For Star- daddy is Still Trying to see You Baby for one last time, and is very Lost now, and Very Sorry for all his faults and failures, open for all the world to see, and for having let you down.

Argos

Argos passed into the darkness of death,
 now that he had seen his master once more after twenty years.--The Odyssey

Can anyone help me? All I want to do is to see my girl Star, who will always be my baby Puppy, and my little Girl.

I missed the boat on having children. It passed over the horizon a long time ago.

I am still sure that Star, like Argos, is still waiting for me to come home.

She is 11 now, and with very bad hips.

I Love you Star. So much my heart feels like it is going to burst. Daddy is so sorry for his failure.

I am so sorry for being such a failure.

You will always be my puppy. My little girl. My Baby Penelope. My baby Penny. 

Here is our little song:

Starfish, 

That swim in the sea

Swimming with clams

Swimming with me.

Oh Starfish Baby I miss you. I miss playing my banjo for you, and all the silly songs. 

Daddy is not the best man that has ever lived. He might be the worst, and is so sorry for having let you down.

They can drag my name through the mud for all time. I don't care. 

All I care about is if I can see you for one last time.

I Love You Star

 __________________________________________

What a headache this morning! 


But I'll leave this Post up. I have another few stories to go along with it, and will write them down here.


This short series involves a few more snippets of experiences working with other painterguys, followed up by my quitting one job I had with a House Painting company once, and then later going for a long walk on the beach. 


Just me and Star, to contemplate life, law school, Love, Love lost etc etc. 

_______________________

Would You do That?

The traffic was stop and go on a two lane road through the town, and so the woman had seen her opportunity to cross the street, and had passed by our front bumper;  and fairly close.

"Look!" the painter said. "A nice black one!"

"Huh?" 

"Would you do that for a hundred bucks?" The painter asked. "You know, no strings. Just nice and easy?"

How was I supposed to respond to that? What was I supposed to say?  The painter asking me the question happened to also be my boss. He had a work ethic and was therefore moral, but here he was asking me about this kind of stuff. 

The painter followed the woman with his gaze, until she was out of sight.

I thought wryly and confusedly: 

'In Law School...............In Law School,  they would have said.....the thing he referred to as "that"..........was in fact a Woman.....and the person he had just objectified and therefore dehumanized  with the title: "A nice black one" ........would have been referred to as an African American Woman by Professors, and people who  were highly ethical and right thinking.'

But I wasn't in Law School anymore, and here was my Boss asking me if I would be willing to pay one hundred dollars in exchange for sexual services from her. Moreover, all she did was walk by. She wasn't soliciting, she did't make eye contact or even glance at us. And the more I thought, the more confused I felt.......................because the painter had a work ethic and was therefore very moral. He was a very hard worker.

__________________________________________

Half-Man

His name was Matt, and he was all sneakers and shuffles, attired in soiled white and gray painter’s livery. 

At least that was my general first impression of him before my conscious mind had time to develop a more elaborate appraisal. 

And, upon further consideration, he didn't seem to be a terribly bad fellow overall; he was a very hard worker; and he seemed to make an effort, towards me at least, at being polite. After all, he was a young man. 25 or 26. Also, he was somewhat short—about five foot six or seven, I would again guess. 

I believe that was why the Irish foreman saw fit to bestow upon him the nickname “Half Man” and, being a deal taller--about six foot two, and also ten years older,the Irish Foreman even went so far as to regularly call him “Half- man” to his face and quite often: a muttered order or a shouted command. As in:

"Half-Man! Go grab the vacuum!"

Or:  "Half-Man! Suck my dick while we're waiting."

(None of this had anything to do with painting Henry Ford’s House of course.) 

It was all done, ostensibly, in the name of good, though admittedly tasteless humor. And Matt, the younger man with the diminutive title would return the playful insult from the Foreman with insults of his own, particularly with regard to the Foreman’s wife. This in turn would cause the foreman to draw upon his imagination and reply with a retort or a sexual nature about Matt’s girlfriend, and the mother of Matt’s two children. 

And thereof a sort of crude banter would take place, occasioned most often when a mood of mean-spiritedness would steal upon the Irish Foreman.

But that was not my problem. And it had little to do with the application of paint to a house as I say. All I wanted to do was put paint on a house and earn a wage thereby. 

But there were always the trips back to the Speonk Train station parking lot. I came to loathe the Speonk Train station parking lot after a time. It had become the official meeting place of the Painting Company in the mornings. All the trucks and the cars of the crew would meet up there at six-thirty AM Monday through Saturday. It was the policy of the company that no one would go to the jobsite in their own car. Everyone had to ride to the job in one of five painting trucks. 

At the time I worked for the Company, there were usually two or three painting projects going on at once, so I would park my car at the Speonk train station parking lot, and leave it there all day. 

And so while riding in one of the trucks or vans, both to and from work, (and we all worked very hard) I was a true Captive Audience, and had to listen to the talk or “Banter” as the Irish foreman liked to characterize it.

And again, for instance, as we drove West in the evenings along Montauk Highway, the Irish Foreman would say something vile to Matt, and then Matt would retort with a statement about how, during the previous evening, his balls were slapping against the chin of the Irish Foreman’s wife.

The Irish Foreman would act surprised to hear such disrespect, and then reply in kind.

Stuff like that. Over and over and over.

At times like this, I had vague thoughts about law school and how super sensitive the people were in that place, way back then. But that was another life—almost a dream—like it never happened.

Maybe it never did.

To be continued