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Child labor.
WE are in the middle of what I'll term "Fable of the (Backporch) Reconstruction".
WE (meaning Leslie) decided that WE (meaning me) need to tear down our backporch and rebuild it in a more stylish, less falling apart sort of way.
WE (again meaning me) put together a list of to-dos, that need to be to-done.
First item on that list was to call my dad. The call went something like this...
Me: "Hey Pop."
My Dad: "Well I ain't talked to you in a month... (insert Charlie Brown's teacher's voice here) wah, wah, how's Les? wah wah wah, wah wah wah wah, wah, How's RZ? wah wah wah, wah."
Me: "Uh, huh. Uh huh. Nuh uh."
Me: "So-uh, you don't have any plans on Saturday do ya? I'm building something and I need your...(said in a hushed, reverent tone) SUPERVISION"
As you can tell by that front loaded question, I haven't perfected the art of slyly asking for help. However, in retrospect, I must say that I closed the deal better than Trump ever could! A.) I appealed to his desire to what he does best... build. and B.) I honored his desire to tell me what to do.
My Dad: (in one quick breath) "Weeeeellllllllll-let-me-think-about-it-I'll-be-there-at-eight."
So Saturday morning rolls around and "Pop" shows up bright and early with hammer, crowbar, and a box of Krispy Kreme Doughnuts in hand ready to work. WE (yup, me again) are on a diet, so Leslie gives me this look that quietly whispers "I'll tear your arm off, beat you with it and dare you to bleed if you so much as sniff those".
I humbly pass on the doughnuts.
After Leslie, RZ and my dad "body slam" the doughnuts, and I quietly crunch on a dehydrated banana chip, WE (meaning my dad and I) get to the tasks du-jour.
My Dad: (as he cinches his toolbelt around his waist) "You go on and get up on top and tear off the shingles and decking. I'll be down here taking wah wah, wah."
Me: (looking up in the trees) "UP there!?!? Now Leonard (My dad's name is Leonard) your wife didn't raise an idiot. That's twenty-five feet up!"
My Dad: Gives this look that says "Yeah and I didn't raise a pussy either."
So I'm up top. On top of what is structurally a giant Frito. (no I didn't fall through, although that would've made for a much better post)
Anyway, we're in destruction mode for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon.
Around 3:30 I notice that I'm hot. I'm tired and frankly my "wussness" is starting to show through.
Me: "Ow CRAP! C-R-A-M-P!" This is the fourth time I've moaned in the past hour. It's become my mid-day battle cry.
~pause~
Me: "What say we call it and I buy you lunch?"
My Dad: "Wha'srong wi' you boy? Can't hang?"
I quietly realize that my 70 year-old, quad-bypassed, multi-angiogrammed, "old man" was working circles around me AND talking trash about it! Crappy part is, he knew it too!!!
Me: "Nah, I'm fine. No problem. I was just noticing your face. It's just awful red. I also noticed that I got my looks from Mom. Thank God." --Take that Dawg!
My Dad: "You can't hang."
Me: "I'm hangin'. I'm hangin'."
My Dad: "Why ya huffin' then?"
So this banter goes on for another hour or so, meanwhile we're working our asses to a nub. It's gotten competitive now... Who's going to out last who? Ironman vs. Son of Ironman.
Finally, I get the three syllables I've wanted to hear for the past three hours...."Woooooooo, Uh'm tarrred" (interpeted "Day's done.").
To which I reply, "c'mon be a man!". Now it's my turn to start cracking on him while we clean up.
Anyway, we call it a day. He gives me instructions on what we need to buy and what we need to do next.
It's around 5:00.
He leaves.
I go and get a shower, then I decide to lay down for a minute. It's now 5:30, Saturday afternoon. Sleep ensues.
I wake up 15 hours later, barely able to move. Muscles stiff and screaming, brain atrophied.
My dad is on the phone...
On the way to his morning walk...
Laughing.
3/29/2004 10:44:09 PM
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