But I wasn't about to quit my current job just yet, so the next day I returned to my work for the local house painting company.
Now this particular company, at that time, had a contract to paint Henry Ford's House. Or, what I mean to say, is that it was the house that Henry Ford had built at one time, and used to own for a number of years. And the house couldn't have been more than fifty or sixty years old. And actually, it wasn't really a house, it was a Mansion--a large, stately structure of grand architectural design, set behind the dunes on some forty acres of oceanfront property in Southampton, Long Island. And to clarify further, the Henry Ford that used to own the house was not the Henry Ford popularly remembered for the Model T automobile. The home was built by Henry Ford's late son and likewise President of the Ford Motor Company: Henry Ford the second-best remembered perhaps, and popularly speaking, for the creation of the Edsel: a much criticised car at the time-- chiefly because many people claimed that the car's grille resembled a toilet seat. Personally, I don't understand what the fuss was all about, because the car and grille don't seem so very bad looking to me. In fact, a lot of cars of that period had similar looking grilles. Go figure.
But with respect to the property, and as I have read somewhere, Mr. Ford II had sold it during the late 1960's, or the early 1970's of the last Century . And, if I can recall correctly, I believe I also read that the Estate--ever the noble Lady, though a little neglected with respect to maintenance, was subsequently sold to someone else. But in spite of the change in ownership, the Ford family legacy and legend remained with the Mansion and what remained of the Estate in a romantic sort of way with the retention of the name "Fordune" on the front gates. (The "dune" in the name referring to the sand dunes, of course.)
As I mentioned, I worked at Fordune as one of a house painting crew during the winter of that year. It was prior to the bursting of the Real Estate bubble that everyone remembers so well. Major and elaborate renovations and improvements were underway which would nearly double the size of the already sprawling main house, and there was an indefinable air of bustle and excitement and/or expectation on the premises.
But the grandness, the stateliness, and the beauty of the estate, and the view of the Atlantic Ocean from the second story windows and balconies were the last things on my mind when I started my workday, which started at seven o'clock in the morning, and ended at 4:30PM.
Much of my work involved sanding. I sanded ceilings with a pole sander, I sanded walls with a pole sander or by hand. I sanded woodwork and joint compound/spackle, and anything else that had to be made smooth prior to priming and painting. I sanded until holes wore through the leather or canvas gloves that I was wearing at the time, and then through my fingertips and fingernails in turn, until they bled. I sanded all day. Sometimes I sanded all week. That was my job.
As a consequence of all this sanding, the air in Henry Ford's house would become full of dust; and anyone who has ever been on a construction site is well familiar with this fine white drywall dust or powder. Construction dust is claimed to be a cause of the lung disease "Mesothelioma" and there is even a Law Firm on Long Island (they advertise everywhere) that has made personal injury lawsuits involving Mesothelioma a specialty.
But to return to my work, I must confess that I was not very happy whenever I had to perform extended periods of sanding. It can become a very monotonous and disagreeable chore, during which the minutes and hours drag by slowly and almost intolerably. And there were times when I would sometimes be overwhelmed by a very dismal feeling, especially at such an early hour and on a cold winter morning, and with nothing to occupy my thoughts, and I would sometimes muse about other kinds of similar jobs that were equally or perhaps more difficult, such as coal mining, or farming.
I looked over at the five men from Guatemala that were working alongside of me. They must be happy to have their jobs, I thought. But I wondered if they felt as dismal or more dismal than I did at times. We would pause sometimes and roll our eyes--a mild and subtle way of complaining. Perhaps I was ungrateful. I should have felt pretty lucky to have a job after law School--any kind of job. It was all about trying to survive in this world at this point, after all.
Although House Painting is not one of the more difficult trades to master, the painting work I was doing at Henry Ford's house was of a superior quality commonly referred to as "High-End"-- trade Lingo meaning that many more hours and much more care was devoted to the preparation for, and subsequent application of the paint. Very labor intensive work, as I say, and for a client who is typically very well off financially, and that can afford the labor costs which, for most people, would be prohibitive.
We worked in silence. It was too early for the usual chatter. That would come in a few hours. I suspected that my Guatemalan co-workers were feeling just as down in the dumps. The other crews working on the premises: the carpenters, electricians, and stone workers outside were equally quiet, trying, just as we were, to settle down mentally after their morning coffee and a hectic and stressful commute in heavy traffic on long Island's East End.
My nose started to run as the dust started to fill the air. I put on my respirator mask-designed to filter out the harmful dust and make breathing easier.
'It's going to be another long day,' I thought, and I glanced at my watch. Twenty minutes gone. Coffee break at 10:15.
The Day Progresses
But time does inevitably pass, whether we are miserable or having fun, and at 10AM the coffee truck/roach coach with the shiny, sort of quilted and/or corrugated steel sides came down the long driveway and blew it's horn, which played the old cockroach tune: "La Cucuracha"
I didn't answer. It was his usual game, repeated almost every day on the job. He always called me a "Cunt" out of the hearing of the other trade crews such as the carpenters or electricians. Maybe this was out of respect for me, or maybe it was because he didn't want too many others to hear what a dick he sounded like, or both. But to his credit as a Boss, he never made insulting comments about the wife of anyone working under him, although he would occassionally make remarks about about having been with another employees mother in a sexual sense. In the name of humor of course.
"Hey!" he shouted again. "Hey Cunt!" He sounded angry about something.
A little annoyed, I answered: "What do you want?"
"You name 'da Cunt?" he inquired as he poked his head in the bathroom and leered with obvious amusement.
I just rolled my eyes. But Yusuf persisted with satisfaction: "I call, and you answer. You 'ta must name be 'da Cunt" he deduced, and his grin broadened. He had a dumb, monkeyish grin, broad enough to reveal the gaps between his front teeth, and the gaps where two of his upper molars used to be.
"Come here Bitch!" he continued, and led me into the other room to show me some nail holes in the crown molding between the wall and ceiling that had to be filled with spackle.
"Fill dese holes and put 'da measure tape ahere...." He paused when I glanced away for a moment.
"HELLO!" he shouted, thinking I wasn't paying attention.
"Yeah I hear you," I said, and I shook my head in annoyance.
"You hear me? You got de problem?" he asked with rising irritation.
"No" I said. No problem. I hear you."
"OK," he said, and continued: "You know what 'da measure tape is?" he asked with a profound, querulous expression.
I finally deduced that what he meant to say in English was "Mesh" tape, and it took a little while to clear the whole thing up, and I told him it was also known as fiberglass tape.
"I not talking Fibaglass!" he said angrily. You understand English? I get it for you."
He went out to his truck and I followed. He then gave me the roll of tape and left.
'It's a strange new parlance, I reflected. One man now calls another man a "Bitch."
This has much different implications than the term: "Son of a Bitch," an obscenity used by previous baby boomer generations. Yet the word "Bitch" is now frequently used as a sort of pronoun, one man to another--especially in the blue-collar working world.
I puzzled over this a little while. If a woman can be outraged if a man calls her a "Bitch," even in jest, how is a man supposed to feel when his Boss/Foreman says it?
'But then, I concluded, perhaps I'm getting old. A new language for a newer world. Lingo used to express dominance of one man over another. Maybe some kind of expression of a new American culture--passed down from the institutions of higher learning and now expressed in the streets. Or maybe that theory is completely wrong and the opposite is true. The new culture has started in the streets and/or prisons, and has passed upwards into the highest universities.'
But I shook my head slightly and tried to drive these thoughts out of my mind. After all, they had nothing to do with putting paint on a house--and that was all that mattered--wasn't it?
Then, for some reason, I started thinking about my student Loans again. 'Dear God I need the money,' I said to myself. 'But I feel so lost, and I think I'm going to lose my mind if I stay working in this place for too much longer. Is this where education eventually leads?
I said a silent prayer: "God. If you do exist, and you are up there somewhere listening to my thoughts, please let that Claims Adjuster job with Allstate come through for me."
Later in the day I returned to the Main House......
* If anyone is reading this Post, and is interested, please go here for the next part that follows here, and which belongs in this chapter actually.
http://esquirepainting.blogspot.com/2010/12/good-brain-autobiographical-short-story.html
I have posted it already as you can see.
After the Good Brain installment comes a return home, and then a talk with the job recruiter from Chicago.
I'm going to try to pull all of my blog posts together into a novel with several themes as in the subplot or thread of law school, debt and marriage running through it, along with other subplots, cultural observations, and a moral and, the hardest part--character development.
_____________________________________________________
* Welcome weary traveler. What brings you so far from home, and to our remote wayside inn-- so late, and on a cold, dark winters night?
But take this drink, and the bottle. Have as much as you want, and warm yourself by the fire. I and my fellow bloggers will prepare for you a hot meal, and make your room ready.
In the meantime, relax your soul. Here, for you, is Water Song.
I hope you Love it, and Jorma and Jack, as much as I do. (BTW, it has nothing to do with Painting a House.)
July 24, 2011:
What? You made it here today? And why? Because you are looking for JD Painterguy's College Transcript? Well, I haven't scanned it yet. But I will later today. So you will have to come here to this same Post, because I will be posting the link to follow, which will lead to your finding JDPainterguy's College Transcript.
In the meantime, did I mention that Ann Coulter has great big baby blue eyes? Well, maybe I did.
And when I see AC on TV talking, her voice kind of fades away, and I don't hear anything, and a sort of vision of her inundates all my senses. Kind of like this:
The Day Progresses
But time does inevitably pass, whether we are miserable or having fun, and at 10AM the coffee truck/roach coach with the shiny, sort of quilted and/or corrugated steel sides came down the long driveway and blew it's horn, which played the old cockroach tune: "La Cucuracha"
Very loud shouts went up from the workers all over the property: "COFFEE TRUCK!" "COFFEE TRUCK!"
One of the carpenters passed me on the stairs and said more quietly: "Hey guys. Coffee Truck's here."
It may seem silly now, but at the time, the words: "Coffee Truck," were the two most welcoming words I, and I assume most everyone else working on the construction site,could hear. It meant that the day was breaking up a little. Energy was increasing and lunch was not too far off at 1:00PM, and after lunch, it would be mere two-and-a-half hours or so until "pack-it-up" time at 4:15PM, and then quitting time at four-thirty.
After the Coffee Break, there was more chatter from all the crews, and a few jokes. I turned my radio on, and started listening to music. Sometimes, instead of music I would listen to a conservative talk show, or the more liberal National Public Radio. It varied, depending on my mood.
On this particular day, I was working in the servant's quarters, and there was less sanding to do than usual; so I was given the task of patching some holes in the sheetrock of a downstairs bathroom wall that the electrician had made the day before.
As I was busy performing this task, I heard the heavy footsteps of the foreman-a swaggering man from Istanbul named Yusuf-- approaching from the hallway.
"Hey Cunt"! he called.
"Hey!" he shouted again. "Hey Cunt!" He sounded angry about something.
A little annoyed, I answered: "What do you want?"
"You name 'da Cunt?" he inquired as he poked his head in the bathroom and leered with obvious amusement.
I just rolled my eyes. But Yusuf persisted with satisfaction: "I call, and you answer. You 'ta must name be 'da Cunt" he deduced, and his grin broadened. He had a dumb, monkeyish grin, broad enough to reveal the gaps between his front teeth, and the gaps where two of his upper molars used to be.
"Come here Bitch!" he continued, and led me into the other room to show me some nail holes in the crown molding between the wall and ceiling that had to be filled with spackle.
"Fill dese holes and put 'da measure tape ahere...." He paused when I glanced away for a moment.
"HELLO!" he shouted, thinking I wasn't paying attention.
"Yeah I hear you," I said, and I shook my head in annoyance.
"You hear me? You got de problem?" he asked with rising irritation.
"No" I said. No problem. I hear you."
"OK," he said, and continued: "You know what 'da measure tape is?" he asked with a profound, querulous expression.
I finally deduced that what he meant to say in English was "Mesh" tape, and it took a little while to clear the whole thing up, and I told him it was also known as fiberglass tape.
"I not talking Fibaglass!" he said angrily. You understand English? I get it for you."
He went out to his truck and I followed. He then gave me the roll of tape and left.
'It's a strange new parlance, I reflected. One man now calls another man a "Bitch."
This has much different implications than the term: "Son of a Bitch," an obscenity used by previous baby boomer generations. Yet the word "Bitch" is now frequently used as a sort of pronoun, one man to another--especially in the blue-collar working world.
I puzzled over this a little while. If a woman can be outraged if a man calls her a "Bitch," even in jest, how is a man supposed to feel when his Boss/Foreman says it?
'But then, I concluded, perhaps I'm getting old. A new language for a newer world. Lingo used to express dominance of one man over another. Maybe some kind of expression of a new American culture--passed down from the institutions of higher learning and now expressed in the streets. Or maybe that theory is completely wrong and the opposite is true. The new culture has started in the streets and/or prisons, and has passed upwards into the highest universities.'
But I shook my head slightly and tried to drive these thoughts out of my mind. After all, they had nothing to do with putting paint on a house--and that was all that mattered--wasn't it?
Then, for some reason, I started thinking about my student Loans again. 'Dear God I need the money,' I said to myself. 'But I feel so lost, and I think I'm going to lose my mind if I stay working in this place for too much longer. Is this where education eventually leads?
I said a silent prayer: "God. If you do exist, and you are up there somewhere listening to my thoughts, please let that Claims Adjuster job with Allstate come through for me."
Later in the day I returned to the Main House......
* If anyone is reading this Post, and is interested, please go here for the next part that follows here, and which belongs in this chapter actually.
http://esquirepainting.blogspot.com/2010/12/good-brain-autobiographical-short-story.html
I have posted it already as you can see.
After the Good Brain installment comes a return home, and then a talk with the job recruiter from Chicago.
I'm going to try to pull all of my blog posts together into a novel with several themes as in the subplot or thread of law school, debt and marriage running through it, along with other subplots, cultural observations, and a moral and, the hardest part--character development.
_____________________________________________________
* Welcome weary traveler. What brings you so far from home, and to our remote wayside inn-- so late, and on a cold, dark winters night?
But take this drink, and the bottle. Have as much as you want, and warm yourself by the fire. I and my fellow bloggers will prepare for you a hot meal, and make your room ready.
In the meantime, relax your soul. Here, for you, is Water Song.
I hope you Love it, and Jorma and Jack, as much as I do. (BTW, it has nothing to do with Painting a House.)
__________________________________________________
July 24, 2011:
What? You made it here today? And why? Because you are looking for JD Painterguy's College Transcript? Well, I haven't scanned it yet. But I will later today. So you will have to come here to this same Post, because I will be posting the link to follow, which will lead to your finding JDPainterguy's College Transcript.
In the meantime, did I mention that Ann Coulter has great big baby blue eyes? Well, maybe I did.
And when I see AC on TV talking, her voice kind of fades away, and I don't hear anything, and a sort of vision of her inundates all my senses. Kind of like this:
OK. NOW GO HERE TO LOOK FOR THE TRANSCRIPT, AND GO TO THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE WHEN YOU GET THERE:
