" 4-unit apartment complex revealed wiring circuits that never made it back to the panel, heating and air vent cut-outs with no duct work, and short pieces of scrap copper pipe attached to nothing under the floor in the crawl space; they had just been rigged to look like the "risers" that supply water to the plumbing system. This state of affairs could only be interpreted to mean Lawyer Gary was hated by the subs who had done the work, as well as the inspectors who had signed off on the rough inspections. No way to exaggerate how ill an omen this was for future developments .

Sub-contractors dislike general contractors and owners as a matter of principle; however, survival dictates licensed workmen maintain governmentally specified levels of performance or risk revocation of the licenses on which they depend to make a living and in the acquisition of which they've expended much time and effort.

The blatant "screw-you" condition in which the sub-contractors had left Lawyer Gary's job indicated they'd abandoned all hope of preserving the status quo, electing instead to gamble on the sympathies of officialdom and go for the money, to hell with the consequences.

As it turned out, no inspector had ever been on the job. The subs, realizing what they were dealing with, had decided to be the screwers as opposed to the screwees, but didn't want to jeopardize any inspector's job by involving them knowingly or otherwise. They'd rigged things well enough to pass Lawyer Gary's cursory walk through, signed off the inspection card themselves with no effort made at passable forgery thereby insuring any investigation at all would clear the area's inspectors of the slightest involvement in such a job-threatening enterprise, collected their draws and headed South until the dust had a chance to settle.

Fortunately for them, Lawyer Gary was too embarrassed to report the incident and the state trade licensing authorities never got involved.

Right now you're thinking something to the effect that no one short of a mouthbreathing idiot would proceed to do business in a deal this tainted on the front end. Your logic's unimpeachable. But you fail to consider the twin issues of the Karmic-laden Curse of Lawyer Gary and the Woeful Karmic Condition of Me.

With Lawyer Gary's earnest assurance that all was well and that he would make good any costs involved in completing the work left undone, only he couldn't come up with any money right at the moment, even for materials, which I should well understand having been in business as long as I had and having seen trusting souls like himself be taken advantage of by unscrupulous contractors, among whom I obviously could not be numbered, and wasn't it terrific that I would be willing to do what I could to help him out: and with a conspiratorial wink that I returned with one of my own, though I did feel a little discomforted, I put my shoulder to the wheel which meant C.J. got harnessed also.

C.J. was irritatingly vocal in expressing her displeasure, but only because she didn't understand the rarefied plane on which operate true sophisticates like Lawyer Gary and me.

I did become increasingly uneasy as circumstances prescribed a result requiring me to start and continue financing the job. A few dollars for materials here, a small payroll there, it began to reach a sum of disquieting magnitude. But my apprehensions were always quieted by Lawyer Gary's smooth assurances that all would be well: he'd have some money any day, at which time we'd absolutely get right with each other. I mean, these matters are an accepted part of tutored business practice for knowledgeable souls such as we. After all, he and I were professionals who, as peers and fellow sophisticates, didn't allow themselves to be bothered by petty concerns like: where's the money; and why is every one I know telling me I'm a slack-jawed biped with a prehensile tail to do business with this guy; and what the hell am I going to do if all this doesn't work out like it's supposed to.. .in short, who ain't goin' to have a chair when the music stops?

Enter Willi the Weasel.

Willi is indisputably the best electrical, and heating and air contractor - HVAC contractor in trade jargon - I've ever known. He's a passable plumbing contractor, but electrical and HVAC are his meat.

Willi is devious, treacherous, slightly paranoid, hedonistic, sociopathic, selfish, and compellingly likable.

A product of the Tennessee mountains, he's absolutely loyal to his "Mom and Pap."

Anyone else is pretty much fair game, though some more so than others.

He's capable of awesome generosity if the act poses no inconvenience to him in terms of time or cash flow. And when he calls in the marker for a favor done, he does so with exceeding tact.

He makes it his business to "get something" serious on anyone he thinks might be able to help him down the line, and is perfectly willing to list the names of those in his "little book of transgressions" after knocking down a couple of beers, `specially if your name happens to be there.

Willi's carefully practiced affectations include a pot belly that causes his shirts to gap between the buttons; mismatched socks bagged at his ankles exposing distasteful expanses of hairless, off-white skin; conservatively cut curly blond hair that's always disheveled; words he deliberately mispronounces, "Tie-oh-tuh" vs. "Toyota" and "kuh see bow" vs. "gazebo"; and a loose way of carrying himself carefully contrived so that he offers no threat to even the most timid of those potential victims he happens on.

Make no mistake!!! The Willies of the world are switched to 24-hour search mode and they fire unerringly at the white heart heat of the defenseless, naive, and vulnerable. Willies never miss.

The point being, their innocent, seemingly stumbling affectations belie individuals as vicious as any you'll ever know. Ol' Willi's as good as Willies come. An accomplished street fighter and exceedingly proud of it thank you very much. He'll have your average punk for a tasty appetizer, then mop up the rest of the gang. I've seen it.

Willi's favorite move is grabbing his adversary by the larynx in a grip made powerful through years of work and, after choking him into submission, indulging himself in what is manifestly the thoroughly enjoyable administration of a serious beating.

He also carries a gun.

Believe me when I say, Willi won't hesitate one moment to shoot you in some non-fatal, guaranteed painful spot if all else fails.

I'd contracted with Willi to do the plumbing, HVAC, and electrical work on Lawyer Gary's property. Since we'd worked together a long time and money'd never been a problem, Willi went ahead on the come, sweet talked inspectors he'd know forever, and ended up finishing his part of the project on my say so alone. But with the job completed, Willi wasn't interested in discussing the slight delay occasioned by any gentleman's understanding between Lawyer Gary and me. Willi's sole interest revolved around why he wasn't getting his money right this minute.

Willie and I had long since reached a tacit understanding with respect to our ever locking horns physically. We'd tested each other in the yard on a job around Hog Mountain without too much injury to either party, so us fighting wasn't a collections option in this case. Rather, Willi reasoned that I owed him, and Lawyer Gary owed me; therefore Lawyer Gary owed him.....by proxy you might say.

Once Willi gets a mindset in hand, his course isn't readily diverted. I personly've never known it to happen, nor have I heard rumor of such a thing.

Over a command appearance breakfast called by him for which I paid, Willi explained his position to me, and wouldn't be satisfied `til I'd arranged a meeting with Lawyer Gary that same afternoon, ostensibly to develop a mutually agreeable mechanism by which the job could be brought to an end, i.e., payment could be obtained.

I had no idea what Willi really had in mind. But I was pretty doggone sure things weren't going to go as proposed and agreed on over the breakfast we'd shared. And I knew they weren't going to go as smoothly as they had in my past meetings with Lawyer Gary, where he and I were one on one brothers of like mind and sophisticated cosmos.

Ever faithful C.J. insisted on accompanying us to keep the record straight on exactly what was owed. I agreed, since she'd caught Lawyer Gary massaging the numbers in his favor more than once.

Willi, C.J., and I passed the time before our appointment conjecturing as to what slimy device Lawyer Gary would pursue in his effort not to pay. But, as I look back, I did most of the conjecturing. C.J. and Willi had assumed an attitude of "the money's going to come, no matter what."

They just sat quietly and listened to my hypothesizing, which I suspect carried an air of anxious anticipation, if not outright dread, at the prospect of their determined unpleasantness sullying my urbane relationship with Lawyer Gary.

We arrived at precisely the appointed hour. Lawyer Gary's receptionist instructed us to have a seat until he was ready to receive such as we. None of the several others already seated and waiting could have helped overhearing Willi say, in his most affected Tennessee drawl, "M'am, we didn't come here to wait on nobody." He flashed the trademark grimace that's his inadequate rendition of a smile.

"Please go tell that 'so and so having to do with the offspring of a she dog' you work for that we're here right when he told us to be and he'll by golly see us or I'm gon'na do somethin' for him that's not likely to wash off in what we know as the foreseeable 'a blasphemous reference to the Almighty' future." All that without taking breath.

The '"so and so" in question must have had a sharp ear peeled for our arrival. Before I knew it, he'd interceded with his secretary and we were all seated at a nice conference table in a well-appointed room on chairs C.J. later told me appeared to be genuine antique Louis the XIV's.

Lawyer Gary was at the head of the table, there postured as the person "in command." If I didn't know better, I'd swear he had somehow created an optical illusion in which his end of the table was slightly elevated.

I was seated to Lawyer Gary's right between C.J. and him. Willi was to his left opposite me. Lawyer Gary's body English made manifest he was on his guard. No surprise...he was far too intuitive to miss the significance of my having others in tow, especially someone with Willi's knack for less-than-subtle address.

You could see him processing my uncharacteristic turn of the worm, underlined by my acceptance of Willi's statement to the receptionist graphically couched in terms not designed to promote social harmony among our assembly, and you could readily read his conclusion that all was not well in River City.

I have absolutely no doubt Lawyer Gary realized we were gathered to get the money he owed. I also have no doubt that he quickly decided he wasn't going to pay without a fight.

Figuring me for the weak link, he rested his elbows on the table, steepled his forefingers under his chin, fixed me with a quizzical look of arch disdain, and asked, "Is there some kind of problem here, Bob?"

At this point Lawyer Gary's script called for me to again fall victim to his cosmopolitan charm and suave obfuscation of the issues troubling me. Big mistake.

He might have cowed me one on one. Probably would have.

In fact, the ease with which he had manipulated me on previous occasions must have given him cause to think this circumstance would prove nothing more than business as usual.

But as they say in the Corps, "It's better to die than look bad."

Lawyer Gary was making me look bad.

I couldn't let'im do it.

In the first place, C.J.'s regard meant, and means, as much to me as that of my beloved wife, child, mother, and the rest of my family. Of lesser import was the fact that if Willi saw me break weak, all who knew us would eventually be apprised of the fact that I could be easily bested _______ not a good thing in the construction business. To pirate a Macawberism, Lawyer Gary had maneuvered me into a corner from which there was no recourse but to fight; in short, Lawyer Gary had screwed the pooch.

A healthy charge of thoroughly T'd off crawled all over me. My face reddened hot. I felt absolutely terrific lunging across the table in a full-blown charge.

Lawyer Gary was about as unprepared for my assault as I was and he jumped back, staring with a pale cheeked, tight lipped, satisfying expression of wide-eyed shock.

Chairs hit the wall, antique components taking flight to rendezvous with flocked wallpaper supporting ostentatious chair rail with scaring effect.

C.J. scrambled up and grabbed me by the nap of the collar. Between her and the corner of the table I got brought up short...huffin', spittin', and visibly prepared to vent intentions as bad as any seen on that particular block of ol' terra firma.

In the meantime, Willi'd jumped up, him not being the kind of person willing to let theirself get left out in case their reputation sustain injury by virtue of another party's recollection of events ... subject recollection undertaken, in all likelihood, under duress of several Buds which could be expected to exaggerate a combatant's shortcomings under fire at least as easily as any recollection of heroic, manly daring-do.

Lawyer Gary perceived Willi to be the lesser threat, his second grave error in judgment, and turned from me to Willi shouting, "What in the heck do you think you're going to do in my office, you redneck 'illegitimate fruit of your mother's loins!", or words to that effect.

"I'm here to get my 'yet another blasphemous expletive' money, you pencil-necked, sleazy, little (you know what he said)!", and with that, Willi made his move.

I was surprised when Lawyer Gary stood his ground, settling into a boxer's stance with the sort of practiced ease that comes only with hours in the gym. He voiced some other string of nasties in decibels designed to distract the unwary and made a pretty good attempt at kneeing Willi in the groin.

But Lawyer Gary was a long way from the first to try that trick, and he wasn't in the ring with someone who knew, acknowledged, or cared a whit for any rules of combat. Wasn't the first time ol' Willi had rodeo'd you might say.

Willi dipped his left hip, swiveling into his adversary, evading Lawyer Gary's knee with an economy of motion beautiful to behold. Willi's tricky little move caught Lawyer Gary's thrust in such a way the latter's balance was fatally compromised. In a lot less time than it takes telling it, Willi had rendered Lawyer Gary completely breathless with a text book left hook to the body, had him by the throat in his trademark vise grip that denied any comfort at all to lungs screaming for air and was pushing the hapless advocate up against some Levelor blinds hung over a large picture window.

Lawyer Gary's face purpled.

Lawyer Gary's eyes bulged.

Lawyer Gary's expression left no doubt Lawyer Gary knew he'd gotten himself into a situation over which he was absent the slightest control. Ringsiders you could rely on were labeling the boy's predicament bad and deteriorating.

Somebody was getting hurt bad.

Somebody was going to jail.

But then, with His ill-understood capacity for limitless Love and Understanding, God intervened on behalf of us all.

One of Lawyer Gary's associates, attracted by the fracas, rushed and stood stand by the door from whence he pled in tones subdued, "Y'all don't fight! Y'all don't fight!", making absolutely no move, you understand, to intervene in any other way. After all, as their self-anointed protector and benefactor, he had potential, if not actual, clients in earshot to which he had a composural obligation, however unexpected and volatile developments might be! We surmise he couldn't help the fleeting conjecture that a possible result of this unpleasantness might be these client witnesses would prefer his services to those of his hapless senior, the very unfortunate Lawyer Gary. And should, heaven forbid, Lawyer Gary not survive, who better than he, heir apparent, to oversee the transition of the firm's leadership with all the desirable consequences attendant to discharging that duty in the decisive manner he most certainly would bring to bear.

In any case, due to reasons for which the pleading associate could claim little credit, Willi eased his grip just short of shattering Lawyer Gary's larynx - not a difficult thing to do one might add, an absolutely unacceptable way for a man to die one might further observe and a disturbing spectacle to view as he does go on to glory one might conclude. But `Ol Willi didn't quit entirely … 'cause it was starting to get sort of good to'im. Yes suh, ol' Willi was right on the verge of gettin' into this enterprise and enjoying himself, and you can bet the farm the Willies of the world turn from such opportunities with the greatest reluctance. That's part of what makes'em so dangerous and difficult to deal with. They like it!

C.J.'s discretion saved the day.

She punched me in the back with hard-fisted intent and directed I stop Willi before "he kills the little 'put in something that appeals to your literary tastes". I took a moment to catch my breath, then hastened to act as C.J. had indicated I should.

Order was quickly restored, though it took a while for everyone to get back their wind, 'specially Lawyer Gary, and then everyone had to gave their adrenaline rush some time to bleed down near normal before risking speech that'ud come out fractured or otherwise weird.

When he'd finally regained a modicum of composure, all Lawyer Gary wanted was to get us out of there ... face saving at this point low on his list of priorities. Simple survival an outcome much to be admired.

He ascertained how much he owed us by inquiring in the most cordial terms imaginable, instructed his associate, still standing outside the door, to go get a check cut and, unbelievable though it may be, that bad boy actually managed to make small talk while we waited. "Better to die than look bad.", must apply to practitioners of the law as much as it does Marine Corps fighter pilots!

We waited, during which time Lawyer Gary was unable to subdue an occasional baleful glare in the process of his glib monologue, but not one that resulted in him looking Willi or me in the eye, thereby risking the resumption of hostilities as any yard dog can tell you.

Lawyer Gary finally ran down and after a short, silent, strangely uncomfortable interlude, at least for me and Lawyer Gary but decidedly not C.J. or the Weasel, the check was handed to me in an envelope.

I made a show, mostly for Willi's benefit, of disdaining verification of the amount, and we turned to leave, not a word having been spoken. I thought our business was concluded, but Willi wasn't going to be upstaged by me, Lawyer Gary, or anyone else having the last word in an affair involving him, no matter how tangential his involvement, and in this case, for goodness sake, he'd been a major participant.

True to form, he turned and cautioned Lawyer Gary, "I realize we won't be able to hammer this before the bank closes tonight, so I just want you to know something, you little, 'by now you know about what Willi said." There was naked challenge in every word. For those of you who don't know, you "hammer" a check by cashing it at the bank on which it's drawn.

"If this check dudn't clear in the mornin', the first thing you're going to see will be the bumper of my truck comin' through that 'blankity blank' window." He nodded at the blinds against which Lawyer Gary had so recently been suspended. He was careful to speak in tones just above a whisper so as not to offend any ladies in the waiting room. C.J. he wasn't worried over, knowing she'd be supportively sympathetic to what he was about, i.e., gettin' the money. The two of them favor each other in this regard.

With that we went on parade. Heads high. Flush with victory.

Those in the waiting room, and assorted minions of the firm, witnessed our exit with something approaching awe resulting from what I'm sure was their appreciation of our righteous cause and a job well done. In fairness, I'd be willing to defend the proposition that our general deportment merited well every bit of their obvious esteem.

Four final observations should dispatch this narrative to any reasonable reader's satisfaction:

-The check was $10.00 short.

-I never saw or spoke to Lawyer Gary again.

-This was the only time I did business with Willi and came out of the deal unscarred.

-I can recall no other occasion on which C.J. regarded Willi with anything but contempt and suspicion. In this notable case, there was a generous dose of conspiratorial admiration---both ways!

<<back to top>>

Chapter Seven

BOB MATTHEWS, "NOW EXACTLY HOW DO YOU WANT THIS, BOSS."

I have never understood why really talented carpenters will sometimes do a job wrong while all the time knowing exactly how it's supposed to go and being perfectly aware of what they're doing. I'm not taking the position that all talented carpenters are given to this practice. But after 20+ years in the construction business, I'm prepared to defend the assertion that a significant proportion of those carpenters who are very knowledgeable and skilled will screw a job up just for the hell of it.

Then again my baby sister, who has graduate degrees and writes speeches for big-time executives in a major corporation, once told me she frequently misspells words on purpose when in a hurry while composing a rough draft. I'd like you to tell me how ya' figure that one!

Back to the subject at hand.

One of the most productive carpenters in the universe is Big Bob Matthews. The last time I saw Big Bob he was 275 pounds of deceptively muscled bulk mounted on a 6 foot 3 or 4 inch frame. He is thick boned, sharp as a razor, respected by his fellow workers, and skilled in the nuances of intimidation.

His smile has an appealing teddy-bear quality that can transition into a tooth-grinding sneer with disconcerting facility.

Big Bob carries a roar sharp, hook billed knife used by carpet installers that he can have ready to go in a heart beat should things take an unfortunate turn. The boy will cut you!

I have never known Bob to go anywhere without a hat. It covers a spot going bald on the crown of Big Bob's head, and woe be he who tries to remove it. I can't say whether Big Bob has more than one hat. But if he does, all of'em are imprinted over the bill with a large, two-headed snake, its two forked tongues flicked out. The caption reads, "Trust me."

Big Bob and I were working together on a large commercial job that involved the construction of a subway tunnel. I was laboring with a blasting crew as designated driller, nipper by necessity and inclination (nippers are tasked with getting whatever needs gettin' from pumps to steel shims to cranes if one's required to get the job done), and enthusiastic fabricator of daily production reports, and Big Bob was foreman over a carpentry crew.

At one point the job slowed because concrete forms were being installed much faster than they were being built. Since the installation and wrecking out of the forms was a continuing element of the job, it was critical to production that this logjam be relieved. No good prospects were on the horizon insofar as creative solutions were concerned, at least none from where most of us stood.

Word soon got around that Big Bob had offered to resolve the problem. But only on condition that he be assigned no duties other than those required to get this particular difficulty well in hand. And no duties at all so long as the form fabrication phase of the job lasted. We're talking the possibility of Big Bob gettin' paid to sit on his butt for a long time if he came up with the solution to this persistent barrier to production. The fact his proposal was considered and implemented is the nature of heavy construction, big money, and jobs fraught with liquidated damages.

Everyone prepared himself to bear witness to Big Bob getting put in his place. That included me. No one thought there was any way Bob could possibly come up with a method to get forms built any faster than was being done by hard working, talented, strong union guys willing to bust their butts to bring the job in on time.

Those of us who had worked with him should've known better.

It took Big Bob two long days, and a good chunk of another, to design and build templates for each size of concrete form required. That done, it took him another half day to show his two nail-driving laborers how to set and cut the components of the various forms on one set of templates, how to place and nail those components together on another set of templates, and where to stack the finished product. After that it was simply a matter of throwing the switch. The way Big Bob had it set up, protozoa with opposing thumbs could've managed to keep up.

With his assembly line in place, Big Bob set up a heavy duty lawn chair he'd brought from the house in the back of his truck, placed it in the shade where he could oversee operations, knocked together a little table on which to place his soft drinks and snacks and settled in to enjoy the fruits of his ingenuity.

Need I say everyone on the job was churlishly resentful with respect to Bob and his triumph? `Specially in the heat of the day.

To the credit of the project manager, his agreement with Bob was honored to the letter. He must have cursed himself to sleep at night, bedeviled by visions of Bob lounging in his lawn chair for everyone on the job to see. But he was an honorable man who absolutely kept his word. I found most project managers to be that way.

I can't remember exactly how long it took for Bob's operation to turn out more concrete forms than would ever be used. Suffice to say the boy had plenty of time to gloat in the glory sitting in the shade in the heat of the day.

When the party was over, Big Bob reassumed his regular duties with a willing spirit. But the incident did give notice that this was not one to be dealt with lightly.

Why is it there's always one brain dead son-of-a-gun who doesn't get the word? In this case, it was a young civil engineer, fresh out of school. This scrubbed, randomly pimpled discharge of Georgia's best know engineering school was our boy Nathan, willing worker and licker of any boot associated with what he identified as something that might eventually prove to be the project manager of a big-time construction project like the one we were on.

Nathan cultivated an ultra-serious demeanor. Everything he did work-related, and we're fairly certain that's mostly all he did, was accomplished with an air of gravity so inappropriate it was impossible not to mimic and caricature his every move. In that context, please have no doubts when I make the claim that nothing offers more entertainment to a construction hand than having an architect or engineer make himself an easy target for mimicry, ridicule and derision. Most architects and engineers are sufficiently sentient to know this, and conduct themselves accordingly. Not Nathan.

As soon as he'd served enough time in the project office to warrant being turned loose on the job at large, young Nate girded his loins and prepared to assert himself. And a big job like this one offered a rich variety of opportunities for him to undertake Assertiveness 101. The downside of the most typical of these opportunities would have been a little laughter and teasing at Nathan's expense. No real harm, no foul as they say.

But no.

Nathan couldn't be satisfied with one of those relatively harmless breaking-of-your-cherry entrees to the wonderful world of construction. Our boy Nathan needed more.

So he searched and he searched...with unflagging zeal...until he finally unearthed a Pandora's Box from which would spring the mechanism of his doom.

Nathan found Big Bob.

What follows isn't for the faint of heart and I urge you to proceed with extreme caution.

The details are unimportant.

Suffice to say, Big Bob was tasked with building a retaining wall, or some such something, that required a lot of attention to detail, and the application of unusual skill and expertise. He was perfect for the job by virtue of his experience, his willingness to go where others fear to tread, and his track record of proven performance. It was a foregone conclusion that if Big Bob were left to his own devices, the wall would get built exactly as specified in the complicated plans. The wall would get built on schedule or better. The construction of the wall would require the least number of man hours possible. And, most pertinent to this narrative, the wall's fabrication would go very well with no supervision beyond that which Big Bob would provide with practiced facility.

Nathan couldn't see it that way.

Big Bob was a challenge whose siren call this novice engineer couldn't resist. I'm sure he was warned by more than one that his best tack would be to stay out of the way. But the boy wouldn't listen.

He proceeded to delegate himself the project meddler.

I know Big Bob as well as most and can attest him to be a man tolerant of many things. His wife is a Rubenesque bottled blond who is best described as unusually demanding in those facets of life with which she is wont to function. His children are the predictable result of the parenting a wife like his provides. His chosen profession is fraught with uncertainty and frustration. His hobbies are building model boats in bottles and crafting fine furniture. All this is to say, Big Bob is no stranger to accommodating the whims and vagaries and general capriciousness of life.

There is, however, one thing he will not suffer. That thing be meddling. Particularly when the meddler's a shiny new engineer who was struggling to achieve puberty when Big Bob was establishing himself as a journeyman standing tall among his peers.

The more "Nate," as Bob referred to his nominal supervisor among coworkers, meddled, the more obvious it became that something was going to give. And in less than a week it did.

Nathan was down in the cut inspecting the status of Big Bob's job as had become his custom. In the course of his investigation he apparently commented that the way things were being done could stand some improvement. Big Bob stopped working. I can picture the carefully deliberate way he has of pausing to collect himself before turning to address whoever he feels has pissed on his leg.

And, as he turned that day, I know he had a snake-mean smile on his face that mirrored the two-headed snake leering over the bill of his cap announcing, "Trust me!" And I know Nathan had not the foggiest notion as to what he had birthed.

There weren't any witnesses, but what follows is how things happened as surely as if you and I had been there watching.

Big Bob did everything he could to appear as though nothing was amiss and that his sincerest wish was to be attentive, cooperative, and grateful. He encouraged unsuspecting Nathan to explore each and every detail of the job in question, along with any other aspects of the project that happened to come up in the course of the conversation. The questions he posed demanded Nathan exercise the limits of what little he knew about heavy construction, and any time the poor boy went astray, which was as often as not, Big Bob agreed with and reinforced those misperceptions. It wasn't long before Big Bob managed to get the inexperienced engineer so turned around, unbalanced, and confused, he didn't know up from down.

That's when Big Bob set the hook.

He got real personal, adding a touch of the humble supplicant, and confided that he might be out of his depth building the retaining wall. He went on to suggest that, maybe, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, and not too great an imposition on his valuable time......well, maybe Mr. Napp ("Napp" was Nathan's last name.) wouldn't mind helping Big Bob a little bit by coaching him through the well-nigh unknowable complexities of this job he'd been assigned. I can hear him uttering his hesitant plea in a stumbling, breathless, dare-I-ask sort of way.

Big Bob's insistence on using Nathan's last name when addressing him directly is easily explained. He always gets uncharacteristically respectful when the time comes to set someone straight. Most everybody does who I know to have any breeding does like this. I think it's a tradition in Japan.

Nathan couldn't have been more overjoyed. Here he was being courted by the most irreverent, intimidating, arrogant, skilled, respected one somebody he had known to that point in his brief career. He was possessed of feelings that brought him to the point of being completely overwhelmed by inflation and joy. He was transported to the verge of dancing a jig-a-bout or jumping wildly or acting out some other adolescent posturing of victory.

But mindful of his position as a professional, Nathan contained himself and, with as much composure as he could muster, assured "Bob" that it would be no trouble at all for him to assist in straightening things out. Nathan's us of Big Bob's first name sans obligatory qualifier was the last nail in his coffin.

It probably took very little time for Big Bob to mislead Nathan through an explanation of how things "ought to be done," and even less time to persuade Nathan to let Big Bob record those faulty instructions on a handy scrap of lumber, or a discarded lunch sack, to be carefully held for future reference. If Nate expressed any reservations about writing things down as Big Bob suggested, be assured the engineer's objections were quickly overcome by resort to the great pool of devices a craftsman like Big Bob develops over decades of experience manipulating supervisors for their good or otherwise, depending on their assessment of the supervisor in question. The Big Bob's of heavy construction can make or break the man in charge, much like senior NCO's in the Marine Corps do with officers. .

Like Big Bob swearing Nate to some profane oath of secrecy before reluctantly admitting to a lack of self-confidence that could be overcome only if he had the security of a ready reference in case he forgot exactly how "Mr. Napp" thought the job ought to be done.

Needless to say, the plans Big Bob coached Nate into recording were flawed by design at Big Bob's hand, and Big Bob built the job precisely as he'd gotten Nathan to specify it. I mean exactly to the letter … not a single, ugly wart out of place.

It wasn't 'till the concrete trucks began pulling up that the Project Superintendent, the legendary Mr. Bird, realized the job was an abysmal mess.

All hell broke loose!

Concrete sits in the truck just so long before it goes bad and gets "green". A whole lot of concrete had been ordered, and it had to be paid for whether it was used as intended or taken out and dumped.

It became obvious very quickly that there was no way Big Bob's work could be corrected in time to proceed with the concrete pour. And no other use for the concrete could be found.

A lot of concrete, and a whole lot of money, got wasted that day. The only remotely positive note was that the problem had been discovered before concrete had been poured and allowed to set up which would have been a hugely expensive disaster.

During the investigation that followed, Big Bob offered into evidence the instructions he had maneuvered Nathan into giving him. He went on to seal Nathan's fate by explaining that he'd only acted as Nathan had instructed out of fear that if he disagreed, or refused to comply, or, God forbid, he'd gone over the engineer's head, he might have lost his job. He stated in the strongest terms that he had known the job wasn't being built as specified on the plans but, after all, as a humble carpenter it wasn't his place to question the decisions of a college graduate engineer, however perplexing and misguided those decisions might seem to one untutored such as he. Needless to say, a major dent was inflicted on young Nathan Napp's career despite the fact that everyone who was anyone knew very well what had really gone on. You can't be around construction long without seeing this play acted out in one form or other.

Several months later I contracted with Big Bob to form up and pour a driveway on a piece of rental property C.J. and I had at the time. He and a helper were hard at work when I got to the job and, since I had nowhere else to be, I stood around and watched them go about their preparations. Before long I idly offered a suggestion or two. Then one or two more.

Big Bob ignored me for a while but when it became apparent I was determined to help things along, he finally stopped working, paused, and slowly turned to me with that trademark grimace of a smile.

"Boss, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, I'd `preciate it if you'd let me jot down just exactly how you want this job done. That way I'll be sure to get it right like you want it."

A mule doesn't have to kick this ol' boy in the head more than a couple of times before I catch on, and I hadn't fallen off the cabbage truck that morning.

I shutup, went to the house and ate lunch with Sissy.

The driveway turned out beautifully without any input from me.

Far as I know, Big Bob never accepted a position higher than foreman of a crew despite many offers to make him a superintendent or general foreman. We worked on the same jobs off and on for several years. I never heard what happened to Nathan Napp after we finished our part of the North Avenue Station project. But I'm satisfied you can lay any difficulty he had in restarting his career at the feet of Big Bob Matthews.

<<back to top>>

Chapter Eight

AN EPILOGUE

Which reminds me of a story Jess Bingham tells.

Jess is the owner of a hardware store in downtown Atlanta. He and his father-in- law, Mr. John Eller, from whom Jess bought the store when Mr. John retired, kept me in business during the recession that hit the construction industry in the mid-70's. They did this by allowing me a lot more credit than they had any reasonable hope of recovering if all didn't go well with me or if I got discouraged and decided to hang it up and seek greener pastures.

To this day neither of them can explain what possessed them to do it. And both can recall, in emphatic terms, their sense of relief when I walked in with the balance due in cash. I think they extended me so much credit because they knew C.J. would see to it I did the right thing.

Mr. Eller opened his hardware in close proximity to the location of what was then Sears Roebuck's largest facility. Sears recently sold the building to the City of Atlanta which is using it \as an administrative complex. AH … ain’t the growth of government a wonderful thing. In any event, Mr. Eller likes to admit it took him several years longer to run Sears out of that location than he thought it would.

But getting back to Jess.

I was in the store one day passing time commiserating with him about the weight problem we share in common. If memory serves, the subject shifted from obesity to business, which led to our lamenting how difficult it is to find good help, which brought up the paradox that you get so accustomed to dealing with marginal employees, when a good one comes along you tend to mismanage them, which carried over to the observation that it's easy to get in the habit of micro- managing anyone who works for you.

Jess said he had a well-recommended landscaper come out to his house to make some grading adjustments in order to keep his crawl space dry. The guy showed up on time, with his equipment and helpers, and went to work.

Jess’ the sort who likes to learn new things. He also likes to make sure a job is being done right. But he's not stupid, and it's unlikely he would ever critique or try to direct an operation unfamiliar to him.

In this case however, we're talking Jess' home, so all bets were off.

From the way he described it, Jess futzed around `till he couldn't stand it any more. Then he started making comments. Offering suggestions.

The landscaper took precious little of Ron's direction before tapping himself on the head while observing, "Mr. Bingham, don't concern yourself. We brought it with us."

<<back to top>>

CHAPTER NINE

KELL

No kinder, gentler, more unassuming man ever lived than Kell Woods. As a child in the mountains of northwestern North Carolina, I used to trudge up the rough track to his cabin, sit with him on the front porch looking out over his apple orchard at Copperhead Mountain, and talk about whatever came to mind.

Kell was as close to a hermit as I've ever known. But he was always cordial and never let on whether he minded company or not … I’m pretty sure he did.

He had a fair sized barn beside the branch that ran through his property that he kept in good repair. Kell used the barn to cure tobacco and shelter a stall where his horse could hang out. The horse was equally welcome in Kell's cabin. I don't think it ventured there except to steal whatever apples happened to be lying about.

I used to wonder how Kell kept clean. I never saw a washtub or laundry soap. But even in winter, Kell's overalls and shirt were presentable.

He never wore socks.

It's still a mystery to me how Kell always smelled like an indescribable mixture of newly plowed earth, and hay just mowed, and clean mountain air, and other good things. There was never a hint of the acrid, slop-bucket odor that marks those who don't have ready access to soap and water, or are disinclined to wash even when facilities are available.

Exceedingly few mountain people are anxious to impose their views on others in the form of advice or counsel ... Kell more disinclined then most. That may be part of the reason why I can so clearly remember the cool midafternoon when he rocked back in his chair and reluctantly announced he had something he thought he’d best discuss with me.

I was off to college that fall and more than a little nervous at the prospect. Kell had concluded, and rightly so, that I would do well to take with me a cache of principles for guidance in dealing with the world outside the cloistered, nurturing, protective shelter of the mountains.

"Robert," he said, "there's something you ought keep in mind." I don't recall Kell looking me straight in the eye any time but then in all the years we knew each other.

"If you have one friend, you're lucky." He paused to gather himself. The effect was considerable.

" If you have two friends you are bless’ sed of God." Another pause. The intensity of the moment escalated.

"And Robert, if you have three friends you're an idiot."

I don't know where Kell came from and I don't know where he's buried.

But I do love him.

And I've recalled that afternoon with him each time I've ignored Kell’s piece of advice.

<<back to top>>

CHAPTER TEN

PRODUCTION THEN THE MONEY, or, WHOEVER HAS THE MONEY WINS 

I can't speak for all the businesses out there maneuvering in the economic milieu labeled "free enterprise", but I do have a passing acquaintance with construction. I strongly suspect most, if not all, businesses fall prey to pretty much the same imperatives that dictate the operation of a successful construction enterprise.  And I know the most important rule I've learned and relearned in construction is you don't turn the money loose 'til something has been accomplished to justify that move. 

Simply stated, the exchange of money is always based on the accomplishment of agreed on results. Those results must be susceptible to measurement both in terms of quality and quantity.  No other way works. Period. 

The problem is, most of us are unable to consistently comply with this critically important rule of business. We give it lip service and swear we're never going to make the mistake again. But more often than not some slick somebody rolls in with a real good story and we find ourselves paying in advance, snagged once more in the same old briar patch that tore us up the last time we came charging through.           

The slick somebodies in question aren't necessarily bad people with unworthy intentions. That is in part what makes defending yourself so difficult. Here you are, presented with a likable, well-intentioned human being who has fallen on difficult times; or who has a great idea but needs a little help to get it going; or who has terrific potential to be of use in an enterprise that will eventually be profitable to all involved, but on the front end your primary responsibility will be to carry the weight in so far as financing is concerned; or who has knowledge / experience / skills that are of such immeasurable value as to justify any sacrifice on your part in the interest of obtaining those formidable talents; there are as many rationalizations as there are people out there with whom you would not be associated save for those rationales.

The process is some variation on the following.                     

Thomas Boyd is an articulate, highly skilled, experienced contractor with a following of ne'er-do-wells he is able to control by threat of physical force and judicious payment of moneys due, that is, no one ever quite catches up with Thomas on what he owes them and if they complain too much, he's subject to kick their butt. 

There are those who eventually tire of the game and move on to other pursuits, resigning themselves to wages that will never be paid. But a quixotically stubborn, relatively permanent group hangs on. They accept the necessity of the way Thomas operates and show up with reasonable regularity in order to do his biding. One assumes they hold out hope of eventually being paid in full.

Over the years these faithful have developed the capability of performing well enough to support Thomas in whatever lifestyle he requires while managing to make ends meet despite the pittance he pays. And in the process, a peculiar bond of loyalty has been established between the parties to this arrangement.    

C.J. and I first crossed paths with Brother Thomas after agreeing to complete a fire damage project that was far beyond the level of competence we had mustered thus far.

The two contractors who preceded us had left the job, the customers, and the City of Atlanta Building Department, in a state of disarray. We never really got the details, but to say there were misunderstandings would be tantamount to labeling Hussein's trick with the oil wells of Kuwait "a fire".

A slick, smooth talking insurance adjuster managed to keep us from getting acquainted with the job's unenviable status until after we had agreed to do the work. In fairness to him, we didn't investigate too much, and I'm not all that sure we wouldn't have decided to take the job on even if we had been fully apprised.  Things were slow in construction at the time, and the prospect of completing a thirty thousand plus dollar project promised riches about whose actualization we could only dream. 

The truth is, in my pursuit of a job I perceived as being the instrument of our salvation, I had embellished somewhat the experience C.J. and I were bringing to the table, not paying a lot of attention to what was being offered by the other side.

I don't think I lied. But I did express myself in terms that were enthusiastically charitable. In the trades we call this writing checks that might be difficult, if not impossible, to cash.   

When she realized what I'd done, C.J. wasn't pleased. 

I believe she voiced some inclination to let me wallow in the hole I'd dug. And I recall her saying other things that were easily as uncharitable. 

I laid low for a day or so realizing she needed some time to recoup a more reasonable perspective. Then I dropped by her house unannounced and groveled `till she agreed to at least go look at the job. 

She folded.

I insisted we proceed before she had time to reconsider.

When we got to the job it was C.J.'s presence alone that kept me from bolting. What we surveyed was a disaster. A disaster to which we were contractually committed by my hand … my hand alone.

What a mess!

I couldn't believe how differently things appeared when viewed absent the distortion of desperation.

The job I had negotiated had been difficult but doable. But that job had somehow metamorphosed and become a nasty blot of misery served up from the fiery lakes of hell.  A running sore bent on violating any reckless souls foolish enough to venture too close. A monstrous weight that would readily overwhelm the best my puny capacities might offer. 

We were screwed and I was the instrument. Woe was me! A thousand times woe.       

But suddenly I was struck by the fact that C.J. didn't seem to share my panicked concern.  On the contrary, she stood calmly at my side waiting for me to set a course and it was then that I understood I had no choice but to gird up my loins and get on about the business of figuring out what to do. As I undertook that effort, it quickly became obvious that the figuring was going to take more time than I had right then.

Fortunately, C.J.'s tendency to quiet patience allowed me sufficient time to regain some modicum of composure before she turned and asked how I thought we might best get started. Knocked down by a feather? I was primed and ready.  

The arrival of a dilapidated dump truck spared me giving utterance to what I was thinking that being, "How the hell should I know."

Well beyond a condition of worse for wear, the truck was shrouded in smoky exhaust and engine noise.  A film of something sticky on the body of the cab was embedded with dirt and grime.  If asked, I would have guessed the paint to be a darker shade of blue.

The big truck ground to a halt, air brakes hissing. 

The driver killed the engine and sat staring at us intently for what verged on an uncomfortable length of time. Then he smiled.

When Thomas Boyd smiles it's as though the sun's rays are bursting the gloom of a cloudy sky. A mouth full of tightly knit teeth gleam an invitation to be friends. Before you can catch yourself, you start feeling better. That's when Thomas hits his stride.   

He climbed down from behind the wheel, a big jungle cat stretching … extending and testing the limits of its predatory range. 

Then he yawned mightily.  

Finally, reassuring us with his massive hands and thickly muscled arms extended, he, in full voice intoned, "How are you lovely people doing today?"            

His gentleness was as appealing as his emergence from the truck had been intimidating. But you would think even individuals of our limited experience would have recognized this performance for the exercise in manipulation that it was. 

We didn't. 

And that's one of the few times C.J.'s instincts betrayed us.                 

I sensed C.J. was kindly disposed to this engaging creature. Which explains in part why it wasn't long before I convinced myself Brother Thomas was a guardian angel sent directly from heaven to guide C.J. and me through the storm tossed abyss into which we had been cast by my lack of judgment. 

He walked through the job making astute observations at appropriate intervals, his tone consistently respectful.        

In retrospect, I see Thomas took great pains in avoiding the slightest hint that he was a master dealing with two budding initiates as though they were his equals. The feeling was so glorious we could hardly be blamed for our willingness to continue the game so long as Thomas would allow. How easy it is to con the incompetent and unsure if one weaves the illusion they know what they're doing.   

The awesome clean up I had dispaired of ever being effected Thomas dismissed as nothing more than a trifling bother. 

The Stop Work Order imposed by the Chief Building Inspector of Atlanta he relegated to the status of a minor inconvenience that would be resolved the instant he got in touch with any one of his countless influential associates at City Hall. 

Involved code requirements specifying how to "kill" smoke damage, or how to differentiate between acceptable and unacceptable depths of charring on structural members, or how to rebrace load bearing beams supporting three stories of house, or any others of the countless questions that had to be answered if the job was to get done in such a way as to pass inspection .... these easily remedied matters were of no consequence to Thomas. 

An unbearable weight eased, Thomas the fulcrum.           

When the subject of money presented itself, Thomas dispatched it with the same easy grace to which all other difficulties had fallen. Money was a detail to be worked out when time presented a less urgent prospect. Action was of the essence! Time was a’wastin’. This man didn't function in the problem concept and money was usually a problem. 

Thomas was, in my estimation, the very soul of altruism. A large, capable body structured on a selfless frame. A God send.

Look a gift horse straight from heaven in the mouth?

Perhaps you. Certainly not I.   

C.J. did mention something about, "We really ought to get the money straight." 

I don't believe I bothered to respond as I had no doubt she would eventually realize Thomas was a man with whom such precautions were completely unnecessary. In my view, it was important we avoid any subject that might put his integrity in question, or otherwise offer the slightest offense. And my attitude seemed vindicated by the fact that Thomas never mentioned money in our discussion of how the job should be done. 

I was confident the matter would never present a difficulty. 

That happy illusion persisted until sometime the next day.         

On that day and frequently thereafter, the amounts of money Thomas requested never totaled a lot.  And he always had well rehearsed defensible explanations for how the money would be put to the best possible use. I was regrettably late in recognizing the fact that, over time, the uses had less and less to do with things directly related to the job. But how can one quibble about money when a child is sick and needs medical attention, or when a vehicle needs new brakes if some creature critical to the job is to get to work safely, or when a Friday afternoon keg-of-beer-and-snacks-get-together must be held to insure morale at a peak. 

I didn't feel right about objecting until C.J. showed me the record she'd been keeping.          

The requests had been made and granted every day since the job had mobilized … the aggregate amount of money I had dispensed was staggering. 

The inescapable conclusion to be drawn from C.J.'s data was the work completed to that point fell far short of justifying the money Thomas had been paid. If something weren't done pretty soon, we were going to find ourselves teetering on the lip of the precipice.

It took some heavy self-motivation but I finally managed enough gumption to confront Thomas with what was going on. He was the essence of understanding as I hesitantly explained the circumstances calling for my insistence that costs be more rigorously controlled. He was a portrait of willing cooperation helping me define and record the scope of work remaining. 

He was as concerned that I get a fair shake on the cost of the job as he was that he be afforded just compensation. The whole experience seemed a beautiful example of working men looking out for each other’s interests with an eye to working together for a long time. It was sad C.J.'s gender precluded her sharing in this camaraderie, a preserve restricted to men like Thomas and me. 

I guess that feeling of camaraderie is why I went along when he suggested I go ahead and pay a large percentage of the money he would be due on completion in a lump sum, right then. That way he wouldn't have to bother me with a draw schedule, and draw inspections, and other petty day-to-day expenses risking all the delay and hidden costs that could result. It sounded so reasonable that I didn't consult C.J. before writing the check. After all, consulting her probably wouldn't look too manly to a guy like Thomas and heavens forbid I be diminished in his eyes to the slightest degree.

I know.

You've already guessed. 

C.J. wasn't pleased. 

Clever you.     

By the time the job staggered to some semblance of completion, C.J. was speaking to me only when necessary, Thomas had managed to erode profits `till there was nothing left, workers were regarding me as a curious mix of exploitable chump and the tooth fairy, and I had learned a lesson that I've relearned on several occasions. 

But never at so great a cost.     

WHOEVER HAS THE MONEY WINS.

If you pay before some form of service is rendered, you will get something other than what you had in mind. It will invariably not be what you paid for. And the other party to the agreement will be offended to the point of being outraged should you dare suggest they have done anything other than perform at a level far beyond what you should have expected. Their position will always be that they have done you a favor and if things didn't work out on your end then no one's at fault but you. The fact you might not realize this and be in complete, happy agreement is a reflection on you, not them.  

I hasten to add, I never thought badly of Thomas. 

He did what I forced him to do, that is, Brother Thomas screwed me for what he perceived to be my own good, as well as the good of several others, himself included. God bless him.

<<back to top>>

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SOME OBSERVATIONS

I've learned to question the emotional and intellectual maturity of those who belittle cliches and Reader's Digest. After going a couple of rounds with some pretty good opponents and surviving relatively intact, I've been fortunate enough to develop sufficient reserves of confidence to openly acknowledge the truth of certain facts which, for some reason, I was unable to learn at my Momma’s knee no matter how hard she tried.

You don't have to rediscover the wheel. You don't have to stick your hand in the fire to know you'll get burned. You don't have to beat your head against a brick wall. You don't have to lie down with dogs and get fleas. You don't have to be known by the bad company you keep. You don't have to go for a deal that's too good to be true. And you don't have to do a lot of other things your Momma cautioned you about. Just as her Momma cautioned her. Just as her Momma cautioned her.

In case you've forgotten any of those prescriptions, they're all in Reader's Digest. Cliches, Reader's Digest, the Bible, and what your Momma tells you are the best guides to living and doing business I've run across. Anyone who makes an honest effort to abide by these precepts is going to do O.K. Anyone who, for the most part, succeeds in abiding by these precepts, will not only do O.K., they'll do real well.

And they'll be happy.

Not a bad return for undertaking something simple.

That's the key.

Recognizing life as an exceedingly simple process.

Few decisions in life involve more than two possible courses of action, three at the very most ... I’ve never experienced the latter. And one of the two options is always a head and shoulders better choice. Easily identified and readily accomplished. Simple. Living any other way is to dignify the twisted complexity of soap opera intrigue as a functional standard.

It's not.

That's why it's so remarkable that people persist in pursuing soap opera lives.

We're not talking bored housewives lying on their sofas indulging chocolate while scanning a steamy section of the latest romance novel during the ads on Price is Right.

What we're talking about here are professionals, academicians, corporate executives, people running the country and all those other individuals who ostensibly have a grasp sufficiently broad to justify them being empowered with directing events that impact the lives of the rest of us.

Great numbers of these people, along with a significant majority of us great unwashed, opt for the unnecessary complications of soap opera living even though it's a lot of trouble, wastes huge amounts of time and is certain to result in unhappiness.

It took a long time for me to figure this one but I finally worked it out. Most people elect to live this way because, for them, it's the lesser of two evils. They have so little sense of autonomy, or control of the circumstances of their lives, or self esteem, or relatedness to anything on the planet, that to resort to the simplicity that is themselves-in-the-process-of-living would be to resort to nothing.

With these unfortunates there's not much happening in there. So they've got to make up for that lack. They do so by complicating their lives and, to the extent they can, the lives of everyone else.

They harbor resentments.

They hold grudges.

They machinate offenses.

They patronize subordinates.

They joy in correcting others .... especially harried waitresses in public restaurants who they make carry food back to the kitchen where, we can only hope, it is spat upon, warmed over and returned for their consumption.

They overtip arrogant maitre'd's and wine stewards.

They are putty in the hands of the skillfully obsequious.

They believe appearance is everything.

They are cocked and ready with some hurtful response should a child be unfortunate enough to merit their attention.

They are unfaithful to their spouses.

They betray their friends.

They are ethical if necessary.

They are remorseful if caught.

They are disdainful of those beneath them.

They pander to those above.

They fear things formless and undefined.

They will make any concession to security.

And they are charitable so long as it's effortless or dictated by management.

Most of them want to be good people.

They read books on self-improvement authored by sages as dimensionless as those they instruct ... offering time tested panacea gleaned in the stacks public libraries.

They spend enormous sums on mail order manuals and tapes promising exercises that are effortless .... results money back guaranteed if returned in resaleable condition, postage paid.

They form support groups where they willingly bare their souls risking vulnerabilities no one recognizes or cares enough about to exploit, but who would if they did.

And they are forever shackled by the self-loathing that this needless risk affords.

How can any of us live this hell if there's a better way to go? Fear lies at the answer’s base.

Fear is a terrible taskmaster that loosens it's grip with awful reluctance. Fear is a living, willful, evil devourer that aims to defile and demean. Fear is skilled at mirroring those exaggerated shadows we harbor that prey on us. And fear is infinitely resourceful at devising an unending array of cripplers ready to torment us the moment we defeat the one being replaced.

Know this! Fear and all its eviserators are impotent when confronted.

The behavior of which we're least proud is crafted in fear and those brief interludes we mark happy are absent that monstrous presence.

Marketing programs targeting billions are founded on the leverage fear imparts. We are urged to throw off our bonds and "Just do it."

"It's better to die than look bad."

"They can kill you .... but they can't eat you."

"There are things worse than death."

"Five years from now this won't make any difference."

"The only thing you can really count on is you."

"I'd rather die free than live a thousand years a slave."

All these are admonitions to live despite fear. Each of us lives with fear. But some mount the backbone so they don't knuckle to it. None of us has to.

The remedy’s simple.

Conduct your life in cliches.

Expressions are awarded the status of cliches only after their substance tests true over time. Cliches are knee-jerk prescriptions for living that carry the experiential weight of all who have gone before us. Cliches shroud us in an impenetrable cloak of behavior that exposes fear for an ineffectual bully. A monstrous nothing prepared to yield to the slightest effort of will. A torment more readily overcome with each engagement.

A life lived in cliches is happy, productive, uncomplicated, fearless and subject to being played wild and free.

Any time life takes on a pale of complexity be on your guard. It's time to gather your stock of cliches for ready reference and implementation. There's something in you not right. Fear's lurking in the wings.

<<back to top>>

CHAPTER TWELVE

I DID IT !!  I DID IT !!        

            At this point in my life I’ve come to learn it’s a rare individual who will take credit when he or she has done something that hasn’t proven out.  Deadlines missed, budgets busted, appointments forgotten, projects mishandled, facts carelessly misrepresented … we’ve all been there and most of us, if at all possible, have ducked, deflected or sidestepped what we’ve rightfully got coming.

I’m guilty as anyone which is doubtless the reason I find such inspiration to do better when I see or hear about that courageous soul who dares stand up and be counted for better or worse. 

Trey’s the nephew of a close friend.  He's a good boy. 

            But he does tend to be a little shy and restrained behind his older sister, who has been super-woman from birth, and his little brother, who’s as tough as Carmen Basilio taking the title from Sugar Ray.  

            A consequence of Trey's reticence is that he usually gets saddled with the blame whenever things go amiss as frequently they  do in a household which includes three active, bright children. 

            One Saturday afternoon all three siblings were being entertained by their Grandmother, their parents, the T.V., and each other during the course of which popcorn got popped and rationed.  Trey quickly dispatched his share and began foraging to get as much of the other shares as he could. The boy was hungry.  His family is a nurturing one so it wasn't long before Trey was given another large portion of popcorn. 

Rivalry over trivia being what it is this development provoked substantial dissatisfaction on the part of Trey's sister and brother, especially his sister, Autumn.

            She wasn't hungry, but she was covetous, and she set her sights on Trey with the focus of a woman scorned. Trey's eyes proved larger than his stomach. His attention wandered from the care of his bowl of popcorn. As an unhappy consequence, it got spilled in an out of the way spot where it wasn't immediately noticed by attendant adults, brother, and sister. Trey elected to let sleeping dogs lie carrying on with his various Saturday afternoon activities. 

            He soon learned the truth of that old adage, You can run but you can't hide. 

            Autumn happened on the spilt popcorn.         

            Her cries to judgement gathered all to the scene of the crime. Trey quickly became the prime object of interest at a point in time where other concerns and interests were losing their appeal. He was assaulted by his sister’s accusatory wails immediately taken up by his younger brother. His Momma and Daddy fixed him with head shaking, cold-eyed, unforgiving stares. His Grandmother was sympathetic but could do little given the gravity of the offense.  It was a circumstance approaching situation extremis. All was lost. Trey found himself backed into a corner from which there appeared no escape. 

            What to do! 

            What to do!  

            And that's when gentle, shy, quiet spoken Trey displayed the colors of a warrior. He turned and faced them all. Hands clenched, cheeks red, baby teeth gritted. Then, his tiny arms raised in fist shaking defiance, he trumpeted, "I DID IT !!  I DID IT !!"

            It was a great moment. 

            I wish I’d been there.

<<back to top>>

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

GIVE'EM WHAT THEY WANT

            Despite his assertions to the contrary, Big Lou Bartolucci falls dramatically short of being the most productive salesman in the world.  He does not, however, have to excuse himself with respect to his self-confidence rating.  On that score Lou is far out on the point.  

            With Big Lou it's not aping the attitude of others, it's not the result of training in the military, it's not conscientious application of personal improvement principles.  

            No, no. 

            Plain and simple, Lou Bartolucci is convicted of the fact that he is the most self-sufficient, toughest, most persuasive, smoothest moving, money makingest, sellingest-of-anything one somebody that you, I, or he has ever known.  There are many who would argue with passion that Lou is none of these things ...  with defensible justification.  But there are none who would dare challenge the position that this man can shag.   

            I'm not talking about the way folks cut up in the twenties ...that was strong.      

            But it wasn't awesome.  It wasn't spiritual.

            I’m not talking about dance clubs that sprang up recently in which devotees’ do tricky little steps on occasion.

            What I'm referring to launched full-blown from a church in which Blacks worshipped somewhere outside Columbia, S.C.  No warning.  A move beset with huge portent.

            Dangerous!

            And it got caught up in the swamps and the Gullas and the tidewater islands and the water oaks hung in heavy veils of moss.  'Till it spread all up and down the coast gathering powerful secrets, gettin' powerful, before finally getting’ hooked and played just outside Savannah. 

            If you don't know what I'm talking about you've missed an important part of what you should've been exposed to in life.  And you ought to make it your business to set things right soon as you can.  That's the main reason I'm bringing this to you.  I’m here to help.  Read on.

            Lou Bartolucci was a disenfranchised Italian kid in his early teens when he started listening to music like Ruth Brown singing "Meet Me With Your Black Drawers On."  His father had been a master sculptor in Italy.  But that didn't cut any slack with the good white folks in Savannah.  They regarded Lou as a being just this side of a "nigra". 

            He met their expectations as best he could.  Hanging out with Blacks and hustlers and outlaws and any others that could appreciate a kid who would do as he was told, keep his mouth shut, be cool when he got high and rise to whatever level of toughness a particular occasion required.          

            There are those who would tell you that most of Lou's shtick was showboating. I wouldn't know. 

            But perception’s everything.  And a lot of people in Savannah perceived Lou as a swivel-mounted, bad-tempered, heartbeat of America mean son-of-a-gun. Some of them were about half bad their own self.     

            Billy’s known Lou since they were children.  He's a certifiable boy in his own right who has consorted with some breathtakingly beautiful women and participated in his share of excitement over the years.  On occasion, the State has expressed its disapproval of Billy's activities by taking the trouble to confine him in the State Penitentiary at Reidsville. Lou has helped support him and his during these difficult periods, which explains in part the closeness of the bond between them.  

            One of the many stories I've heard them tell on each other is as follows.  Billy told it so I believe it's literally true.  If by that you have inferred Lou will tell a lie, you have inferred with admirable insight and accuracy.                     

            Lou was in his mid-teens, had quit school, needed to help support his family, and was faced with bad prospects.   He knocked on doors for a while before finally knocking down a job selling shoes on commission. 

            Before long it became apparent he could do better shining shoes than selling them. The other salesmen were older and more experienced.  They hovered by the store's entrance, muscling Louie out of the action, and pounced on prospective customers before the kid could make a move.  Lou didn't have a prayer.  No one could have cared less.       

            But things suddenly took a hard turn for the better.  Prospective buyers started coming in the store, bypassing the waiting horde, gravitating to Lou like lemmings to the sea.  And they'd send referrals who didn't want to be bothered with anyone but "that kid, Louie.”  He started making good money.  He was master of all he surveyed when it came to feet and shoes.  None could explain the dramatic turn in his fortunes. 

            But, as with everything, the explanation was simple ...  which is typical of the way Lou operates.         

            He realized he would be hard pressed to compete physically with the bigger guys. They would simply keep shoving him to the back of the pack, isolating him from the prey. He also realized that about all he had going was a youthful appearance that stood in stark contrast to the war weary veteran salesmen with whom he had to contend. 

            Data in hand, Lou made his move.  From that point on, he positioned himself toward the back of the store in line with the entrance. As customers came in they were accosted from both sides by jabbering sales people, scarred by battle, so anxious to do business the potential buyer had little hope that his or her interests would be well served. 

            But straight ahead they couldn't miss seeing Lou standing before them toward the back of the store, an oasis in the storm ... relaxed, legs crossed, arm extended, forefinger beckoning them to peace, comfort, tranquility and the promise of a good fitting pair of shoes. 

            Few could resist the peaceful haven and podiatric comfort offered by Lou offered.  He was launched on a career in sales.  He never looked back.   

            Lou and I hooked up selling property in Florida.  I had never tried to sell anything in my life, and despite the patient encouragement and support of more experienced managers and salesmen, my record indicated that sales had better not be my only option for making a living.  I was reasonably skilled socially and got along swimmingly with the well-qualified prospects the company provided.  I studied hard and learned all I could about the benefits of the investment I was peddling.  I memorized the presentation the company suggested.  In short, I did everything I could think of to be successful. 

            But it was all to no avail. 

            I just wasn't cutting the mustard. 

            No two ways about it.

            Bottom line, I wasn't gettin’ the job done.   

            At a particularly low point Lou invited me to have lunch with him at a local deli.  They served out-of-this-world roast beef sandwiches on some kind of salty bread with whatever condiments you desired.  And big, cold pickles.  You have never had a better pickle than they served at Harry's Deli in Phipps Plaza on Peachtree Road right across from Lenox Square. 

            Lou talked about any number of things.  His deep Savannah accent and eclectic mix of tales soon had me enchanted and the trials and tribulations of commissioned direct sales assumed a lesser import. 

            We sat and talked and ate for what seemed like hours during which ol’ Lou managed to get me out of myself.  I was no longer a turtle lurking in a shell of discouragement and self-pity on which nothing short of a sledgehammer could have appreciable impact. 

            I was the relaxed old me. 

            Ready for whatever the world had to offer. 

            That's when Lou struck. 

            "Ya know something, kid?"  One of the dialects in Lou's repertoire is the guttural rasp of the ex-prize fighter, now fight manager.  This was one of his better efforts. 

            Legend has it that early on Lou tried his hand at professional boxing.  We are led to believe he was pretty good, and, based on the way I've seen him handle himself, he's not the first one a prudent individual would choose to test in a set-to.  "What's that, Lou?" I answered.        

            "I've been noticing ya haven't been settin' no world records dere."  

            "No world records in what, Lou?"   My sandwich was suddenly less tasty than it had been.  I felt the problems of the world pushing insistently at the door to my soul.    

            "Ah, you know what I'm talking about, kid.  You ain't sellin' squat and yer gettin' down.  Ya can't figure it out.  Am I right or what?" 

            Of course he was dead on the money.  But I didn't want to hear it and his Philadelphia fight-gym accent made it no easier to accommodate. 

            "Well I'm not exactly setting the woods on fire, Lou.  But I'll be O.K.  I just need a little time to get rollin’." 

            I've found light sarcasm a convenient, though marginally effective, option in a pinch.  I believe the gambit is labeled, “It’s time to move on.”  by a serious percentage of our politicos.  I should've known there was no way this weak backed effort to change the focus of the conversation was going to work with Lou.

            "Yo' Momma needs a little time to get it rollin', Hoss."  He was nothing if not a picture of gruff concern.  Probably genuine.  And don't you hate it when you're selling and the other guy ain't buying?  I sure did right then!  

            Lou sensed the hurt to my battered ego and backed off.  "No need to get all bucked up, son.  It ain't easy for any of us."  He took a long hit on his Diet Coke, the absence of sugar an uncharacteristic concession to his physical well being.  Then he drew in a long pull on his unfiltered cigarette.

            "But ya got to face the problem and take care of it if you're goin' to get the situation unscrewed."  His sparse eyebrows scrunched up in one of the many strange expressions he employs.   I noticed yet again the heavy scar tissue over his right eye, the target of too many left jabs.

            "Ya wit me on dis' here?"  

            I allowed as to how I was.      

            "O.K. then.  Unnerstan' this.  I ain't yer problem.  No one else is yer problem.  Ya know what yer  problem is, kid?"  Lou was lightening up.  But not much.

            I was doing my best to follow his lead and cocked my head in a show of interest.       

            "Yer problem is right there in the closest mirror, kid."  I didn't miss the "kid" part.  Or fail to appreciate the ploy.

            "Yer problem is you!"   

            It was profound, given my state of mind. 

            But it wasn't too helpful. 

            Lou anticipated my rejoinder and pressed on.      

            "Ya got to do two things, kid."  Lou's got an unnerving way of staring directly into your eyes when making a point.  People on the street call it, "Lookin' in your heart."

            "Number one, ya got to quit layin' excuses and bull jive anywhere but where it belongs.  On you is what I'm talkin' bout."  Louie was getting fired up.  He paused to take breath.     

            "And number two ... number two is, you got to stop sellin' what you decide you want the people to buy, and you got to start givin'em what they want."      

            He was in full stroke.  Beautiful to behold. 

            "Who the heck are you to be tellin' people how to spend their money anyway?  What ya need to do is keep yer mouth shut and let people tell what they want.  That ain't too hard is it?"

            No question the man has a way with words.

            "Once ya unnerstan' exactly what it is the people are lookin' to buy, then ya just get out’ta the way, go ahead and give it to'em."  Lou was beaming with self-satisfaction at the excellence of his presentation.  "Believe me, kid, they'll be happy to give up the stew!" 

            Made sense to me!!

            He proceeded to the close.

            "If they want cake, give'em cake."

            Another big swig of cola obtained with exquisite pace.  "And if they want pie, give'em pie."

            He rared back in his chair and loosened his belt a notch for the sandwich.  "Folks don't give a hoot how much you know about what you're sellin'.  What they care about is that you make sure to help’em justify what they're buyin'.  To do that you got to shut up and let’em tell you what it is they want you to say."

            The lesson given, Lou wasn't inclined to spend a lot of time making small talk and he soon made ready to leave.

            He wouldn't let me buy lunch, not wanting to be "obligated" to me in some weird way.      

            As of that afternoon I started learning how to sell. 

            And how to get the money.

            Anybody want some pie?  Maybe a little cake would better suit your palette.

<<back to top>>

 CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MAD DOG IN A MEATHOUSE           

            There's no substitute for focus. 

            You can work like a dog. 

            But if you're not focused, you're spinning your wheels.            

            It's easy to attempt to justify compensation for one's effort by reference to one's activity. Not getting things done. Not adding to the bottom line. Not making the job easier. Just running around being busy. The classic method of the habitual procrastinator. Hard to target.  Hard to find fault.

            In a full-blown charge at every turn, busier than anyone else by far. Who's to criticize? How do you get rough with someone in a constant sweat?           

            I'm a past expert in this regard. Maintaining warp speed and not getting a darn thing done. Feeling absolutely no guilt. Prepared to get my back up if anyone dare utter anything remotely critical. And bound to maintain a course set on non-performance, frustration, and failure. 

            But you can't fool everyone all the time. And some you can't fool at all. Lou Bartoclucci's one you just can't fool.        

            He was in the midst of commenting on my potential, talent, and general brilliance, and began suggesting routes I might pursue that would likely improve the quality of my life … materially if not personally. 

            I'd heard it all before. 

            And I’d come to think it was a crock championed by self-anointed instructors in motivation.  

            I said so, as I had on a number of occasions before when confronted with suggestions cast along similar lines. Not a wise move in this case. Louie's not one to put up with a lot of hooie. Especially when he's trying his best to help the one in desperate need of extracting hisself from subject hooie. The boy’s temper is closely akin to that of a cape buffalo spending its life looking for things to charge. 

            It didn't take long at all for him to suggest where I could stick my attitude. And when I made as if I couldn't be bothered and had better places to be, he suggested I hear him out in terms strong enough to persuade far tougher ones than I.  

            "You know what your problem is don'cha?" Lou's nose is Olympian. Looking down it compounds the weight of his argument a hundredfold.    

            "Your problem is you got so much going you can't decide what to stick with. You're the mad dog starvin' in a meat locker cause he can't hold on long enough to chew up one piece a steak good enough to swallow."         

            Lou didn't bother exploring all aspects of human behavior associated with his argument.  The man’s not given to wasting time that might better be spent compounding homemade sausages.  I could figure the details myself.  But Lou did suggest a discipline I eventually adopted with the help of C.J.'s patient reminders that the deal of a lifetime only comes down the pipe two or three times a week along with her insistence that we "pinky swear" to carry important projects through to their completion no matter what. 

            Identify a course and stick with it no matter how tempting other avenues might seem.  

            Seductive diversions are, in every case, red flags signaling failure.

            Don't be a mad dog.

<<back to top>>

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MORTY SPUNKMEYER

The headwaters of Monroe Drive in Atlanta’s Midtown district are to be found at Ponce de Leon Avenue. The same road on the other side of Ponce is Boulevard. In most cases the changing of a street name in mid-stride like this is a not-too-subtle indication that some line of demarcation marks a socio-economic transition from one side of "the tracks" to the other. Monroe Drive - Boulevard is no exception though times they are a changin’.

As Monroe proceeds north from Ponce to Ansley Park the cotton gets increasingly high, especially along the narrow intersecting surface streets. Oaks and dogwoods are everywhere on the Monroe side of Ponce. Little commercial development is in evidence. Piedmont Park's on the Monroe side. Expensive Homes. The Monroe side edges toward being almost exclusively Caucasian save for that diversity just passing through, working, looking for work or in pursuit of constitutionally prescribed happiness.

Georgia Baptist Hospital is on the Boulevard side of Ponce, impregnably buttressed with an abundance of security. There are a number of fast food places, some gas stations and plenty of city subsidized housing that is maintained, for some reason best known to city fathers, to an atypical fare-the-well. The Boulevard side of Ponce is as predominantly black as the Monroe side is white.

One need not research the literature on investing in real estate to appreciate the fact that the Monroe side is the place to target if the goal is to put money in property that is relatively stable, desirable to most intown residents on the fast track and likely to appreciate in value in the short term. And that's precisely what those with money do. Risk takers dare their dollars nearer Ponce and the Boulevard side in hopes of dramatic returns down the road while those inclined to more predictable results at the expense of great long term reward tend to invest in properties comfortably distanced from Boulevard's environs.

C.J. and I got involved in a number of renovation projects on the "developing side" in the Monroe Drive-Ansley Park-Piedmont Park area and, as far as I know, the owners of those projects were as pleased with their investments and the work we did as we were with the proceeds we got for our labor. One of the jobs we took on was an old two-story frame home that was only a half block off Ponce de Leon.

We reroofed, replumbed, rewired, installed a new heating and air conditioning system, pointed up brick on the chimney and foundation, replaced rotted wood as necessary and spent a lot of time prepping and painting the exterior siding. But we weren't asked by the owner's representative - it wasn't that unusual for us to contract, complete, and be paid for a job without ever meeting the owner(s) - to do any cosmetic work on the property's interior.

I remember being a little put off by this happenstance since the profit margin on cosmetic work like trim mould, handrail detail and cabinetry is usually higher than can be obtained contracting to do the type of basic structural improvements and repairs we were undertaking. I resented someone else being brought in to get the goody while C.J. and I had to settle for what might be considered bare bones basics. We absolutely appreciated the basics but a little of the goody is a nice thing to come one's way once in a while. Plus, I felt we could do work as pretty as anyone so why bother bringing in another party?

C.J. thought I was being too sensitive and told me so with the greatest tact imaginable myself being a delicate soul who must be instructed gently lest fragile feelins’ be bruised.

I got back from lunch early one afternoon with intentions of patching plaster.

C.J. was off somewhere and no other tradesmen were scheduled to work so when I heard activity in the kitchen area I went to investigate. I found a man in overalls and a long sleeve white shirt busy hanging cabinets.

He looked to be in his mid-sixties, was obviously not a professional cabinet installer and spoke with a heavy European accent.

We had a desultory conversation about this and that during the course of which I became intrigued by his accent and his determination to hang the cabinets. He handled his tools in such a way as to indicate he was accustomed to the basics of carpentry. But he sure didn't know much about the mechanics of working with cabinets as indicated by him not employing any of the tricks to which one must resort when attacking that job without a helper.

As is customary among tradesmen, we were in no hurry to introduce ourselves to each other but, sensing he wouldn't be adverse to some help and not particularly anxious to fool with patching plaster, I began assisting him with the cabinet installation. He watched closely. By the time we got the last set of wall units hung, I knew he'd be a well lubricated set of low profilers next time hanging cabinets passed his way.

The process took most of the afternoon but I didn't mind. Time passed quickly and the guy was as knowledgeable as any I’d met. Our conversation ranged from local to international politics, through a quick explanation by him of how the Federal Reserve tries to adjust and fine-tune the economy and on to how I had come to the kind of work I did. He spoke very well despite his heavy accent and I felt privileged to enjoy the company of an individual whose experience was far outside the ordinary and well beyond mine. It was sort of like the relaxed atmosphere of a seminar presented by a compelling professor and there's not going to be any grade.

As he thanked me for my help, he asked my name and responded by introducing himself as, Morty Spunkmeyer. I was dumbfounded.

By reputation, I knew Mr. Spunkmeyer to be a forearm tattooed holocaust survivor who had as much rental property in Atlanta as any single individual owned. He was a millionaire many times over. His reputation as a deal maker was the stuff of legends. And here he was hanging cabinets and thanking me for my assistance with sincere humility and appreciation.

He effected not too notice my stumbling effort at recovering from the shock and we went our separate ways, him voicing effusive thanks while I mumbled something about the privilege being all mine. I’d completely forgotten my initial resentment at not being contracted to do the interior cosmetic work. Mr. Spunkmeyer was apparently going to finish himself.

Over the next week or so Mr. Spunkmeyer stopped by the job daily. He always ended up wherever I was working, helped me complete whatever I happened to be doing and directed me to go ahead with some other phase of finishing the interior. I got very comfortable in his presence.

One day we had managed to talk ourselves out with respect to the type of subjects to which we were accustomed, that is, those that were of such scope as to lend themselves to relatively safe investigation and discussion. It's hard to achieve an argument when considering the true meaning of life in Ghana.

After a prolonged lapse in the conversation, I found myself asking Mr. Spunkmeyer if he would share with me the secrets of his success.

The instant the question was voiced, I was mortified!

Of all the things I've been taught the primary one is, don't go where you haven't been invited. Mr. Spunkmeyer had definitely NOT invited me to inquire into his business.

If he was offended, he spared me knowledge of it and kept working while considering his answer. After a period of time that was probably less than a minute he put down his hammer and, in so doing, invited me to do likewise.

"Bob," he said with his heavy accent, his speech characteristically deliberate and slow. "The secret to success in your business is very simple. If you will do it, I give you my word. ... you cannot fail."

Strong words from a man not given to flippancy.

"You want to be guaranteed success in your business you must do three things only." He held up the requisite number of fingers, each thickened and rough from years of ongoing abuse.

"First, your truck is your office." he folded his forefinger with his other hand.

"Second, your basement is your warehouse." his middle finger joined its associate.

"And third, don't take a job you can't finish yourself if everyone gets mad and quits." His fingers curled to a hard determined fist. I don't think Mr. Spunkmeyer was conscious of the gesture or it's emphasis.

Any success I've enjoyed in the construction trade has been a result of attending to the principles I learned that afternoon. Especially the last one.

In retrospect, I was better compensated for the time I spent working for Mr. Spunkmeyer than on any other job I've done.

<<back to top>>

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

BEAR

Gator's real name was Eddie Chavies. He was out of Harlan County, Kentucky. In case you don't know, the people in Harlan County are purported to be among the meanest this life has to offer ... I wouldn’t know. A lot of them are also said to be pretty tough. There's a big difference. Gator's both.

He'd just gotten out of the Federal Penitentiary in Atlanta and had called me to renew acquaintance and see if I could help find him a job. I told him the prospects were bleak as I was lookin' for work myself right then.

The recession that hit residential building in the mid-70's was in full bloom, it was difficult to get commercial or residential work if you weren't union and Affirmative Action wasn't targeted to benefit poor white boys no matter what commentators and leaders of the pack were sayin' on Meet the Press. Gator and myself being men of reason, we launched our job search sitting at the bar in a low class strip joint located amidst the long faded glory of a dilapidated downtown hotel that had stood favorably to any measure in its day and is undergoing major renovation at present for the consumption of folks who don’t mind payin’ premium dollar to live in the midst of the action.

By three o'clock in the afternoon we were well past sobriety and fast running out of money. The booze wudn't making the girls look any better, we'd decided against armed robbery and runnin’ moonshine out of North Georgia as suitable alternatives for the moment and it was still too early to buddy up with a well-heeled drunk.

Gator sat up abruptly, hit with an inspiration as unexpected as it was timely and spit in the Coke bottle he's seldom without by way of emphasizing the gravity of that which was to come.

Gator dips snuff and chews tobacco. A soda bottle or plastic cup is an essential accoutrement if you chew or dip indoors.

He wiped most of the overflow off his thick wiry beard beaming mightily. "Buddy! I got a great ideal!" "Ideal" is rural southern construction hand talk for,"idea."

Gator had great ideals all the time, a very few of them a lot better than the others. Given the circumstances in which we found ourselves, I wasn't real enthusiastic about the possibility that this particular "great ideal" would prove out but Gator wasn't one to be put off by the opinion of others however high their station. After instructing me to stay right where I was and nurse a drink 'till he got back, he hurried off. A big, determined man on a self-appointed quest. You wouldn't have wanted to end up between him and his target unless you're the sort who likes being steam rollered ... rumor has it there're some of those out there.

I was doing my best to cajole a drink out of the barmaid, who called herself Crystal, when Gator reappeared obviously pleased with himself. He approached me affecting an exaggerated swagger, threw a beefy arm around my shoulders ... a little the comrade, a little the braggart ... and announced he'd gotten us a job making nine dollars an hour. I hoped on all that was holy he hadn't gone crazy, booze and drugs promoting a perverse flashback that'd plunged him on a perilous descent into some weird domain of fantasy and illusion 'cause you can bet the farm, I wanted to believe.

I thought to myself that if what he was sayin' was true, I was as pleased with the news as a drunk could be, especially since I had earlier in the day sworn that if I could find someone who would pay me $200.00 a week, I'd work for the son-of-a-gun the rest of my life and throw rocks at anybody who tried to get me to leave .... cursed be the prospect of ever asking for a raise.

It took a little off the glow of our apparent salvation when Gator told me we were to start working that night at 7 o'clock on a shift that was scheduled to go 'till 7 the next morning. Nobody'd ever said it was goin' to be easy but this really did seem to be pushing one or two extra yards beyond where anybody had any business going. Injustice or no, there wasn't any sense in trying to sober up on such short notice so we promised Crystal we'd come back and pay if she'd run us a tab until we went to work at 6:30. She did and so did we.

We got to the job early, the walk being only a couple of blocks. Even with the mellowing perspective induced by what we'd been drinking, it was readily apparent that Gator had maneuvered us into a job with a capital "J."

The Metropolitan Atlanta Rapid Transit Authority, MARTA, was in full swing building a subway system through downtown. The job we'd hooked into was reshoring, which is construction talk for bracing, the section in front of the Citizen and Southern Bank's main building at the intersection of West Peachtree and North Avenue so the bank wouldn't fall in the tunnel being dug for the subway.

The reshoring was going to be accomplished by digging pits, shoulder to shoulder, in the area between the bank building and the subway tunnel. Massive steel columns, surrounded and supported by tons of concrete, were to be set in the pits. These "soldier pits," once completed, were designed to keep the bank building from collapsing through the subway tunnel's walls.

The pits were to be 5 feet wide by 10 feet long by 40 to 60 feet deep depending on how far down one had to go before finding earth or rock of sufficient load bearing capacity. The first thought that occurred to me was it didn't promise to be a whole lot of fun working at the bottom of a 5 by 10 foot hole that deep in the ground. The second concern was, quite naturally, how the heck were we going to dig holes like these?

Finding out didn't take long.

Wally Biggs and Paul Neitz were hard-rock miners who had been imported from Colorado to build the soldier pits. Wally went by his given name. Very few ever knew Paul by any name but "Bear."  Wally was one of that privileged number.

I remember watching Bear walk up to me with a hard driving stride as if his legs were just a little too short so he had to strain to get his feet on the ground. His dense beard and closely cropped hair were coal black, his bone structure large and powerful. I think they call'em mesomorphs. Dick Butkus is the prototype.

"What's yer name, Pard!" At least as much a demand as it was a question.

"Bob." I muttered through my teeth in an effort to keep him from getting too direct a shot of my alcohol-laced breath. It didn't work.

"Dog gone, Pard!" He arched his eyebrows in an exaggerated expression of shock. "You stink like a hawg’s been drinkin' cheap rot-gut. You ain't a drunk, are'ye, cause I don't 'lau (allow) no drunks on no job uh' mine."

Knowing your breath is that of a hog who's been sipping at the mash brewing in an illicit vat isn’t a realization supportive of one's hope that his employment will be long-lived. I got caught up doin' my best at recalling what had possessed me to keep boozing when I knew I was on the verge of going to work. Truth is, there was no reason other than that no one'd ever accused me of being overly concerned with details like takin' time to get sober before interviewing for a job, or having a job, or making a living, or paying the rent, or any other matters of equally inconsequential impact.

Bear didn't bother to dignify the situation by acknowledging my head hung failure to respond.

"Well, if you're goin' to work, Pard, get a hard hat and git in the hole."

It took a while for me to come to grips with the fact that I had apparently been hired in spite of all reason or acceptable compromise with respect to my condition. By the time I did come to terms with my being employed, Bear was off interviewing another of those who had shown up in hopes of going to work.

It didn't occur to me at the time to wonder why I'd been put on the payroll despite being three sheets to the wind, or why a job in progress had so many openings. There were a number of people standing around waiting to be "interviewed." It seemed as though everyone who showed up was being put to work.

Once I accomplished the task of "getting in the hole," I started catching on. This job was going to take a special kind of desperate soul not too concerned about the labor to which he consigned himself.

The hole Bear had directed me to was about 15 feet deep. You got to the bottom by stepping on an excavating bucket suspended from the boom of a large crane. You then held fast to the steel cable from which the bucket was suspended, abandoning yourself to the skill of a crane operator you'd never seen in your life who might well be under the influence of the same legal or controlled substances as you, until you were deposited on the muddy clay floor of the excavation. My crane operator looked real bored with the whole process, subject boredom giving me cause for considerable apprehension as to the outcome of this enterprise.

I didn't feel all that uneasy about a 15 foot drop having fallen off roofs nearly that high but, when the hole got down to 25 or 30 feet, I tended to the position of how nice it'd be to have someone at the controls of my jury rigged elevator whose expression betrayed a nominal degree of interest in my well-being.

The descent was uneventful despite my reservations and, after dismounting, I commenced a survey of my surroundings. The unexpected rapid withdrawal of the crane bucket banging against lagging boards supporting the walls of the hole was yet another disconcerting preview of things to come but Bear peered from on high with a motivating scowl so I did what I could to master my feelings of imminent doom and hastened to get on with the business of going to work. Not an easy thing to do your first time out of the chute when you haven't a clue.

The only thing with me in the hole was a tool that looked very much like the pneumatic hammers you see laborers use to break up asphalt or concrete. This one had a shovel shaped device as opposed to the pointed bit I was accustomed to seeing but it made sense to me that a hole in earth would be dug with something akin to a shovel so I picked it up, kicked the air hose out of the way, gripped the pressure switch in the handle closed and proceeded to dig. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.

The thing weighed at least forty pounds and had been designed, so far as I could tell, by crazed demons from the inferno’s lower levels. You couldn't keep a grip on the barrel the diameter of which was too large for any hand smaller than that of a mountain gorilla. The blade was too flat and narrow for me to shovel up a decent load of dirt. When the blade wasn't in firm contact with solid ground, vibration threatened to shatter whatever teeth you might have into irreparable splinters. And the thought of continuing for twelve hours in this fashion was as unfathomable to me as I was confident it was undoable.

For some reason I will never divine, I didn't quit. It's entirely possible I was too drunk to know better or to make a decision if I wasn’t.

After what seemed like a long time, during which I marveled at the capacity of anyone who could master what I was attempting, I somehow became impressed by the sense of a presence. I couldn't shake the feeling no matter how determined my attempt to ignore it and, should that feeling be simply the result of unease with respect to the position I'd gotten myself in, I figured I'd better just keep whistling in the dark rather than risk taking a break to look around thereby perhaps incurring the wrath of Bear or his nominee.

I held out manfully but a person can stand only so much.  Finally I loosened my grip on the handle which allowed the pressure switch to open and the spader to shut off.  I raised my head to look up and confront whatever it might be, man or crane bucket. Bear was leaning perilously over the edge of the hole inspecting me at my labor with obvious amusement.

"Need a little help, Pard?"

Everyone was a "Pard" to Bear whether friend or foe, as in "How'd you like me to kick yer butt, Pard?" or "Pard, I'll do anything I can ta' help ya." The way he said it was exactly the same in either case. I came to know his intent had everything to do with accurate interpretation of the context. A mistake could easily be made if you weren't careful and a mistake was apt to have swift, painful consequences were it not corrected immediately.

I was way too hacked off and frustrated to care, plus I was safely out of harm's way. "I either need some help or I need to get the +@*%! out'ta this *%@#!in' hole."

The symbols are in deference to my Mother as well as yours. Some of your construction hands are accustomed to using some variation of the "F..." word as a noun, verb, adjective, or expletive, meaning the word gets frequent use and loses any real negative connotation to speak of ..... so I'm not really code cursing, Momma … just characterizing things the way I found them.

Bear signaled the crane bucket over, stepped on, and was soon standing by me grinning. I returned his with a rueful smile of my own shrugging helplessly at the tool in my battered hands.

"Ain'cha got any gloves, Pard?"

"Nope."

"Well, ain'cha got any boots."

"Didn' know I'd need'em."

"Well, ain'cha ever used a spader before?"

No use in lying, he'd been watching me and the jig was up. I shook my head, ready to be fired and sort of content with the prospect.

"Well then, I'd say you're up a creek without a paddle, Pard." Bear slapped me on the back in a show of what I took to be camaraderie. The blow a solid one that made a lot of noise. But somehow Bear had a way so it didn't hurt or sting all that much.

Next thing I knew, Bear'd commandeered the spader, bumped me out of the way and started breaking up the ground using the very blade with which I'd been trying to excavate.

"Ya let the bucket do the diggin', Pard. All you got to do is bust things up so the teeth on the bucket can get a grip."

It was amazing. You saw it one time and realized there was no other way a spader could be used.

And it was effective. Bear broke up all the dirt in the 5x10 floor of the pit, taking far less time than I had spent achieving results miserable in comparison.

Then he and I rode the bucket up together and stood watching over the lip of the excavation - Bear considerably closer to the edge than I had stomach for - as the crane operator mucked out spoilage with the clamshell bucket. Once I adjusted to my mild case of vertigo I saw the operator was obviously good at what he was doing which caused my misgivings about being lowered into, and lifted out of, the hole to assume a more comfortable perspective.

When it came time for me to go back down and excavate another "lift" from the hole's bottom, I was ready and eager, bolstered by the vague awareness I'd passed some kind of test that warranted my being accepted by someone whose acceptance was far from easily granted. I handled the spader like I'd been working one all my life. I felt good. To heck with boots and gloves … ignoble trappings of wanna' be true spaders of the muck.

After that, the first twelve-hour shift went quickly. I came up for the last time drenched with sweat, stinking of booze, thoroughly sober and vastly pleased with the fruits of my labor. "My" hole, as I'd come to think of it, was twice as deep as it'd been when I started.

Trying not to be too obvious, I contrived to check everyone else's hole, coming away satisfied that my effort had been at least as productive as any other. I later learned Bear made it a point to target individuals who demonstrated this sort of pride driven instinct so he could impose a spirit of competition among individuals in a crew as well as between crews on different shifts. It was a valuable lesson in production that I've put to use several times.

Doesn't matter what business you're in, stay on the lookout for individuals who can't help trying hard to do better than anyone else ... they're your motivators and producers and they'll make you a winner. Recognition and appreciation usually mean as much or more to them as what they're being paid. And don't waste much time on the ones who ain't got it cause pod'nuh, you’re not gon’na turn trash into a pure bred winner. That trash knows they ain't no winner, knows they ain't gon'na be no winner and you can make book you're gon'na make’em bow up tryin' to trick’em into being winners to the point they'll pay you back from a bad spot one way or t'other.

Generally speaking, construction people worth having around are physical and competitive. The harder they work, the better they like it. If there's someone to beat, they invariably get fired up to unbelievable levels of production. This in spite of the fact they complain constantly - that being part of their nature.

The pay's always less than it should be.

The job's always a dog.

The boss is a piece of work.

They might as well quit as work like they do for all anybody cares.

The laments are always the same. But if these guys weren't the way they are, they'd be working in a factory exerting just enough effort to make their quota.

Bear was a genius at finding motivated sorts of individuals … spurring them to heights they’d not known they were capable of and he was as cold as ice weeding the wheat from the chaff. On the North Avenue job he went through 63 people in no time to find the 9 who became his permanent night crew.

One who got culled was a big strapping arrogant stud who made it plain he was heaven's answer to getting the job done. He went in the hole once. When the crane operator got through excavating the spoilage and it was time to send him back down, he was nowhere to be found. The only trace of his passage was an abandoned hard hat. Bear loved referencing "that big, wimpy, pencil necked son-of-a-gun," and swore he he'd known the guy wouldn't make it the first time he laid eyes on'im. Said the only reason he'd put him on was so all us "new hands" would learn size and bluster had nothing to do with being a first-class "hand." The instruction in decorum wasn't lost on anybody.

By the end of my third shift, I felt like an ol' pro except for the speed with which I could install the heavy timbers used to shore up, or brace, the sides of the excavation. If this shoring up wasn't done properly, there was a good chance the excavation could cave in to one degree or another. Not good should you be the one at the bottom. As bad or worse should someone on the other shift suffer the consequences of your ineptitude and carelessness.

You had five-foot and ten-foot timber. The five-foot sections were manageable. The ten-foot timbers were something else again. Even with the help of one of the casual laborers who were on hand for that specific purpose, it took a long time for me to get the shoring tied in and chinked with excelsior, sort of a waterproofing material made with straw.

I tried to tell myself this was due to the care I exercised. Down deep, I suspected I simply wasn't strong enough to handle the job well.

Lacking physical strength is a shortcoming tolerated among construction people only if the offending party is a good guy and a hard worker. I didn't want to have to depend on those extenuating qualities to be regarded one of the boys.

Bear sensed something was bothering me and asked if anything was wrong.

"Nah, Bear. It's nuthin'." My tone was desultory because I was discouraged and didn't much care who knew it.

"I just ain't got the horsepower to handle those ten-foot laggin' boards is all. Takes me forever to set the doggone things."

Ol' Bear was quick with an encouraging word if you were busting your behind and he cared anything about you. Thanks be to the Almighty he did me.

"Don' worry `bout it, Pard." He squeezed my bicep hard enough to make me straighten up and look him in the eye.

"Heck, it even took me a while to get used to them sons-a-guns."

The thought of such a ridiculously improbable happenstance was almost more than he could accommodate but he manfully maintained an expression of utter sincerity. I was too despondent to care.

"Tell you what, Pard. Why don' I come down there with ya' and help set that next brace a' timber."

I wasn't at all sure I wanted Bear in the hole with me to witness first-hand the evidence of my inadequacy. Then again, I didn't have much choice. He was the Boss.

"Whatever you say's O.K. by me, Bear."

We watched in silence as the crane operator maneuvered the clam bucket, clearing all loose dirt from the hole. Bear helped me toss down the lagging timbers we'd be using. We rode the bucket together, not saying much of anything to each other.

It took a while to separate the timbers from the haphazard pile into which they'd fallen, then stack them where they'd be readily accessible. But soon we were about the real job of getting them set. Two long timbers on each side, then two short timbers wedged tightly between the ends of the longer members. That completed one bay, or section, of shoring. There were ten bays to be installed in that particular lift. It went like clockwork.

I was astounded at the ease with which I began handling my end of the ten-foot sections! It was as though a supernatural veil had descended from on high to envelope me, increasing my strength by at least a factor of two. I couldn't help saying something to Bear.

"Unbelievable, Bear. This is unbelievable!"

I hastened on before he could respond, "These things aren't near as bad as they were ... I mean just a little while ago."

"I tried to tell ya', Pard. There's nothin' to this stuff once ya' get the hang of it. Like I say, it took a while for even me to get a handle on these bad boys."

There was song in my heart. I was darn near dizzy to passing out with relief. I wasn't some weak-backed wuss after all. Quite contraire. I was actually a double-breasted, fire-breathing, government-inspected son-of-a-gun who was given to leaping tall buildings. Joy without bounds. That was me.

We worked on. Me conducting a running commentary on my newfound abilities to Bear's quiet acquiescence and implied endorsement of those inflated claims. It was wonderful. I don't believe it's possible for a man to be happier than I was then.

Before long we were close to being done, working to set the last two of the ten-foot timbers. But in the process of hoisting one to its final resting place. the timber jerked against my forearm as though Bear had lost his balance. I turned my head as much as I could to see what the problem was. One glance spoke volumes.

Bear's back was to me. He was holding the massive timber almost at its midpoint with his right arm completely extended, taking most of the weight off my end, while straining mightily to drive a spike at the far end. The loads he'd been supporting that I couldn't manage had finally taken their toll, resulting in the slight falter that had prompted my turning to finally see what was going on.

I'd been handling less than a third of the weight of those timbers as opposed to the half I'd found such a problem before ol' Bear did what he thought right. The only supernatural change in me that night hadn't been a geometric, inexplicable increase in my strength. It was Bear coming down in that wretched hole set on doing his best to bolster my faltering reserves of determination and persistence.

I never let Bear know I knew what he'd done for me that night. I don't think he would've appreciated recognition and gratitude of that sort. But I suspect what he did was the major reason I stuck it out and didn't quit. And before the job was over, I got to where muscling long timbers around was no big deal.

Countless times since then I've remembered Bear saying size and loud mouthin’ have nothing to do with a man being a good worker and my judgments of others have been improved by that lesson.

Nothing I've run up against since then has been any worse than those ten-foot lagging timbers. Bear taught me they weren’t about too much at all if you had the right attitude. Neither is much of anything else for that matter.

Bear's another man about whom a book should be written. I may do it some day knowing he won't give a damn what I say having to do with his capacity for kindness and compassion and ministering to those ready to listen. He got killed jumping on a clam bucket over a hole 60 feet deep. Slipped on a smudge of wet red Georgia clay.

The crane operator says Bear never made a sound on the way down. If you want my opinion, he was too busy parachute riggin' his shirt or his jeans.

<<back to top>>

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

JUBENILE

Phillips Arena makes an impressive architectural statement in a city that has its share. The World Congress Center, the Georgia Dome, the Merchandise Mart, the CNN Center and the Olympic complex and Phillips Arena are other components forming a hub of entertainment, sports, merchandising, broadcasting and trade show activity that help make Atlanta the Southeastern U.S. focus of international activity. Thousands of upscale hotel rooms are within easy striking distance and the city provides more than enough law enforcement presence for visitors to feel comfortable.

They come by the hundreds of thousands. Baptists, gay activists, political parties, companies, associations of every type, consumer advocates, champions of the environment, shows featuring animals some of which Noah never heard of, rednecks from south Georgia or wherever else rednecks come from and tourists from all over the world. They come and they come back. Atlanta, Georgia is one heck of a town.

In the middle of that hub of which the Omni is a part, reasonably identified as the center of the city though there are doubtless those who would disagree, is where all railroad tracks coming to Atlanta converge. To be precise, the convergence is located directly behind the Omni on a piece of land that, over the years, has become elevated with respect to surrounding property by the completion of excavations on both sides of the railroad.

For reasons unknown to me, those with the authority to make such a decision ordained a tunnel be driven under the railroad tracks at the Omni. Must have involved considerations of access back and forth but that's speculation on my part. I can't imagine why anyone would go to that location if they didn't absolutely have to be there. The area is enclosed by buildings and elevated roads and stays dark all the time. With little direct sunlight, moisture persists and tends to impose a dank, forbidding gloom Dickens would have peopled with orphaned children, starving dogs and characters of the foulest sort. Heroin addicts might feel at home battling their demons in so miserable a place and the Mother Teresas of the world would come to offer them solace. Anyone else is well served staying away from such a spot.

I was the nipper on the night crew driving the Omni tunnel. "Nipper" is a mining term denoting the individual responsible for organizing tools, equipment, and materials. Collateral duties of the nipper are to help workers as necessary and to procure whatever is needed for production to proceed at an uninterrupted pace. Since miners regard production a sacred charge, the nipper is constrained by few, if any, limits in the performance of his function as a procurer. Exercising the bounds of unbridled freedom is a seduction readily abused and I loved walking that rope, but that's the stuff of another tale. At issue here is the night I was left to set columns.

With so critical a load overhead, the tunnel had been engineered to pyramidic specifications. Large steel pipes had been driven from one side to the other in a glove tight arch that described the tunnel's walls and crown. The pipes had then been filled with concrete batched to a strong mix.

The tremendous weight of earth, tracks, and passing trains bearing down on the arch of pipe did so in such a way that the domed shape distributed those stresses to heavily reinforced foundation structures. Our job was to dig out all the dirt enclosed by the arch of pipe, build a revetment of steel reinforcing bars encased in concrete and set large steel columns at precise spots designed to insure enough additional support for the arch of the tunnel as to make a collapse impossible. A revetment is a slab and reinforcing bars are referred to as "rebar." The process of carrying rebar from where it's off-loaded on the job site to where it’s being laid and tied is called "busting the bar", that is, busting it out of the bundles in which it is stored and delivered. Which reminds me, the rebar we were installing were Number 12 bar, 60 feet long. Real heavy and real awkward. More than one head was bumped and more than one finger smashed before those babies were put to rest.

As per the plans and specifications we were excavating in stages. The face of the tunnel would be driven a prescribed distance, the rebar would be laid and tied in the exact pattern dictated in the architectural drawings, concrete would then be poured and finished as outlined in the job specifications, finally columns would be set with their top plates welded to the metal pipes at the crown of the tunnel, their bottom plates bolted to the concrete revetment.

The excavation, rebar, and concrete phases were difficult but they were the sort of straight forward tasks men given to hard work enjoy. By that I mean in cases like these, production is directly proportional to effort expended. Whoever is strongest and works hardest gets the most done. Results are obvious and rarely subject to debate. Workingmen in competition like to know who's best. Who's the winner. These phases of the work were satisfying because it was easy for everyone to keep score.

The column setting phase was another story. It really didn't require that much physical effort because the columns got chained to the bucket of a GradAll whose operator would lift and maneuver the steel as directed. A GradeAll is a backhoe hybrid, its working arm gone wild. The arm can move up and down and side to side like a backhoe but in addition, the arm can rotate 360 degrees. In my opinion, a good GradeAll operator has the highest skill level of any equipment operator, bar none. Those who disagree are entitled to that right as Americans. Just take my word for it. To run a GradeAll well, you got to be one more operatin’ son-of-a-gun.

The frustrating aspect of setting columns was getting the sole plate set in exactly the right spot and, at the same time, getting the darn things perfectly vertical. The problem was friction between the two steel surfaces at the top of the column and the steel plate and concrete at the bottom. The wild card was a breaking chain causing a heavy column to crash down on the unwary. It would sometimes take a 12-hour shift to set a single column during which the crew would sit idly by wasting time, burning up dollars, doing no good for morale or the profit margin. In every case, success was as much a freak consequence of repeated attempts as it was a result of skill and cunning.

I think that's why I was assigned the task of supervising the process on the night in question. Bear was simply tired of the tedium and aggravation and was also inclined to impress on everyone that the difficulties he’d endured weren't a reflection on his abilities rather they were inherent in the performance of the job and would bedevil anyone who took on that task. This is no small consideration when one is in charge of men who have little tolerance for ineptitude, particularly as it relates to a superintendent or foreman whose decisions can involve death or serious injury. Heavy construction is unforgiving of those who don't know what they're doing.

I took on the task with considerable trepidation. If Bear had experienced problems, I was in for an ordeal that was doubtless going to resist my noblest efforts. Not a pleasant prospect for any number of reasons.

But there it was. Bear had contrived to leave the job and me to keep some weighty appointment essential to the well being of the hemisphere. The GradeAll operator had his machine poised and ready, my fellow workers were looking on in amusement ill disguised, the wretched columns were lying about openly defiant and there was no way out. I pointed to the piece of steel that would be my maiden attempt. The operator positioned his bucket. I rigged the column.

I took a lot longer rigging that column than had Bear on his worst attempt. I wrote it off to my greater concern that the thing not break loose and crush, maim, or kill … detached and implacable in its purpose. I affixed cable, as well as chain, and remembered to allow sufficient slack for movement only after a discrete comment from some onlooker in the gallery.

Finally I ran out of preparations to get ready. There was nothing for it but to proceed. So, with pounding heart, mouth dry as a bone in the wastes of the Kalahari, I rose to signal the operator and consigned myself to the whims of fickle destiny.

God took pity on me.

He sent Jubenile.

A more unlikely instrument of salvation could hardly be conceived.

Jubenile, or Jube, was of decidedly different cloth. I never could figure the basis of his nickname. I asked one time if it was a mispronunciation of "juvenile" and he said no. But he didn't bother to offer an explanation of where the name did, in fact, come from, which was in keeping with his character. I can't think of anything the Jubenile let be of too great a concern.

One story had it that Jube spent time with his father somewhere in the Middle East working as a welder in the oil fields. This story held that heat, sand without end, folks riding camels and veiled women approachable only under pain of death had been more than Jubenile's rural Georgia mind could accommodate. That he had been sent home in hopes he might recover.

Others claimed the Jube was victim of a love gone wrong. That the object of his devotion had dragged him through a nightmare of deceit and carnal betrayal. That he would have been well within his rights sending the Jezebel to hell. But that his love was too great, and that his love endured despite the hussy’s treachery, and that his mind had taken leave of itself, in some measure, in order that it might survive the continuing, relentless agony.

Where ever lay the truth, the Jube was a couple of degrees out of phase. A hard worker willing to shoulder any load but recognized as being a little strange by those with whom he worked.

So there I was, teetering toward go, the operator poised to engage his machine in the battle of setting columns when Jubenile rose from his haunches and approached me yelling something in an effort to be heard over the GradAll's diesel engine. I immediately signaled the operator to power down, removed one earplug and turned to see what had provoked the Jube to interrupt at such a decisive juncture.

"They's a easy way to do that, John Paul." I don't know how I got saddled with it but there was a period of time when I was hard rock mining that everyone I worked with called me, John Paul Beaujolais. Nicknames are common among construction workers, especially after they work with each other for a while, but those names are usually descriptive in some way like "Foots", or "Animal", or "Bear", or "Beatle", and on and on. I never figured why I was John Paul Beaujolais and can't remember when I was first called that, but the name stuck for quite some time so I guess my fellow workers found it appropriate.

I assumed my best portrayal of the man in charge. "Jube, this really isn't the time to be playin'. This son-of-a-gun is gon'na be hard enough without you messin' with me. Best thing for you to do is carry your butt back over where it was and let me do what I got to do." If truth be known, I didn't mind Jubenile doing what he'd done all that much. Anything that delayed the inevitable wasn't totally unwelcome.

"Up to you, John Paul. But like I was sayin', they's a easy way to do that."

I'd never seen Jubenile bow up like this and stand his ground but that could have resulted from the fact that there had never been an occasion on which he was tested. He stood waiting for me to respond, legs spread and braced, arms folded over his chest.

"Well, I got a good idea, Jube. If it's so easy, why don't you do it."? Nothing like a challenge mixed with a little sarcasm to make one feel better after being on the verge of breaking weak and you can believe the thought of setting those beams had me on the verge of breaking real weak!

"You got it, Buddy!" "Buddy" didn't come out sounding too friendly the way Jubenile said it. But if I'd come with some rejoinder it would have been directed at his back. The Jube was already about the business of setting the column. No considering, no second-guessing, no hesitating, no nothing. Jubenile had a plan.

He strode purposefully to the edge of the revetment and picked up a tube of some thick blue gel we were using to protect the threads on 1/2" threaded bars we had tied into the rebar mat before we poured concrete so that the threaded bars extending above the surface of the finished concrete about 8" wouldn't be fouled.

I don't know if I ever knew what those all-thread bars were going to be used for but if I did I've forgotten. Maybe we bolted the bottom plates of the columns down on them?

Anyway, we coated each of the all-threads with blue gel to keep concrete from fouling the threads and creating problems when the time came to attach bolts or whatever was going to be done with them. Now I think about it, would be kind’a nice to know what that gel was actually ‘sposed to be used for.

Jubenile proceeded to the column I'd rigged with uncharacteristic speed and vigor and began buttering the plate welded to the top of the column with gel he’d squeezed into his open palm. His plan was instantly apparent. Finished with the top, he went on to coat the foot plate with a thick layer of gel which, by this time, he had managed to get all over his hands, forearms, and the front of his denim shirt. You kind of expected a mess with the Jube ----- like that kid in the Linus comic strip with his omnipresent cloud of dust.

His preparations complete, Jubenile wiped his hands on the workpants he'd probably gotten at the Goodwill outlet store and signaled the GradAll operator to raise the column. Jube was a study in command. Transformed. No longer the agreeable bumbler. Jubenile was a man on a mission whose success was decidedly not an issue. Jube was a winner.

The installation went like clockwork. The moment the column was lifted to something approaching the vertical Jube guided it to the point on which it was to be anchored. The column slid in with so little resistance a child could have managed the job. With that precedent as a guide, it took very little time for us lookers on to get the rest of the columns set in place and, by the time Bear returned shortly before the shift was to end, we’d set the entire brace of columns and were well into excavating the next push of tunnel.

Bear stood speechless toward the middle of the invert in an obvious state of shock at what we had accomplished in his absence but we all acted as though we were completely unaware of anything unusual, especially me. I pretended I hadn't noticed his arrival and kept at the business of loosening dirt on the tunnel's face for the GradAll operator to remove with his bucket.

"Git yersef’ down here, Pard!" Bear's roar easily bested the persistent din of compressors, spaders, sinking hammers and the GradAll's diesel engine. I turned to him with my rendition of startled surprise, raised my brows in the universal expression of inquiry and pointed to myself as though asking if he was addressing me.

"Yes you, Pard. Don't play your little *^@!)&# game with me. Get down here and tell me what's goin' on." The scowl on Bear's face didn't encourage me to the view he was inclined to take this potentially embarrassing development in good humor. I scrambled to do his bidding.

I didn't scramble in such a way as to appear unseemly in the eyes of the crew but I moved quickly enough for Bear to be assured of his dominance and authority. His predictability was on the order of a grizzly's. I had no intention of testing him.

When I approached close enough to make conversation possible at a relatively normal decibel level, he got directly to the point.

"How the heck did'ja get all these colyums set so doggone quick, Pard?"

Bear could afford to interject a certain degree of civility behind a shield of privacy. With all the noise around us there was no way anyone on the crew could hear what he was saying. By appearances, for all they knew he was chewing my butt to a fare-the-well. And no one was so reckless they would dare come close enough to listen in. Therefore, should an account of the event ever be called for, Bear would be afforded the option of recollecting our conversation any way he wanted. And that's exactly what he'd do. And his recollection would be that he chewed my butt to a nub of gristle and bone and never asked how to do a darn thing. After all, he was Bear and everybody understood Bear knew it all if it was worth knowing.

"Bear, it wudn't me. It was Jubenile."

His expression of shock compounded. "You got to be kiddin’ me, Pard."

"No I'm not, Bear. The son-of-a-gun’s figured a way to set those pieces of column slicker than anything I ever saw. I take my hat off to'im, Bear. The boy is a sharp son-of-a-gun and there's no two ways about it."

"Well, I just be doggoned if that ain't the doggonedest thing I ever heard. Jubenile figured this out!!! I didn' know the little dickens ever done this kind of work before."

"Don't think he has, Bear. All I ever heard him talk about was welding and stuff like that."

"That and his old lady." Bear was recovering himself.

"Yeah. Anyway let me tell ya' how he does it." I proceeded to elaborate on Jubenile's technique. It didn't take anything but the mention of the blue gel and Bear's light went on.

"Ain't that somethin’, Pard!?!? Why, I don' know if I'd ever'd come up with sumpin' that slick. You know, that little bugger’s all right."

Being "all right" is about as far as mortals go on Bear's scale. I felt a tinge of pain at the thought of being outstripped by Jubenile. Admittedly it was churlish of me, but joying in the triumph of a competitor wasn't a quality I’d mastered at the time. It was hard enough to be genuinely congratulatory of someone else's success when they represented no threat.

Bear was solicitous of Jubenile the rest of the job. And why not? Jube's idea saved a lot of man hours; relieved a source of tremendous tedium that would have continued to lower morale and production to a marked degree; resulted in the job staying well within schedule and budget which made Bear and his partner, Wally, look real good; and established a method for dispatching similar problems when they arose.

Jubenile never made a big deal of his coup. He kept his head down, worked hard, got along with the guys and if he ever referred to the incident, it wasn't when I was around.

There's another story about the time Jubenile crapped in his britches and came in the job office stinkin' like a two-holer to ask if he could go home and get cleaned up. Story doesn't seem appropriate in tandem with the one just told so we'll save it for another day should that be all right with you.

If memory serves, I don't think I ever thanked the Jube for bailing me out that night, so if you happen to hear about this, Jubenile, consider me in your debt and look me up if you ever need a job.

By the way, Jube’s trick with the gel works well when you’re installing springs on a 1970 Monte Carlo.

<<back to top>>

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

MARIO

Mario Bartocelli is unquestionably the most talented carpenter in the western hemisphere. I know a couple of other real good ones. Mario's the best. It could well be he's the greatest in the world … I'm reluctant to make that claim since most of my time’s been spent on this side of the globe, it would be presumptuous to pass judgment beyond those bounds and I’m famous for avoiding presumptuousness’ taint.

Mario's accent is heavy with his Italian heritage along with a blend of the languages he spoke in Belgium and Canada before coming to the States and settling in Atlanta. He's incredibly strong, blessed with reserves of stamina so great they could only be the result of some enviable genetic quirk. Many's the time I've watched him work young studs into the dirt, all the while voicing solicitous concern regarding his victims' well being. Humility's probably the most important of the many benefits afforded those who work with Mario.

He prefers being called "Marty". At times he says it's easier to pronounce, other times he says it's easier to remember. I think the reason is because he wants to maintain as low a profile as possible and "Marty" is a lot lower profile than "Mario", at least it is in the badlands of Atlanta, Georgia. I always call him "Mario".

I first ran up on Mario when both of us were working for an outfit that was excavating and building foundation systems for what was to be a large parking facility. Mario was a carpenter foreman and I was a blaster ... drilling, loading and shooting rock wherever called for in the plans. It was a big job, spread out, and there was no reason for individuals in our different trades to have much to do with each other but we somehow got acquainted and struck up what seemed destined an enduring friendship.

Mario is an overbearing, crusty, unforgiving, hard worker from the old school who demands more than can be reasonably expected, getting it often as not. Gruff and surly, he's intolerant of anything less than the best in terms of effort and results, becoming aggressively vocal when not satisfied his standards have been met. But with a capacity for incredible patience and kindness should one of his charges be making a gallant effort falling short due to lack of experience.

I doubt he has any formal education to speak of but Mario can read drawings as well as any architect or engineer and can spot errors, or areas that could be a problem, with uncanny speed and accuracy. Anyone I've known who’s worked under Mario's supervision, and applied themselves, has come out the other end knowing a lot more than they did going in, as well as realizing capacities in themselves they didn't know were there. All of them are devoted to Mario.

There's another side to Mario. It's an aspect of his personality that I've found to be typical of hard working, talented individuals regardless of how they make a living. Mario is a heart on his sleeve sensitive son-of-a-gun. If one isn't really on their toes, it's not very difficult to say or do something that will hurt the feelings of a person like Mario.

I remember one time a bunch of foremen, superintendents, and those of us in the "skilled trades" sitting around at the end of the day shooting the breeze and collecting ourselves before parting to our respective abodes. The subject of Latin Americans coming in and taking jobs from "Americans" came up and was met with a general consensus of negative comment and hard feelings. Since most everyone on the job was union, the dialogue was probably more heated than would normally be the case on a job operated as an open shop.

There's nothing like a job site gathering if you want an example of a subject getting beaten to death. That's what was happening. Latin Americans got abused and reviled, over and over and over again, with nominal variations so slight as to go unnoticed save by a practiced observer. But eventually even the most melodramatic stalwarts of the American Way, Love-it-or-Leave-it, began winding down. Some never know when enough’s enough.

"All'us I can say to you boys is, hit don't make a good tinker’s damn to me whether y'all think I'm right or whether you think I'm wrong. I feel like it ain't right for these wet back yahoos to come up here and work for pretty near nothing living 10 or more to a room and puttin' people like us, who've been in this country since we'us born, out of a job and in the doggone street. It ain't right and you can think what you want to fer' me sayin' it! But it ain't right." All this stated with unblinking bravado and much courageous posturing, the speaker knowing full well he was on safe ground in offering his unflinching, uncompromising challenge as though someone might disagree it being a foregone certainty that none in the sound of his voice felt one iota differently, at least that's what he thought. But there was one who didn't go along with the program and that one had the stones to say so.

"I think what you say is bull crap." There was no mistaking Mario's accent. His voice inflected with a quiet ring of conviction and his posture of stand and fight not to be ignored. Nor could his challenge to the status quo be responded to without serious consideration of the consequences. Mario was far too sharp for anyone there to debate and we all knew it. On the other hand, though well past 60, his reputation as a strong, tireless worker possessed of great physical strength gave pause to any who might take action putting them at the point of his anger physically.

But the speaker couldn't retreat without some stab at parity, however ineffectual. "What in god’s name you sayin' that for, Marty. I ain't done nothin' to you. You ain't no *%@#! wet back spic."

He was woofin'. But there was a placating tone in his voice noted by everyone with considerable relief. None bearing witness wanted trouble to develop ‘specially since we were right on the verge of heading out to the house and what was at home had more to offer than was likely to result from a job site squabble.

In addition, fist fights are rare among all but the lowest order of construction people so the prospect of a situation developing that could involve men coming to blows is relished only by the occasional bully or blow hard. Such as these seldom enjoy any regard and therefore don't exercise enough influence to provoke a serious conflict.

Oh, there are times everybody misjudges and a fight breaks out more by accident than motivated by serious purpose. On those rare occasions, the engagement is usually ignored by all but a barely interested few who monitor a couple of blows before stepping in to break things up and restore order. In those instances it's usually the case that one combatant's scared to fight and the other one's glad of it. Then again, there are a few out there like Big Bob Matthews, and Bear, and Wally Riggs, and Gator when he was alive, who are certifiable bad boys that are subject to cut you if it comes to that. Willi the Weasel’s another one not to mess with. He carries a gun and isn't at all disinclined to use it.

Then you got Billy Ray Butler who’s ‘bout as dangerous as they get.

"I know I'm no what you call `wet back' you stupid idiot." Mario's voice trembled with rage as he glared over the tops of his glasses, eyes hard and threatening. "I am an American!"

"And I am a man. And so are the men you are talking about. As much man as some stupid idiot like you who is too dumb to know what he's talking about." "Stupid", "Idiot" and "Dumb" pretty much covered the parameters of bad in Mario’s universe.

Things were deteriorating to the point of getting serious. If Mario persisted in an attack as personal as this the other man had no choice but to fight. Or never show his face again. To Mario's credit, his purpose didn't involve coming to blows although he didn't back up that much.

"Since I come to this city, I know people say this kinds of things about me." Mario’s tone softened … but not much.

"Because I was not lucky to be born here like you, I am supposed to go live some other place and not have what I can get in this country if I work hard and try to get along with stupid idiots like you." The object of his assault made the appearance of a move toward Mario, a move so easily restrained it was apparent he was anxious to shelve his can of "kick butt" and break out a jar of "let's talk it over".

"I tell you this right now. No one wants your crummy job. No one wants you on no doggone street. Prob'ly no one gives a toot about your sorry self at all." Mario didn't intend to be interrupted and wasn’t.

"But everyone wants to live like humans. And wants to be able to take enough to their family to live. Not live no better than you. Just live like decent human beings. Decent not like you!"

All that could be heard were the sounds of rush hour traffic, horns marking impatient jockeying for positions that are never what they seem.

"You do your work and not worry about what others are doing. You do your work … you will have a job. You think the men you talk about can go to the union and join up? You think that?" Mario's tone made it clear he wasn't soliciting answers.

"I tell you what they say to these guys at the union. They say, `We don't have no place for you right now, but you check with us again to see if we got a place for you.' Den they laugh hard and smile because everybody in dere knows dere is never going to be no place."

"So you go make money doing any work you can and you go back and let them know you got some money to give to some stupid business agent idiot. Then they find a place you can have to be part of the stupid union. But you sit on the bench 'til everybody has good jobs. Then if some little work comes they got nobody else to send, then you get to do work."

In another context Mario might have cut the comic figure, dungarees hung impossibly low on nonexistent hips and behind, bowed legs planted in battered boots well worn at the heels, a plaid XXL work shirt one size too small in the neck and arms, hard hat cocked at angles more precarious than jaunty. But we had endured his anger, coming to understand some hard truths at his hand, and we were all well aware that his stature was far more than the sum of his parts.

Time passed. Mario stood fast. Ready to answer the challenge whatever form it took. There was none and the little gathering began to dissemble, leaving only Mario and myself … .Mario standing tall and defiant, me leaning against a 50 gallon drum of concrete cleaning solvent.

We remained in unspoken accord for a while before he turned, flashed a smile of resignation, shrugged and made off toward his truck.

I never heard mention of the incident after that, which is noteworthy given the fact that construction men tend to take a position on everything, being happy to share subject position with any who will listen.

In the aftermath, however, it did seem the bond between Mario and me strengthened. I always thought it had something to do with my bearing witness to what transpired and that I then waited around to share in Mario's triumph and render my unspoken admiration before he sealed our pact with his shrugging departure.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

MARIO AGAIN

Mario and I worked with the same company for at least a couple years, he as a field superintendent, me in several administrative positions. Somehow the two of us managed to keep in touch despite our having no operational reason to cross paths save on rare occasions. I think he truly enjoyed seeing me as I did him. But I wasn't cut out for the office … cover your behind paperwork and endless maneuvering a necessary part of corporate America that I never developed the skill to do well. So, when a reasonably suitable circumstance afforded me the means to a graceful exit however marginal, I seized on it and left in good standing with no hard feelings I know of.

Somewhere during this period I made the determination, once and for all, that it was a waste of everyone’s time for me to continue my attempt at complying with traditional American business disciplines consigning myself as a consequence to the oft-times uneasy ranks of the self-employed.

I had successfully negotiated the perils of my first year in business and was warily anticipating making it through the next twenty-four months and the "three year barrier" beyond which the going is alleged to be much easier, when I one day came to the office and discovered a message from Mario on my answering machine.

"Dis is Mario. Call me if you feel like it. Goodbye."

Mario wasn't keen about talking on the phone, much less conversing with a machine. I returned his call promptly and was told by his wife, Sylvia, that he wanted to talk to me. She suggested I come have supper, a suggestion with which I eagerly agreed since Sylvia was said to be a cook without equal by those individuals who Mario had allowed the hospitality of his home.

On the appointed evening I arrived promptly, dressed in clean Levi's, Bass Weejuns with socks, a blue button down oxford cloth shirt and a flannel blazer I was prepared to take off should my host’s dress so dictated. Sylvia dispatched the problem by insisting on taking my coat which she hung in the hall closet on the lower of two hanging bars. She moved about easily in a wheelchair propelled with her feet. I never asked why she was confined to that device … no explanation ever offered I figured best not go where I hadn’t been invited. Big John taught me that. Mario entered from the back of the house in slacks and a knit shirt. He cut a figure completely in contrast to that he presented on the job. I was impressed.

Sylvia led us to the living room indicating we should seat ourselves at a coffee table laden with hor dourves of every description. Soon we were engaged in a protracted conversation the subject of which I can't recall. But I do remember being completely at ease. Sylvia finally excused herself to go put the final touches on our supper whereupon Mario suggested we look through the house while his wife of many years got things ready for us to sit down in the formally appointed dining room and eat.

Our tour was rehearsed room by room, the solidity and design of the structure pointed out with obvious pride. Den through garage, Mario noted the absence of cracks in drywall and molding which indicated a superior foundation system that had allowed no appreciable settling … the resulting symmetry set off by skilled hanging and finishing of sheetrock. He raised and lowered windows, opened and closed doors, showing they operated smoothly. He turned on faucets and flushed a commode proving good pressure on the plumbing fixtures. Crown and chair mold were joined tight, joints on long runs scarfed to minimize the gap that often results from wood shrinking despite elaborate controls in manufacturing and careful handling on the job undertaken to minimize the distorting effects moisture can have on wood.

Mario had me examine the quality of the paint job, both the interior and on the exterior of his home and, while we were outside, made sure I inspected the uniformity of the grout joints in the brick. I made favorable comment after favorable comment, well aware he was incapable of hearing too many good things about his home. Just before Sylvia called us to supper I discovered the reason for his tremendous pride in all aspects of the structure. Mario had built the house with his own hands, top to bottom, plumbing and all.

We seated ourselves before an Italian meal straight from the Mediterranean. Sylvia couldn't offer enough. I obliged as best I could. My host and hostess made no effort to carry on conversation during the meal and weren't real responsive to my efforts. Picking up on the program, I settled in, steeled myself for a gastronomic marathon and the three of us did justice to the table in complete silence.

Spurred by Sylvia's insistent prodding I stuffed myself to the point of pain before emphatically refusing further offerings of food in the interest of self-preservation. Sylvia finally relented and banished Mario and me to the living room where thick Italian coffee and sweet pastries lay in ambush. Mario wasn't long in coming to what I soon realized was the ulterior motive on which the evening was founded.

"So what you t'ink of my home, Bob?" Mario's weathered left hand encompassed the structure in a grand sweeping arc, satisfaction evident in the lines of his face.

"It's beautiful, Mario. I never realized you'd ever fooled with residential. This is really impressive, Buddy." I meant what I was saying. Understand, I'd have lied and said about the same thing if the house hadn't measured up. You don't come as a guest, eat supper, then tell your host and hostess they live in a ragged holey T-Shirt . He was pleased. Truth of the matter bein’, Mario’d done a terrific job.

"I build houses in Canada for a long time. Then, when I first come here to ‘dis country, I work for builders and start doin’ my own houses. I sell as fast as I get’em finished. Sometimes before I finish they get bought by some crazy kids."

Mario never said "kids" without the "crazy" qualifier and you were a kid, by definition, if you were younger than Mario.

"Well, why'd you ever get back in heavy construction, Mario. Can't you make more money building houses than you can building concrete forms and framing bridges?"

As all good trial attorneys caution, never ask a question for which you don't know the answer! Mario launched into a tale of woe the likes of which I'd never heard. The government, the banks, the stock market, the Fed and several others he mentioned that I had trouble relating to the economic process of the country conspired, as Mario would have it, to bring down the recession of 1974 that resulted in great numbers of contractors going out of business. Mario one of them. His bitterness bordered on the irrational in its lack of logic and degree of intensity. I thought it best to simply listen until he'd brought this particular dog to heel. It took a while.

"Mario," I finally interrupted, "I guess I never realized how bad that darn recession did some people. Guess heavy construction didn' get hit like residential did. Doggone shame you got messed up so bad."

Mario nodded morose agreement. We commiserated about his misfortune for a while then the conversation wended its way through the unpleasantries associated with heavy construction before settling on the enviable benefits of being in business for oneself.

Mario was soon expressing a level of dissatisfaction with heavy construction that at least equaled his dim view of residential new construction and the ruin it had led him to in the mid-70's, all the while voicing his conviction that residential remodeling of the type I did was, without question, the only way a discerning man would go.

"I tell you ‘dis one thing, my friend. When times are good, the people want to do something nice to the house." I nodded on queue when he paused. "And when times are not so good, or even bad, people got to do something to the house cause they can't move to a bigger, better place."

Mario's argument was hardly original but he laid claim as though it were his own, continuing comment on this and that in such a way I eventually recognized he was soliciting a job in as direct a manner as his enormous pride would allow.

"You know, Mario, I've been thinkin' about something but I didn' want to embarrass you by saying anything where you might have to answer, `No."

Both of us knew exactly how this game was playing out but appearances mean everything so Mario assumed an expression of surprise cum perplexed.

"What I've been thinkin' is maybe you and I could team up if you’re not satisfied with the way things are goin' in the heavy construction end."

Mario leaned back in his recliner, crossed his arms lost in thought, pretending to consider the merits of my suggestion as though it were an idea that had never occurred prior to my utterance.

I settled in.

After a series of grunts and headshakes and raised brows and peerings over the tops of his glasses, Mario sat up straight in his chair and leaned toward me … thick, ropey forearms resting on his knees.

"I t'ink maybe dat's a pretty good idea, Bob."

We ironed out the basic details of organization and compensation, arranged a meeting place in the early morning two weeks hence allowing Mario time to give proper notice ... burning bridges never a wise move when you work construction … and I took my leave loaded with homemade bread, pasta and Italian fruitcake.

I drove home feeling terrific. I'd obtained the services of the most talented, hardest working carpenter I'd ever known; he was honest to a fault; customers were gon’na love his promptness, clean work habits, skill and old world courtesy; there was no job I couldn't take for fear it wouldn't get done right; I could forget monitoring quality control since Mario would take care of things I wouldn't think about looking for; in sum, I'd hit a home run over the center field fence, the ball was bouncing around under a Mercedes in the parking lot, and nothing but good was going to come of it. If it's always darkest before dawn then it must also be brightest before the gloom sets in.

The weeks passed quickly. I was out hustling every job I could find, energized by the prospect of having Mario available to handle the production end ... selling work like there'd be no tomorrow. Customers heard the reassuring ring of complete confidence in my voice. Reasoned self interest obligated them to buy what I was sellin’. Work of unparalleled quality courtesy of Mario Bartocelli. Bounty of a caliber not to be had on the cheap.

I was selling jobs for cost + 30% with a not-to-exceed limit set so high there was no way we wouldn't bring the job in under the maximum price. I budgeted Mario for $30 an hour, his helper for $10 an hour, threw in $25 an hour for worker's compensation and general liability insurance leaving over $20 for incidental expenses, so the cost to the customer was $85 an hour + materials + 30%. Not a bad deal for those times folks. Myself, the kid, awesome object of wonder and renown, was getting more work than we could do.

Mario was ecstatic. We found him a helper who was strong, willing, an eager seeker after truth and able to put up with Mario at his curmudgeon worst. The two of them were on the job at 7:15am drinking coffee and planning their day. At 7:25am they would unload hand tools, buckle on tool belts and commence a focused approach to the area on which the efforts of that day would be expended. At 7:30am they were gettin’ it. They continued at a flat out pace until 5:30pm save for a half hour lunch break.

Customers who had already undergone the rigors of having their homes worked on thought they'd died and gone to heaven under the gentle ministrations of the unmatchable Mario. Those for whom the experience was their maiden voyage in dealing with remodeling quickly intuited they were being showered with blessings from heaven in the form of unimpeachable Mario without blemish.

All were putty in his hands. They willingly submitted, taking on whatever mold he directed. No picky picky on some paint detail visible only if one lay on the floor and shined a light inspecting the plate behind the cabinet toe kick. No changing plans and specifications in midstream resulting in lowered morale, exploding costs and confused scheduling of materials and subcontractors. No quibbling about when a draw was justified by the amount of work completed as agreed which all parties had signed off on. And no problem collecting money due at the end of the job.

Mario dispatched all these and more with an effortless grace I still envy as this is written. Women melted under the heat of his exotic accent and courtly manner. Men wanted nothing more than to identify with this proud figure at whose hand any task submitted no matter how difficult or complex.

I remember the corner foundation on a house 50 or 60 years old settling in such a way large cracks had developed in the brick veneer. The owner’d been accosted by the gamut ranging from charlatans through structural engineers with PE certification. The latter holding themselves out as top of the line guys. All proposed fixes involving big numbers. I mean real big numbers. The homeowner was understandably upset. Serious bucks to correct the problem and everyone with whom he consulted had a different solution. Who should he believe?

Enter me, Mario in tow. I knew from talking to the customer on the phone that the problem wasn't one I wanted to analyze on my own. We walked around outside after introducing ourselves at the door and being invited in for a brief get-to-know-you. Mario insisted he wait on the porch rather than chance his tattered, time tested work boots on the customer’s carpet ... the image of a proud but respectful working man … wasting no time setting the tone.

Mr. Homeowner clung at our side breathlessly recounting what he'd been told, and how much it was going to cost, and where in God's name could anyone come up with that kind of money, and was there any way we could tell him something he might do to arrest the problem `till he could get some money together.

I sympathized, giving Mario the opportunity to forge ahead and investigate the problem. It didn't take long.

Before the customer and I could catch up, Mario dismissed the matter with a disdainful wave of his hand, turned to us in sneering disgust and announced the solution was a simple one that would cost nothing approaching what had been projected by those coming before.

I won't explore the technicalities of how the job was brought to a successful conclusion. Nor will I dwell on the tearful gratitude lavished on me by the customer and his wife that by rights should have been directed Mario’s way. Nor is it my intention to divulge the sizeable profit we made at a cost to the customer of less than half the amount quoted by anyone else. All these shed some light but Mario's character is epitomized in the following incident.

The point at which the house was settling was rendered equipment inaccessible by the presence of three large trees and a stand of straggly bushes the homeowner prized for the sort of inexplicable reason customers sometimes lock in on as valid, God bless’em. This meant all excavation had to be done by hand. No small task, take my word for it, but Mario never faltered in undertaking the herculean effort, not once bemoaning his ordeal in any way.

When Mario and his helper took mattock, pick and shovel to that labor, I remembered a pressing engagement with the strongest secret resolve … make myself scarce until the horrific excavation phase of the job was completed. By noon my conscience was more active than I could deal with and I headed back.

I undertook every piddling errand I could think of on the way, setting no speed records in my effort to delay the inevitable. But, I mused, it was still too soon that I would find myself turning the corner beyond which the spectre surely loomed of Mario and his young assistant barely started in their mighty labor . I would have no choice but to enter the fray, a prospect of physical pain too unpleasant to entertain for any but the briefest of moments.

I couldn't believe the evidence of my eyes on actually seeing the job. A heaping mound of dirt was piled as high as the average man's chest. Picks, mattocks and shovels were leaning neatly against one of the three large water oaks that had denied us access with a backhoe. Two by fours had been erected as a barrier around the area discouraging the curious. Mario's truck was gone. The only person on the job was the homeowner who was poised to ward off any who might violate the two by four barrier thus becoming potential initiators of a lawsuit should they suffer self-inflicted injury as a consequence of their trespass.

"Where did my guys get off too, Captain?" I asked the question employing a form of address to which I have found most customers receptive. First-naming customers is NOT the way to go. "Captain" or "Boss" is less awkward than "Mr." Working for a lady? "Mrs." or "Miss" is the only way to fly

Mr. Customer was an information cornucopia. "Marty (Mario) finished digging out the foundation. He got tired of waiting for you so he decided to go pick up the pipes himself. He told me if you showed up, tell you he'd be right back and he took the kid with him `cause he thought he might be having some kind of heatstroke."

"Mario thought he was having a heatstroke!" The thought of my key to success being rendered impotent was, for a moment, of more concern than his corporate well being. I should have been ashamed of myself and was, once I realized what I was doing.

"Not Marty!" He wasn't confused by the Mario / Marty name thing and his tone hinted at the incredulity with which he regarded the fact that I would presume to think Mario could fall victim to any of those frailties suffered by mere mortals.

"The boy helping him got sick not long after you left. Marty finished digging while I put cold compresses on the kid's head and wrists. That's where the blood's closest to the surface, ya know, so I got him cooled off pretty quick. Good thing Marty and I were here or that boy would've been in real trouble."

He already considered himself an old hand at job site first aid, Mario's seductive wiles having had their effect. I could even hear a little Mediterranean accent in the customer's otherwise IBM adapted-to-the-proper-norm-voice. I also picked up on the customer's disapproval of my abandoning the job no matter the urgency necessitating my absence ... my treachery and sloth hinted at in the broadest terms.

Mario returned shortly, sparing me additional time in which to reflect on my unworthiness. "How you doin', Boss?" He always addressed me that way on the job. This time it was a blade twisting in my wretched soul at the thought of having left this senior citizen with a labor that had taken a much younger stalwart to his knees.

"I'm O.K., Mario. The question is, how the heck are you?" I was weak with relief that he was regarding me with something other than naked contempt.

"Oh, we had a little problem with the heat and the humidity. But evertink is now O.K. We got everytink under control. No problem." He glanced at the beaming, now one of the Mario team, customer by way of including him in the "we".

"But Mario, how in the ^#(*! did you get all this dirt out by yourself." He shot me a censorious glance at my use of profanity in front of a customer. Had I been a laborer he would've fired me on the spot and I wouldn't have blamed him.

"With the pick shovel. How else you tink I should get it out. My teeth maybe?" His wry smile removed the sting.

"I should have been here to help, Mario." It was as close to an apology as I could manage. I knew a bigger man would have done a lot better.

"No problems, my friend. You must take care of important business. We handled tings on ‘dis end with some help we lucky to have right here." Mario nodded at the customer whose smile posed potentially serious damage to the structure of his jaw. At the same time Mario stepped over to rest an understanding hand on the point of my unworthy shoulder. I was forgiven. And I'd learned a lesson that has stood me in good stead. Don't lead from the rear.

Mario and I stayed hooked up for better than a year. Over that time he made me a lot of money and did pretty well himself. His work earned me the reputation of being a contractor who consistently delivered superior quality at a fair price and I believe there’s a chance I enjoy the benefits of that reputation to this day courtesy of Mario.

But Mario was increasingly unhappy with the aggravations of dealing with customers who had to be stroked and cajoled, and time consuming trips to the supply house for materials that couldn't be anticipated, and never being on a job more than a couple of weeks save in rare instances, and working under the pressure of not knowing whether there would be any more work when the job was done.

His matchless performance didn't suffer and his skill at handling customers flourished. He didn't grouse and grumble any more or less. He was always cordial and, if anything, went out of his way to be as agreeable as his nature would allow. But Mario was not a happy man and he grew less happy with every passing day. It got to the point where I was making book with myself each morning whether that would be the day Mario quit.

It took a minute for him to figure how best he should go about do it. I was looking at a job on the south side of Atlanta. Mario was working on a home located at Lake Allatoona which is well north of the city. I was just about finished taking measurements and fine-tuning my impressions of what the customer was looking for in the job when my beeper went off. The phone number displayed was followed by a code agreed by Mario and me to be used by him exclusively when a situation developed requiring my immediate attention.

I asked the prospective customer's permission to use his phone. The call was long distance so I charged my credit card giving the operator the number on my beeper display. Mario answered the first ring.

"What's up, Mario?"

"I need a couple pound of number eight finishing nails." His voice carried a defensive tone but he didn't mutter like most do when there’s no good around the corner.

"Son-of-a-gun, Mario, I'm way the heck south of town. It'll take over an hour for me to get up there. Haven't you got two or three dollars on you? It shouldn't cost any more than that and you've got a hardware store not a mile down the road." I knew he knew where the store was. We'd been in there together the day we mobilized the job.

"I don't have no time to go ‘dere. You want me finish job, you got to help me get materials I need." The challenge was too explicit for me to ignore leaving me little choice. Plus his attitude in the customer's home removed any hope I might have had to try and smooth things over.

"Wait right there, Mario. I'm on my way." We both knew what was gon’na happen when I arrived.

My stomach was in a knot and I teetered on hyperventilating but the long drive in rush hour traffic went without incident. I stopped at the hardware store and got some #8 finishing nails. It was almost 5:30 in the evening when I finally arrived at the job.

Mario was loading his hand tools into the camper covered bed of his truck. I noticed his table saw in there. It would normally be left on the job unless its owner didn't plan on coming back.

"Sorry I didn't get here in time for you to run the trim today, Mario."

"Dat's O.K., Boss. You can run'im good as me." It was a lie. No one knew it better than I.

"Whatever you say, Mario. I swear I hate you doing this." My face was getting hot. I could feel moisture filling my lower lids.

"It's nuh’tink, Boss." Mario shrugged his shoulders in his patented gesture of resignation and despair. "I'm doing what I got to do. Nothing to do with you and me."

I knew he was telling the truth but it didn't make his decision any more palatable … good deals aren’t easily come by … not genuine ones anyway.

I've seen Mario three maybe four times over the years since that wretched afternoon. Two or three times at job sites by one of Atlanta's expressways I saw him standing on a bridge under construction or moving forms used to build concrete dividers between opposite lanes of traffic. Once I saw him driving a company truck. I tried to catch up and signal him so we could exit and get a cold drink or maybe something to eat. Visit a while like old times. But traffic was terrible so I gave up the chase.

One Christmas I went by his house and left some imported virgin olive oil on his front door stoop. Mario never called to say, "Thanks." or ask how I was doin’. He prob’ly didn’t notice my card where I stuck it in the brick mould. Guess it blew away.

More to follow next week..........................