A Curveball
Attention passengers: Flight 245 from Mexico City is now arriving at DFW gate 32
Mexico. Just hearing the word made a lump form in my throat. All I could think of was how much I missed that cute girl I met in the little Chihuahuan Desert village of Espinazo. However, she was coming to visit me in about two weeks, barring unforeseen circumstances. Until that day, all I needed to do was hop on my flight from DFW, return to Virginia, and get back to work.
I sat in the smoking section, by a starboard window, with two empty seats to my left. I removed a notebook and pen from my carry-on bag, placed it under the seat, and lowered my tray table to use as a desk, thinking I might make good use of the flight time to plan the execution of my new construction project.
A fellow in his mid-thirties, looking like he spends too much time in the sun, boarded the plane and took the aisle seat in my row. We greeted each other with upward nods as we got situated for the long flight. After takeoff, a pretty flight attendant, Janet, whom I'd met when I boarded the plane, made her way down the aisle.
"Would you like something to drink, sir?"
"Yes, Janet. A Dos Equis would be wonderful," I said. "My name is Matt, by the way."
"I'll have one too, Janet. My name is Rick."
"It is nice to meet you, Matt and Rick. I hope you guys are not going to be troublemakers on this flight," Janet said cheerfully.
"I don't know about Matt, but I'm not making any promises," Rick said, winking at her.
"We'll behave, as long as you keep the beers coming," I said with a grin.
"Jeez," Janet said as she continued down the aisle, shaking her head, "it's gonna be a long flight."
"Where are you traveling from, Matt?" Rick asked.
"Mexico City," I declared, not wanting to explain where Espinazo was or why I was there. "How about you?"
"Dallas. It was my parents' 50th wedding anniversary."
"Wow, 50 years! They must like each other," I said, smiling.
"Yeah, I suppose they do," Rick replied.
"Do you live in the Washington, D.C. area?" I asked.
"Yes. I live in Arlington. I work for an electrical contractor in Northern Virginia. I couldn't find work in Texas."
"Same here," I said. "I had to leave Austin two years ago to work as a carpenter for a remodeling contractor out of Clifton."
"It must have been tough leaving Austin."
"More than you know, but we're not the only ones. I've met lots of Texans since I've been in the Washington, D.C. area, and not just folks working in the construction industry."
"Yeah, me too. Are you still working for the Clifton guy?"
"No, I am self-employed now; in two days, I'll be breaking ground on an art studio addition in Fairfax Station."
"That's awesome!"
Rick and I chewed the fat like old beer buddies until we heard the flight attendant say, "Drink up, boys, we are preparing to land."
"Already?"
"Yes," Janet said firmly. "So buckle up."
She confiscated our beers and continued to the rear of the plane to secure herself in a seat near the lavatories.
The plane suddenly jolted, and the Fasten Seatbelts sign promptly lit up.
"Attention passengers, this is your captain speaking: We are approaching Dulles Airport and will be on the ground in a few minutes. The temperature is 28 degrees with a light snow on the runway. The air is a little bumpy up ahead, so take your seats, secure your belongings, and fasten your seatbelts."
"Oh crap," I said.
"What's wrong?" Rick asked.
"I've got to take a piss."
"Matt, you can't go now; the plane is about to land."
"I don't care, Rick. Let me out."
I squeezed by Rick, stumbled onto the aisle, and made a beeline to the can.
"You better make it fast," Janet said intently.
"I will," I said as I secured the door.
A strong jolt shook the plane, then another, and another—I braced my body against the bulkhead of the bathroom and managed to get the job done, despite being bounced around like one of those little balls in cans of spray paint.
"Well, I hope you cleaned up the mess," Janet said as I exited the toilet.
"Of course I did, Janet. I mean...there wasn't any—"
Another jolt.
"Just shut up and hurry back to your seat!"
Two minutes later, the plane landed on the snowy runway with a whisper.
"How about that landing?" Janet said as she approached me.
"That was amazing! I mean, are we even on the ground yet?" I said.
"Don't forget your carry-on luggage, Matt," Janet said with a wink.
"Thanks, Janet."
Rick and I grabbed our bags and left the plane.
"Hey, Mexico City, I think you had a real chance there with Janet."
"Perhaps, Mr. Rick, but my heart is in Mexico."
"Well, good luck, Matt. It was fun traveling with you."
"You too, Rick."
I stumbled out of the airport at sunset into a cold rain. I spotted Jack and Sue's car in the passenger pickup area and waved. They saw me and pulled up to the curb where I was standing. I threw my bags in their trunk and hopped into the back seat.
"Whoa! Someone smells like they have already started happy hour," Sue said, teasing.
"I might have had one or two," I said.
"—or three or four," Sue said.
"More like five or six," Jack said, laughing.
"But who's counting, anyway, right?" I said, "Let's get some vittles. I am starving."
At dinner in Manassas, I told Jack and Sue about how I met Bea and that she was coming to Virginia in a couple of weeks to visit me.
"That's fantastic, Matt," Jack said.
"And good timing too," Sue said, "we'll be on the road. You'll have the house to yourself."
Later that evening, before it got too late, I needed to phone Bea, but first, I called Aaron to coordinate the next day's schedule.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Aaron, I'm back from Mexico. Are you ready to go to work?"
"Way ahead of you, Matt. I attached the backhoe to my tractor this morning and dropped it off at the Shuckleys. I'm ready to dig footings any time, just say the word."
"Perfect. Tomorrow, I have some errands to run, including renting a jackhammer to break up that concrete slab. How about we meet on Wednesday at 8?"
"See you there, Matt!"
Now Bea...
"Hello?"
"Bea?"
"Matt! It's great to hear your voice! Did you make it back to Virginia?"
"Yes, and it's good to hear yours, too," I said. "Can you believe our trip to Espinazo is already over?"
"No, but I'll be seeing you soon, right?" Bea said nervously.
"Absolutely! How about I purchase your ticket for Friday, March 31st? 12 days from now?"
"That will be perfect. I can't wait to see you, Matt."
"Me too, Bea. We're going to have fun. I'll call you on Wednesday after I have made the reservations."
"Okay, Matt. Goodnight."
Tuesday morning, I woke up before dawn and brewed a pot of coffee. A light snow had fallen—on the first day of Spring, of all days—but it was otherwise clear and would warm up enough by early afternoon to melt that final snow of the season. After a breakfast of scrambled eggs and raisin toast, I drove to the Shuckleys to pick up the materials deposit.
"Good morning, Mrs. Shuckley," I said cheerfully.
"Good morning, Matt. I see you made it back from Mexico. Did you have a good time?"
"The best," I said
"You seem rested and relaxed."
"I feel that way too; a few days in rural Mexico was all it took."
"Here's the deposit check you need, Matt," Mrs. Shuckley said. "When do you think you'll get started?"
"Tomorrow at 8 a.m. Aaron and I plan to remove your existing patio slab and the garden equipment shed attached to the back of your house. On Thursday and Friday, we'll lay out and dig the footings for the foundation. Next week, we'll build the forms for the concrete and contact the building inspectors. Once the site has been approved, we'll pour the concrete."
"That sounds good, Matt. See you tomorrow."
The Art Studio - Day 1 - 22-March, 1989
I was running late, on the way to the Shuckleys', and stopped at a 7-11 for a large coffee and a package of powdered donuts—no time for a nutritious breakfast today.
Yesterday's snow had melted, leaving the air clear and chilly, setting the stage for a phenomenal workday. Aaron was already on-site, checking his tractor's fluid levels.
"Hey, Aaron! What a great day, eh?"
"The best. How was Mexico?"
"I met a girl," I said with a big grin.
"Say no more," Aaron snickered as he stamped out his cigarette.
"I'll start breaking up the slab with the jackhammer while you remove the broken pieces with your backhoe. How does that sound?"
"I was thinking the same, Matt."
"Good. Let's get started."
I plugged an extension cord into one of Shuckley's exterior outlets, connected the radio, and cranked it up so we could hear the music over the jackhammer and backhoe, which wasn't possible, but we did it anyway.
I picked a corner of the 12'x12' concrete pad and went to work jackhammering 2'x2' squares. With precision, Aaron snatched each piece of concrete with the maw of his backhoe the moment it was loose.
By 10 a.m., we had removed nearly half the slab.
"Do you want to take a break?" I hollered to Aaron over the clatter of his tractor's diesel engine.
"If we keep working, we can finish before lunch!"
"Let's go for it!"
While I jackhammered the next block, Aaron picked up the previous chunk with his machine and maneuvered it over the area above my occupation.
Suddenly, in a flash, excruciating pain shot through my right hand.
"OUCH...OUCH...OUCH...GODDAMMIT...SHIT!" I forcefully shoved the jackhammer to the ground as if it had attacked me and hopped around in excruciating pain, cradling my right hand, while my life passed before my eyes.
"Damn, Matt! Are you okay?" Aaron freaked.
"What the hell happened?" I asked.
"The last chunk of concrete fell out of my bucket onto your hand holding the jackhammer handle."
"Damn! It happened so fast I didn't see it coming. How awful did it look?"
"It didn't look good."
"Well, it hurts like hell!" I said, hoping I could soon laugh it off as if I had merely stepped on a nail. "Meanwhile, I'm going to take some acetaminophen and try to walk this off."
I killed the blaring radio and examined my hand. I couldn't pinpoint the source of the pain—my whole hand hurt—there wasn't much bleeding, just a lot of scrapes, cuts, and bruises. Lacking a first-aid kit, I wrapped my injured limb in a clean towel from my truck and secured it tightly with duct tape. Once the acetaminophen kicked in, my hand felt a little better.
"I'm okay, Aaron. I'm ready to go back to work, but I don't think I can operate the jackhammer with one hand."
"I'll finish up the jackhammering, Matt. Why don't you just chill the rest of the day?"
"Well, I still have one good hand. I'll find something to do."
Mrs. Shuckley suddenly showed up with a Polaroid camera, prepared to take paparazzi shots of the groundbreaking. She was unaware of my hand injury, and I wanted to keep it that way. I grabbed my 22-ounce hammer with my left hand and went to work prying 2x4s that fastened the garden tool shack to the brick veneer outside the Shuckleys' house. I held my right hand out of sight while working with my left, but Mrs. Shuckley noticed the awkwardness and my makeshift bandage.
"Did you hurt your hand, Matt?!" Mrs. Shuckley said, concerned.
"Just had a little run-in with a concrete block," I said, trying to make light of the situation.
"Oh my," she said, concerned. "Are you okay?"
"Yes. I'm sure I'll be back to normal tomorrow," I said.
She didn't look convinced.
"Maybe you should see a doctor."
"If it isn't better before the end of the week, I'll do that. I promise."
"Okay, Matt. You have to take care of yourself. This project can wait."
I took 4 extra-strength 500-milligram tablets every two hours that day and worked until 4 o'clock. On the way home, my swollen hand began to throb profusely—even after double-dosing acetaminophen—the over-the-counter drugs had become ineffective against the increasing pain.
"What happened to your hand?!" she cried, terrified.
"A concrete block fell on it."
"Oh my God, Matt! Since you have it wrapped in a towel, I assume you haven't seen a doctor?"
"I don't have a doctor."
"Just go to the emergency room at Potomac Mills Hospital...Wait, I'll take you; just let me tell Jack what's going on."
"No need, Sue. I can drive."
"Okay, but if you can't make it home, please call us!"
I drove to the emergency room and checked in. I didn't have health insurance and knew I would be paying out of pocket for any hospital services. I hoped it would be minor and not too costly. They called me back to a treatment room, took my vitals, gave me some pain medication, and sent me to radiology. While I waited for the X-rays, an ER nurse cleaned my wound and wrapped my hand in gauze, then left the room.
I waited for a long time, an hour, maybe two, thinking about Bea, and about the job. What's keeping these people? Then a nurse, Loretta, without a word, stepped into my room and began rummaging through a drawer for an interminable time, looking for that long-lost thermometer, or tongue depressor, or whatever.
"Excuse me, Ma'am? Loretta? Do you know if they have the results of my X-ray?"
"You mean no one has talked to you?"
"No."
"Well, Mr. Matt, you have compound fractures of your fourth and fifth metacarpals. You will require surgery to repair the damage."
"Surgery? Really?"
"Yes, by a highly skilled hand surgeon. In the meantime, I'm going to immobilize your hand."
"How much will the surgery cost?"
"I don't know, but it won't be cheap."
Loretta cleaned and rebandaged my wound again and secured it to a hand splint with an Ace wrap.
"Okay, you're free to go home. Get some rest and do not go to work. Someone from the hospital will call you in the morning to review costs and schedule the procedure. I also called in a prescription for pain medication for you. You will need it until the surgery."
"Thanks, Loretta."
"You're welcome, Mr. Matt."
Well, that's not what I wanted to hear, I thought as I drove away from the hospital. I picked up my prescription at the pharmacy and went home. Sue and Jack were upstairs having dinner.
"How did it go, Matt?" Sue asked.
"They said I will require surgery.
"
"Oh, crap," Jack said, probably thinking: if Matt can't work, how will he pay rent?
"I know. The hospital is supposed to call in the morning with the cost details and surgery schedule."
"Are you hungry, Matt?" Sue asked.
"No, Sue. I think I'm going to turn in. It has been a long day."
I woke at 2:30 a.m., took some pain pills, and eventually returned to sleep.
The next morning, I woke up nauseated. Acetaminophen, Vicodin, and a couple of beers were all I had for dinner the night before. My hand was throbbing, but I had to get food in my stomach before taking any more medication. I forced down two scrambled eggs and a glass of milk and took a dose of Vicodin. I put on a pot of coffee to wake up, but drifted off before it finished brewing.
At 9:00 a.m., the hospital called.
"Mr. Bray?"
"Yes."
"This is Rosie Stone from Potomac Mills Hospital. How are you doing this morning?"
"Awful, Rosie."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Bray. I'm calling to give you a cost estimate and schedule your upcoming outpatient surgery. The surgeon is available tomorrow, Friday, at 3:00 p.m. Will that work for you?"
"That will be fine," I said. "The sooner the better."
"Now for the fees: The hospital portion will cost $1,500, and the cost for the surgeon will be approximately $2,500. I know you don't have insurance, so a 50 percent down payment will be required tomorrow when you come in."
"$2,000?"
"Yes," Rosie said. "After the surgery, you can arrange to pay the balance with our billing department."
"Okay, thanks, Rosie."
"We'll see you tomorrow, Matt—no solid food after midnight tonight. You can drink water, but that's all. Also, someone will have to drop you off and pick you up after the surgery. We can't have you driving under the influence of anesthesia and pain meds."
"Understood, Rosie."
"Get some rest, Matt. I hope you feel better."
After a miserable Friday of taking pain pills on an empty stomach, Sue drove me to the hospital.
"Give me a call when you're done, and Jack or I will come and get you. I know you haven't eaten anything all day, so I'm cooking steak and potatoes tonight."
"That sounds great! Thanks, Sue."
When I walked through the door to Outpatient Services, an orderly led me to a room where I changed out of my street clothes into a surgical-green gown, then guided me to the operating room. The staff tried to give me a local to spare the expense of general anesthesia, but my hand twitched when the surgeon cut into it with his scalpel. From the corner of my eye, I saw the doctor give the anesthetist a thumbs-down—bomb him—sign, and a few seconds later, I woke up in the recovery room.
A nurse was busy removing an IV from my left hand while another was preparing to bandage my post-surgical scar.
"Mr. Matt? Are you awake?"
"Yes...Loretta?" I said, groggy and a little euphoric.
"Yes, it's me. The doctor said the surgery went well; there were no surprises or complications. How are you feeling?"
"I'm feeling great!"
"Good. Before I cover the top of your hand, I want you to see what the surgeon has done."
"Okay."
"Between the sutures, there are pins embedded into your metacarpals that will stay until your bones heal. The ends of each pin are poking through your skin. I'm going to apply antibiotic ointment to the whole scar, including the pins and sutures, to protect your wound from infection. Pay attention; you'll have to change this dressing yourself at least once a day."
"Why are the ends of the pins exposed?"
"So the doctor can remove them easily. Tomorrow, make an appointment with him in six weeks for the procedure."
"Another surgery?"
"No. It's just an office visit."
"How do they remove the pins?"
"They just yank them out, Mr. Matt."
"Good, more pain to look forward to," I said facetiously.
When Loretta finished the dressing, she re-splinted my hand and put my arm in a sling around my neck.
"The sling is to keep your hand elevated until the swelling goes down," Loretta said.
"It'll be tough without a functional right hand," I said.
"You'll figure it out. Over the next few weeks, you'll discover new ways of doing things you took for granted your whole life," Loretta said, "and will be surprised at how quickly you will adapt to your temporary handicap."
"I'm learning already," I said. "Ever since the accident."
"The effects of the anesthesia will linger for a few hours. Don't go home and give away your life savings or propose marriage to anyone. Hold those thoughts for tomorrow and see if you still feel the same," Loretta said, grinning.
"I'll take your advice, Loretta. Thanks for everything."
"You're welcome, Mr. Matt. That's another thing: no physical activity and no work for at least a month."
"That one will be tough."
After Loretta discharged me from the hospital, Jack drove me back to their house, where Sue was preparing juicy steaks, baked potatoes, and salad.
"This meal is hitting the spot," I said.
"Try to eat slowly, Matt," Sue said. "The side effects from the anesthesia might have a boomerang effect."
"I feel fine, Sue. Great, in fact."
"Enjoy it while it lasts," Jack said, while he fired up a hand-rolled.
After dinner and a couple of drinks, Sue and Jack went to bed, and I retired to my room to rest, but I wasn't sleepy; on the contrary, I was wide awake and wanted to talk. I impulsively called Tracy. Why? I don't know, under the influence, I suppose, but the conversation flowed well—it was as though she was as intoxicated as I was. We talked about anything and everything until after midnight—maybe post-op anesthesia was the missing element of our relationship.
Saturday morning, I was back to normal—no euphoria—and it was time to face the daunting reality that misfortune had bestowed upon me. I had just spent $2,000 of profit, which I hadn't yet earned, and I still owed another $2,000 to the hospital and surgeon. To make matters worse, I wouldn't be able to work effectively for a solid month, maybe longer. I hoped the Shuckleys would understand my predicament and trust me to keep my commitment. Bea? I couldn't very well fly her to Washington to visit me with my arm in a sling. I needed to make some phone calls, starting with Aaron.
"Hey, Matt. How's your hand doing? Can you work?"
"No, the injury turned out to be a compound fracture that required surgery."
"Surgery?"
"Yep. I have pins in my hand binding two broken bones together, and my arm is in a sling. I won't be able to do much physical work for about a month."
"That sucks," Aaron said. "What are we going to do?"
"I'm glad you asked, Aaron. I was thinking we could still pour the slab."
"Yes! I can dig the footings with my backhoe and, with your direction and expertise, I could build the forms."
"Yes, exactly what I was thinking: dig the footings, build the forms, call for the inspection by the building code officials, and schedule the concrete delivery. Then, when my arm is out of a sling, the slab will be ready to go."
"It sounds like we have a plan, Matt! When do you want to get started?"
"I'm supposed to take a month off work, according to the hospital, but I'm thinking a week should be long enough. Let's meet on the job on Monday, a week from tomorrow, at 9 o'clock."
"Sounds good, I'll see you then!"
"Meanwhile, I'll call the Shuckleys to let them know what's going on."
I explained everything to the Shuckleys: the compound fracture, the surgery, and Aaron's and my plan to move forward with the concrete foundation. The Shuckleys were more concerned about my well-being than their art studio. "Take all the time you need to recover, Matt," Mrs. Shuckley said. "My studio can wait."
My fingers trembled as I dialed Bea's number.
"Hello, Bea."
"Hi, Matt! I was just thinking about you. Did you get the airline tickets?"
"Well...something happened..."
"What's the matter?" Bea asked.
I explained every excruciating detail.
"That's terrible, Matt! Are you okay? I could still come to see you and take care of you."
"That wouldn't be too much fun for you," I said.
"Matt, I don't care about fun; I care about you."
"I know, Bea; I care about you too. But I was thinking that if we postpone your trip until the first week of summer, after the spring semester, less than two months from now, my hand will have healed, you will be out of school, my projects will be back on track, and we'll both be ready for a vacation. What do you think?"
"I guess that makes the most sense, but I don't want to wait that long."
"I don't either, Bea."
"I wish I could be with you right now, Matt."
"Me too, Bea. I'll call you in a couple of days."
"Okay, Matt. Take care of that hand.
"
After that depressing phone call, I took pain medication and crawled back into bed.
At 10 a.m., Sue woke me up to let me know they were heading out for their two-week craft-show trip.
"If you need assistance with anything, Matt, you can call my sister. Robin said she will be glad to help."
"Thanks, Sue. I'm sure I'll be fine. Have a safe and profitable trip!"
After they left, I dozed off.
At noon, I opened my eyes, feeling light-headed and woozy, wondering if I might unexpectedly puke. Remaining motionless in bed helped suppress the queasiness, so I stayed perfectly still so as not to rock the boat.
While trying to regain my sense of purpose, I scanned the interior of my tiny bedroom, mentally organizing the clutter into a space conducive to both living and working. The builders designed my tiny, kid-sized bedroom for sleeping, not for running a construction company. I loved Jack and Sue—they were like family—but after two years, maybe it was time I left the comfort of their nest and searched for a larger place of my own, somewhere closer to Clifton.
Jack and Sue made it tough for me to leave. I think they knew that if they kept telling me that I was "the best roommate they ever had," I wouldn't have the heart to move out. I didn't know if that was true, but they were, in fact, the best roommates I ever had. There was an unnerving caveat to our roommate agreement that Sue and Jack made clear before I moved in; I was not allowed to pursue a relationship with Sue's sister. That was an odd but easy rule to agree to at the time; I hadn't even met Sue's sister, and starting a new relationship was the last thing on my mind.
It all became apparent one Sunday, before my accident, when Sue invited her sister over for dinner so she could meet me. Robin was seductive and charismatic, yet vulnerable in her current on-again-off-again relationship with her questionable boyfriend. When she saw me, she visibly melted with attraction. Sue noticed it too and cringed, probably thinking dinner was not such a good idea. Sue and Jack probably thought that if I got involved with Robin, our affair would cause friction in the family. Robin was flirtatious at dinner, but I kept my distance. I understood what Jack and Sue were doing, but the restriction gnawed at me.
I felt better Monday morning, hungry from the lack of food, but otherwise copacetic, with very little pain. After a bowl of cold cereal and toast, I almost felt normal, that is, as normal a right-handed person can feel with a broken right hand.
All bathroom-related tasks were tough, some more than others, but I hadn't showered since the day of surgery, two days prior, and it was time, past time, for bathing. Removing my clothes was easy enough—for a contortionist—but I managed, as long as I didn't inadvertently strike my hand against something, which was almost impossible to avoid. I wrapped my wounded hand in a plastic bag secured to my forearm with a large rubber band and stepped into the shower. I could wash my whole body with my left hand, except for my left arm and underarm. I tried to make use of my plastic-covered right hand, but pressure on any part of it produced shards of pain. Maybe I should call Robin...? Wait, I suddenly thought that if I soaped the top of my left leg, I could wash my left arm by dragging it over my soapy leg. That worked well, and I even managed to wash my left underarm with my left kneecap. It was a stretch, but I pulled it off and hopped out of the shower feeling and smelling like a new man.
Getting dressed wasn't too difficult. I managed to slip on and button my 501 jeans single-handedly. I had button-down shirts, but I also had many T-shirts and Polo shirts that had few or no buttons, so no problem there. As for tying my shoes? I wore my cowboy boots. Problems solved.
After getting dressed, I sat in a chair at the kitchen table and removed the plastic bag covering my right hand, then the Ace wrap, the hand splint, and the old gauze bandage. I gently washed my smelly right hand in the sink with soapy water, cleansed the wound with a solution provided by the hospital, then smeared antibiotic ointment on the tips of the pins and sutures, as Loretta had done at the hospital. Afterward, I covered the wound with a new gauze pad, secured it with two strips of paper tape, then immobilized my arm again with the hand splint and Ace wrap. The stressful bathing activities warranted another dose of Vicodin, but I held back so I wouldn't feel lethargic all day. The swelling in my hand had subsided significantly since the surgery, so the sling was no longer necessary.
There wasn't much I could do at my desk, even without the sling, but I had an electric typewriter, and even though typing with one hand was slow, I could write letters. If I needed to write checks to pay bills, I could fill in the blanks with my typewriter and scribble my signature with my left hand. That afternoon, I learned to shift the 5-speed standard transmission of my Toyota pickup with my left hand, and drove to the store for groceries. Each hour, I devised new ways to cope with the chores of everyday life.
With a week off work and one functional hand, it was time to clean and organize my snake pit of a room. I never actually saw a snake, but the conditions were right—the piles of dirty clothes on my floor would have been good habitat. That was my first task—get a load of laundry in the wash to free up some floor space—then arrange my desk. In my world, an organized desk is an organized life. Mine was neither. Between loads of laundry, I began sifting through a pile of papers on my desk—my 'IN' box—where important papers were stacked to be read, filed, paid, or thrown away. By the end of the week, I reduced the 4-inch heap to a few current items, and had washed, dried, and put away all my laundry. Stage one completed.
Friday night, Jeff called.
"Hey Matt, I haven't talked to you since you came back from Mexico. How was your trip?"
"The trip was great, but a lot has happened since I returned."
"What happened?"
"I broke my right hand on day one of my art studio project."
"What?"
"Yep. A compound fracture of two metacarpals that required surgery."
"Are you able to work?"
"Not effectively...uh...actually, no. I'm going to have Aaron build the forms for the foundation and plan to pour the concrete by either the end of next week or the beginning of the next. There won't be much else I can do until my hand heals."
"It sounds like you have it all worked out."
"Everything except how I'm going to pay the medical bills."
"It's just a curveball, Matt. In a few weeks, your hand will heal, and you'll be back in the saddle again," Jeff said cheerfully.
"I admire your optimism," I said. "I hope it is contagious."
Ironically, if I hadn't deposited the Shuckleys' check the day before the accident, I wouldn't have had enough money to pay the hospital, but I also wouldn't have broken my hand, since I wouldn't have started the project. You never know what quandaries life will throw at you. Fortunately, I included extra living expenses in the payment schedule. Still, things were tight; with my injury, I couldn't log enough progress to warrant another advance before the existing funds dried up. To make matters worse, when I informed the DeWeeses that I wouldn't be able to start their basement remodel for two more months, they chose to hire another contractor. The same thing happened with a deck project I had signed with the Sullivans. My financial success depended on cash flow from multiple projects so that I could balance expenditures between them. With only one in the works, I had to rely on the work I could complete with one hand to fund my efforts. Until something changed, I had only one option: stay the course.
On Monday, I met Aaron at the Shuckleys and marked the location of the new art studio's foundation with wooden stakes and nylon string. While Aaron dug the footings with his backhoe, I cleaned up the jobsite with my left hand and created a materials list of plywood, 2x4s, and screws to construct the concrete forms. Like an organized desk, an organized jobsite inspires thought and productivity.
We (Aaron) built the forms and had them installed, leveled, and inspected by Friday morning. I called the concrete company as soon as the building inspector left, and scheduled the delivery for the earliest possible date, which wouldn't be until the following Wednesday afternoon. I welcomed the gap in workdays—though I wasn't really using it, my hand needed a break.
Wednesday night, after a few days of rest and recovery, Aaron and I poured the slab and watched it harden until 2 a.m. The following Friday morning, we removed the forms and stacked them neatly away so the Shuckleys wouldn't have to look at an eyesore for two weeks, while I continued to recover. As we were cleaning up, Mrs. Shuckley appeared, sipping on a mug of coffee.
"The foundation looks good," Mrs. Shuckley said.
"Yes, it came out perfect," Aaron said.
"As if there was any doubt," I said, smiling.
Aaron chuckled.
"When do you think you can start framing the walls and roof?" Mrs. Shuckley asked.
"On Friday, two weeks from today, I have an appointment with the surgeon to remove the two pins in my hand. I suppose I would be 'healed' at that point. I'll have the framing package delivered earlier that week, so that we can be ready to rock the following Monday."
"That sounds like a great plan, Matt," Mrs. Shuckley said. "Now you get some rest and let that hand heal."
"That's good advice, Mrs. Shuckley."
On Monday morning, after a bacon-and-eggs breakfast, I ordered materials to frame the Shuckleys' art studio and scheduled the delivery for the following Thursday. I spent the days in between renting movies and watching MASH reruns, and was beginning to show signs of cabin fever.
On Friday, at 1:00 p.m. I drove to the surgeon's office for the dreaded pin extraction. He removed the splint and tore off the gauze bandage.
"It all looks good," he said.
"How do you pull the pins out?" I said. "Does it hurt?"
Without saying a word, he seized my hand, placed it on the exam table, held it down with his knee, then grabbed a pair of pliers and yanked out the first pin.
"That wasn't so bad, was it?" the surgeon asked facetiously, while my eyes welled up with tears.
"No," I said, lying through my gritted teeth.
"One more to go," he said, as he prepared to jerk the last pin out. It hurt worse than the first pin, but the pain surprisingly didn't last long.
He handed me a gauze pad to soak up a few drops of blood, said, "You're free to go," then left the room.
I walked out of the doctor's office without a hand splint or a sling for the first time in weeks. The muscles in my right arm, from my biceps and triceps to the flexors and extensors in my forearm, were flaccid and weak from non-use. Out of habit, I continued to favor my left hand for some time after leaving the surgeon's office, but gained confidence as I cautiously reintroduced my right hand to the tasks of everyday life.
Sunday morning, my mother called with news about a month-long nursing assignment she accepted in Norfolk, Virginia—and if it were okay, my little brother, Tommy, would stay with me in Woodbridge while she was in Norfolk. It wouldn't start until the end of next month, after the spring semester.
I immediately thought about Bea; that's when she and I had planned her visit. I also thought about my roommates. I don't think they would condone having a month-long house guest. A few days, or a weekend, would be okay, but a month? I would need to find a new place to live for Tommy to stay with me. That settled it. It was time to start looking for an apartment.
I told my mother that Bea was also planning a visit during that same timeframe. "Oh no, maybe I can get the contract dates changed," Mom said.
"No, Mom, don't do that. Besides, it would be great to have you and Tommy around for a month. I'll talk to Bea. Maybe she can come after you and Tommy head back to Texas."
After hanging up with my mother, I refilled my coffee cup and called Bea.
"Let's just see," Bea said, disappointed. "I had planned to work the last half of the summer to make extra money for the fall semester."
"I don't think my mother's plans are written in stone. She said she might could change the dates of her assignment."
"Oh, no. Don't make your mother do that. We'll work it out one way or the other."
Our plans for a long-distance relationship were fading—the openings in our tight schedules were scarce. One obstacle after another kept us from seeing each other.
As I promised Mrs. Shuckley two weeks earlier, I met Aaron at the job site on Monday morning.
"Hey, Aaron. It's been a while. Are you ready to go to work?"
"Born ready!" he hollered as he snuffed out his cigarette and put on his work gloves.
We broke the metal bands binding the lumber package together and began sorting and stacking the materials by purpose: 2x4 wall studs; 2x10 rafters; 2x6 header material; and two stacks of plywood roof sheathing and insulating board.
We framed the two side walls first—including framing for French doors on each wall—and attached them to the existing structure. Next, we laid out and built the outer full-length wall with framing and headers for five juxtaposed full-length casement windows that, when installed, would face the thick forest of oaks, poplars, and hickories surrounding the Shuckleys' home.
On Tuesday, we mounted the 2x10 ledgerboard—where the upper ends of the rafters were to be attached—to the existing home with 3.5-inch deck screws just below the trim on two second-story bedroom windows, mirroring the length and side-to-side position of the full-length outer wall of the art studio. As planned, the height of the ledgerboard above the top of the outer wall resulted in a 4-12 roof pitch (4 inches of rise for every 12 inches of run). Next, while Aaron staged the 2x10 rafters onto sawhorses, I laid out the top of the wall and the ledgerboard for the rafters—24" on-center—and two 2'x4' skylights. Next, I cut the 4-12 angle (18.4 degrees) on the head end of the first rafter, determined the rafter length mathematically—verified the results with my tape measure—then cut the birdsmouth on the tail end. It was a perfect fit. By the end of the day, we had all the rafters installed along with framing for the skylights, and cripple studs between the top of each end wall and the end rafter above it. The framing phase of the project was complete.
On Wednesday and Thursday, we installed the insulating board and roof sheathing, then rolled felt onto the sheathing for the fiberglass shingles, which I had ordered from a lumberyard in Manassas, along with the two skylights, five casement windows, and two French doors, all to be delivered on Monday and installed by the following Friday. All went as planned, except five of the casement windows were incorrect and had to be reordered by the lumberyard—a minuscule setback that would not slow our magnificent pace. The two weeks of work and productivity reawakened my senses and brought me back to life.
Friday afternoon, while I was cleaning up the jobsite for the weekend, I saw Mrs. Shuckley, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and a gardening dress—if there was such a thing—tending potted plants on their deck around the corner.
"My art studio is really taking shape, Matt," Mrs. Shuckley said. "My husband and I love it."
"I'm delighted to hear that, Mrs. Shuckley."
"We are surprised by how fast you built it?"
"I had been building your art studio in my head ever since I left for Mexico, six weeks ago, and have thought of nothing else. Once the pins were out of my hand, there was nothing left to think about; it was time to go to work."
"How is that hand holding up?"
"The first day of framing was tough, but as I regained muscle strength in my arm, work got easier. I think it's almost back to normal now," I said, noticing a slight twinge from where the surgeon had yanked the pins.
"That's great to hear, Matt, just don't overdo it. It will probably be weeks or even months before the bones heal completely."
"I'll take it easy, now that I have finished the framing."
"So what are the next steps?" Mrs. Shuckley asked.
"Once I install the new windows—after they arrive next week—the art studio will be 'dried-in,' and it will be time for drywall."
"Will Aaron be helping you with that?"
"Yes. He's doing some foundation work next week with his tractor, but he'll be back the following week when we start hanging the drywall, along with my little brother, who will be staying with me for a month, while our mother is on a contract nursing assignment in Norfolk."
"That's great," Mrs. Shuckley said. "Is he also a carpenter?"
"No, he is 16 years younger than me and just graduated from high school in Corpus Christi. I'm going to hire him as a helper, if he wants to work, so he can make money and maybe learn a thing or two while he's here."
"Well, he couldn't have a better teacher."
"I don't know about that," I said doubtfully. "But I guess we'll find out; the proof's in the pudding."
"By the way, Matt, my neighbor Bennie Carnes wants to talk to you about giving him an estimate for a deck he wants you to build after you finish my art studio." Mrs. Shuckley said, pointing to a house barely visible through the dense timber.
"Really? That's awesome."
"Yes, and I think he's home now. When you're ready, you can walk straight through the woods to his house."
I thanked Mrs. Shuckley and headed through the trees toward Bennie Carnes' house. When I got close, I was greeted by a full-grown Great Dane who let out a concerning 'Whooooof!'
"Don't worry about Marmalade, she's old and blind and harmless," said the friendly voice of a tall fellow wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, and a woodsman's hat—if there's such a thing. "Are you Matt?"
"Yes."
"Hi, Matt. I'm Bennie. Did Mrs. Shuckley tell you what we need?"
"She said something about a deck."
"Yes, follow me. I have some drawings in the kitchen."
We discussed the details of his deck for about an hour. I did some quick calculations and gave him a bid of $5,000 with a $2,000 down payment for materials. Before I left his kitchen, he wrote me a check, putting an ephemeral band-aid on my cash flow problem. I needed about $1,100 for materials, leaving roughly $900 to pad my living expenses.
That night, I met Jeff for beers at the country western club in Rockville.
"I see your hand is back to normal," Jeff said.
"Yeah, it's getting stronger every day."
"How's the job going?"
"Everything is back on track now, Jeff. You were right; the broken hand was just a curveball."
~ Matt