Carpentry Camp
A night out at the country western club in Rockville was what I needed after weeks of convalescence and solitude in my tiny Woodbridge bedroom; it was time to break out of my shell and return to the world of the living.
Jack and Sue were in town the following week, when I planned to search for an apartment in Centreville. I wanted to tell them my plans, but I held off until I was sure I would be approved. My credit was disputable, and my general contractor income was still too new to be considered reputable.
The next morning, I showered and left Woodbridge before Jack or Sue rose from the basement, and drove north—through intermittent downpours—on 123 toward Centreville. I knew Centreville's streets well after courting Tracey the year before—she still lived with her parents in the only home she had ever known just south of I-66. Across the interstate, several new apartment complexes stretched along Cub Run near HWY 29, not far from the roadside park where I had spent my first and only homeless night in Virginia.
I pulled into the first complex's parking lot, found the leasing office, and ran through a deluge to the main entrance.
"Can I help you?" asked a middle-aged woman, dressed for success in her white blouse, black skirt, and heels.
"Yes. I am looking for a one-bedroom apartment."
"My name is Jan. What is your name, sir?"
"Matt."
"Hi, Matt. You're in luck. We have one available that I can show you right now if you have the time."
"Sure, Jan," I said, "but we may want to wait for the weather to let up."
Without saying a word, she grabbed keys from a drawer and two umbrellas from a closet and headed toward the door. I followed her, down a slick sidewalk, through blowing rain, to a second-floor apartment. Inside, it was warm, dry, and immaculate. Like the apartment, the kitchen appliances were spotless and new.
"Excellent, a gas stove," I said. "I can still cook when there's a power outage."
"Yes," Jan said, "we get those from time to time—you must be from around here."
"Yes, I've been renting a room for the past two years in Woodbridge, but most of my work is around the Clifton area."
"Then this apartment will be a great location for you."
"I thought so too," I said. "What are the next steps?"
"I just need to run a credit check on you, which only takes a few minutes."
I followed Jan back to her office, and in less than half an hour, I was approved, had paid the deposit and first month's rent, and had the keys to my new home in my hand—it was time to tell Jack and Sue.
I was too scared, or chickenshit, to tell them in person, so I called the house. Jack answered.
"Hey...Jack, it's Matt."
"Hey, Matt, what's up?"
"I'm not sure quite how to say this, so I'll just blurt it out. I just leased an apartment in Centreville. I had been thinking about finding a larger place closer to my work for a couple of months, and today, I randomly looked at an apartment. The next thing I knew, I was signing on the dotted line."
There. I said it.
"Wow, Matt, this is quite a surprise. I know Sue will be upset that you're moving out."
"I know. Me too," I said. "It's about location for me. Woodbridge is just too far away from my work, and all that driving has been killing me."
"Understood, Matt. Well, it's the middle of the month. Normally we would require a 30-day notice."
"No problem, Jack. I will gladly pay next month's rent."
"Okay. We can talk when you get home today."
"Again, Jack, I'm sorry about springing the news on you this way."
"No worries, Matt. Do what you have to do."
That wasn't too unpleasant, but I wish I had had the guts to tell them in person.
The power was already on in the apartment; I just needed to switch it to my name, which I did that afternoon from a payphone. Next, I called the phone company and had a new number, line, dial tone, and new answering machine hooked up by the end of the day. I was all set for conducting business. The only thing left was to move my stuff from Woodbridge to Centreville. I didn't have a bed or any furniture besides my portable drafting table. The largest item I owned was the plywood box I had built to move from Austin to Northern Virginia. I decided to move over the weekend, three days later, while Jack and Sue were selling marbles at a craft show in Fayetteville, North Carolina.
I woke up Saturday morning to much-welcomed blue skies. Jack and Sue had left for the weekend, and it was time to move. I made three trips from Centreville to Woodbridge and had transported everything, including my big plywood box, into my new apartment before dark.
Sunday morning, after coffee and donuts in my new home, I drove back to Woodbridge to clean up my old room—my Woodbridge office. I washed the bedding, vacuumed the floor, dusted the furniture, and restored everything to the way it was when I moved in, including all the wall hangings—Weavings by Sue.
Before I left their house for the last time as their roommate, I took a moment to reflect on how fortunate I was to have found Jack and Sue in my desperate time of need. Before I left, I wrote a short note and placed it on the bed, along with a check for next month's rent.
Dear Jack and Sue,
Thank you for everything you have done for me these past two years. Though I have found new quarters, I will never forget the fun times we shared: the happy hours in your basement, the fine dinners, the tour of Washington, D.C., the visit to the marble factories in West Virginia, Thanksgiving dinner with your family, and the countless other memorable moments. Oh, and please say goodbye to the teenage girl next door. I'm sure she'll find someone new—maybe your next roommate. Ha Ha See you soon,
Love,
Matt
That afternoon, I set up my drafting desk and unpacked my pencils, pens, templates, squares, and desktop telephone, then arranged my meager furnishings and set up my TV and stereo sound system on dorm-room-style shelving: 1x12s and cinder blocks.
Attaching speaker wires with a screwdriver was good hand therapy, but it became painful after a while—my right hand still wasn't quite 100%. After successfully testing the sound system, I hooked my receiver up to the cable TV and watched movies with stereo sound all afternoon while I put my tools away and tidied up. By Sunday evening, I had my apartment squared away for home and business—my Centreville Office was officially open.
That evening, I called Bea. We talked for a while about her plans and mine, neither of which aligned anywhere in the foreseeable future. She was committed to getting her degree at Corpus Christi State University, and I was committed to the school of hard knocks and growing my construction business in Virginia. I would return to Texas someday, but that day was nowhere in sight. All of that, plus the barrier of geographic distance, made a serious relationship between us seem impossible, and we both felt it.
Monday morning, I called the lumberyard to check on the casement windows I had ordered for the Shuckleys' art studio—they had come in and were scheduled for delivery to the job site on Wednesday. While I had them on the phone, I also ordered the materials for Bennie Carnes' deck to be delivered that same Wednesday, while I installed the Shuckleys' windows just a shout away through the woods.
On Saturday, a day before my mother and brother arrived, I bought two lawn chairs and two blow-up mattresses so Mom and Tommy would have places to sit and sleep while they were in town.
They rolled into Centreville Sunday afternoon in separate vehicles, exhausted from their 3-day road trip from Corpus Christi. When they got settled into my apartment, we went out to dinner at the closest thing to a Tex-Mex restaurant we could find in Northern Virginia. We ate tacos and enchiladas—not like those from Texas, but good—until we were stuffed, then headed back to my apartment to watch a movie and crash.
The next morning, the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee got me out of bed. Mom must be awake. I got dressed and walked to the kitchen, where she sat in a lawn chair, studying a map.
"Where are you headed, Mom?" I said, pouring my coffee.
"I'm trying to determine the best route to Virginia Beach; it looks like the fastest way is to go down I-95 to Richmond, then I-64 past Williamsburg, Newport News, and Norfolk, to Virginia Beach."
"Yes," I said, looking over her shoulder. "It looks like it'll take about four hours to get there, though I've never traveled there myself."
"I have to report for work at the hospital tomorrow morning," Mom said. "I should get on the road before noon."
We chatted for a while until Tommy woke up, then the three of us drove to the nearest IHOP for breakfast. Mom and I ordered pancakes, eggs, and crispy bacon, while Tommy ordered something sugary with whipped cream on top.
"Matt, why didn't you tell me that you broke your hand?" Mom asked as if she had been pondering the best time to broach the subject.
"How did you know that?" I asked.
"I saw a bill from a hand surgeon on your desk, then noticed a scar on your right hand."
A waitress brought hot coffee to our table, filled our cups, then scurried off without a word.
"I didn't want to worry you, Mom, and besides, it's all behind me now. My hand has recovered, and I am back to work. But I have to admit my costly time in convalescence made me think about how much the viability of my already economically vulnerable construction business depends on my physical health."
"As you get older, that will become more of an issue," Mom said. "Do you have a plan?"
"Yes. You already know that I've been teaching myself drafting, right?"
"Yes."
"I learned the skill because I have to draw blueprints for my projects—or pay someone else to do it—to obtain building permits from the county."
"Okay."
"So who says I can't draw plans for other people?"
"You're going to become a designer?"
"No...not yet, anyway. I would draw blueprints for do-it-yourself homeowners or builders—who are not familiar with building codes or don't have drafting skills—so they have a scale drawing of their project including all the specifications to submit to the permitting authorities."
"That sounds like a good idea. Will there be enough work to keep you busy?"
Our breakfast arrived hot and ready for consumption.
"Not at first, it's really just a side business. I want to diversify my income by providing another service to my customers. It is work I would do in the evenings, on weekends, and on rainy days."
"Have you heard of computer-aided design, Matt?"
"CAD? Yes, and that may be something I'll study someday if that part of my business develops enough to pay for the computer equipment. For now, I'll draw them by hand with the tools I already own."
"Sounds like you have a good plan, Matt," Mom said.
We finished our breakfast and ordered another round of coffee.
"Tommy," I said. "You've been awfully quiet. Are you feeling sick after eating that rooty tooty breakfast?"
Tommy and Mom laughed.
"No. I was thinking, while you and Mom were talking, about what I'm going to be doing every day while you're at work."
"If you're up for it, Tommy, I was thinking you could work with me. I could hire you as a helper so you can make money while you're here."
"I don't know anything about construction," Tommy said.
"Don't worry about that. I'll teach you everything you need to know. It'll be like carpentry camp, where you'll get your carpentry merit badge at the end of the summer."
Mom and Tommy smiled. "I like that," he said.
"Good. We'll start on Wednesday."
We finished another round of coffee, paid our tab, and headed back to my apartment to help Mom pack and get on the road to Virginia Beach.
Tuesday morning, I took Tommy to a lumberyard and bought him a cloth nail apron and a pair of work gloves. Everything else he needed, he could borrow from me. Afterward, we went to the grocery store and bought food for the week, including sandwich makings and candy bars for lunch, so we wouldn't have to spend time and money eating out.
Wednesday morning, after a cold cereal breakfast, we made our lunches, packed an ice chest with drinks, and hit the road.
"What are we working on today?" Tommy asked.
"We're installing five large casement windows on my art studio project, and I'm so glad you're here to help."
"How would you install them if I wasn't here?"
"I would get Aaron to help me. You'll meet him on Monday, when we start hanging drywall."
When we arrived at the Shuckleys' house, it didn't look like anyone was home, but the five windows had been delivered and were leaning against a wall inside the art studio.
"Perfect," I said. "Let's get our tools and go to work."
From the toolbox in the bed of my truck, we grabbed a tape measure, level, razor knife, our nail aprons, a screw gun, and a handful of screws to secure the windows' nailing fin to the wood framing.
"The first thing we need to do is get the radio plugged in; we can't work without music."
"I can do that," Tommy said. "Where do I plug it in?"
"There's no electricity in the art studio yet. You'll have to get a 50-foot extension cord from my toolbox and plug it into a receptacle on the Shuckleys' deck, then run the other end into the art studio. Rolling out the radio can be your daily job."
Tommy rigged the radio while I unpacked the first window.
"Did you build all this yourself?" Tommy said, referring to the art studio's structure.
"It's my design; Aaron helped me frame it last week. After we get the windows installed today, it will be in a "dried-in" state."
"What does that mean?"
"It means the inside will be protected from the weather and we can hang the Sheetrock."
"Is that hard?"
"Installing the drywall isn't hard, but taping and floating is; I mean, it is for me—I'm not that good at it."
"You're not that good at what?" Mrs. Shuckley interrupted, poking her head out the sliding door between the house and studio. "Hi, Matt, is this your brother?"
"Hi, Mrs. Shuckley. Yes, this is Tommy. He's going to help me install your windows today."
"Hi, Tommy. I'm pleased to meet you—and don't believe Matt when he tells you he's not good at something. I've never seen anything that he couldn't do."
Tommy and I laughed.
"I'm sure Tommy knows of many things his older brother cannot do," I said.
"Well, carpentry isn't one of them," Mrs. Shuckley said. "I'll let you men get to work. Let me know if you need anything."
"Thanks, Mrs. Shuckley."
By 3 o'clock, we had mounted all five windows, and since it was still relatively early, I broke out my miter saw and installed 1x4 trim around the exterior of each one. At 5 o'clock, we packed up our tools and headed home.
"What are we doing tomorrow?" Tommy asked.
"We're going to dig footings for a new deck project next door to the Shuckleys."
"Is it hard to do?"
"You never know how hard digging footings will be until after you've dug the first one. The ground can be hard as a rock—or even full of rocks—or the soil can be soft and easy to dig; it's all hidden below the surface until you break ground."
"How many do we have to dig?"
"Six, and they need to be 24 inches deep. We have two days before the weekend. We'll dig all the holes on Thursday, then build the deck frame and pour the concrete before the end of the day on Friday. On Monday, we'll start hanging the Shuckleys' drywall."
"It sounds like you have it all planned out," Tommy said.
"We'll see," I said with a chuckle, "things rarely go as planned on construction projects."
Thursday morning, after a bacon-and-eggs breakfast, we headed to Carnes' deck project. It was hot, humid, and calm—not ideal weather for digging holes—but we had plenty of cold water, and the thick, towering oaks surrounding the Carnes' home provided lots of shade, although they also blocked the cool breeze. We didn't need many tools for digging footings: a posthole digger, digging bar, shovel, work gloves, and a tape measure. I marked the location of each hole while Tommy unloaded the tools. He began digging the first footing with the posthole digger while I loosened the ground with the digging bar. We spent nearly an hour digging the first hole.
"This is hard work," Tommy said, sweat dripping down his face.
"Why don't you take a break and drink some water," I said while I measured the depth of the hole. "22 inches; we have two inches more to dig."
"Isn't 22 inches deep enough?" Tommy said.
"It might be, but the building code calls for 24 inches."
"Who is going to know if we don't dig the last two inches?"
"You and I are going to know," I said. "When I go to bed at night, I don't want two inches of footing depth keeping me awake."
"Okay, but where does the 24 inches come from?"
"It's the frost line. In Northern Virginia, the ground can freeze pretty deep for extended periods. Engineers have determined that, for this area, footings at 24 inches puts them below the frostline, where they need to be."
"How did you know about the frostline?"
"It's in the Fairfax County Building Code Book," I said. "I'll show you when we get home. Are you ready to go back to work?"
"Yes."
We finished the footings—24 inches all—at 6 o'clock, then drove home completely wiped. We showered and went out to a restaurant for burgers and beer.
"I know today was tough," I said. "But tomorrow will be easier. Framing a deck and mixing concrete beats the hell out of digging footings."
"I'm looking forward to that," Tommy said.
"And I was thinking, on Saturday, we could take the Metro to Washington, D.C., and check out the tourist attractions."
"That sounds like fun!" Tommy said cheerfully.
Friday morning, we woke up feeling fresh, made our lunches, and headed to the Carnes deck project. Tommy sorted the materials in the lumber package while I hiked through the woods to get my sawhorses and wheelbarrow from the Shuckleys. When I returned, I set up my cut station while Tommy loaded pressure-treated 2x8s onto the sawhorses. By lunchtime, we had cut, assembled, and shored up the entire deck frame with temporary supports. By 4 o'clock, we'd poured the concrete footings and were done for the day.
Saturday morning, we stopped for bacon, egg, and cheese biscuits and coffee, then drove to the Fairfax Metro station to catch the train to Washington. We spent the morning browsing the Smithsonian Museums, ate hot dogs from a street vendor, then strolled to the Washington Monument and took pictures of the historic White House—long before a future president would selfishly demolish the East Wing nearly 50 years later to build a gold-trimmed ballroom.
On Sunday, we stayed out of the heat and relaxed in my apartment's air conditioning.
"You did good this week, Tommy."
Tommy laughed. "Thanks, Matt, I think I'm getting stronger already."
"You are! By the time you head back to Corpus, you'll be a lean, mean, carpentry machine."
Monday morning, we drove through light rain to the Shuckleys to begin hanging drywall. Aaron was already there in his T-shirt and jeans, puffing on a Winston.
"How's our roof holding up, Aaron?" I said as Tommy and I approached.
"No leaks, if that's what you mean. Is this your brother?"
"Yes. Tommy. He'll be working with us for the next three weeks."
"Does he know anything about hanging drywall?"
"He knows about as much as you and me," I said.
"Nothing?"
"Yes...actually, hanging drywall is not too difficult. Taping and floating is the hard part. It looks easy until you start doing it, then you realize how much you don't know."
We had all the drywall hung by Tuesday afternoon, and agreed to meet Wednesday morning to start taping and floating. On the way home, Tommy and I stopped at a hardware store and bought a five-gallon bucket of drywall compound—called "mud"—drywall tape, and two trowels.
Neither Tommy nor Aaron knew about my limited cash flow or how apprehensive I was about paying two inexperienced workers to learn the art of taping and floating when I could have just hired a professional, like Roy. He and I could knock the job out in half a day and be drinking schooners of beer at the Fish Market by noon. But that's not what happened.
On Wednesday, Tommy and I unloaded the drywall compound, tape, and trowels. Aaron cut the tabs on the five-gallon container of mud and pried the lid open with a screwdriver.
"This mud is too dry to work with," Aaron said.
"Just scoop out a little compound in a tray and mix it with water," I said.
"Let's mix the whole container with water," Aaron said.
"The bucket is too full of dense mud to do that," I said.
"No, it isn't," Aaron said, pouring water into the container until it overflowed.
"Aaron, you'll never get one turn of a stir-stick in that muck."
"You're right, Matt," Aaron said, diving in with both hands up to his elbows—as if to make a point—and began churning away, splashing white sludge all over the floor.
"Be careful, Aaron!" I hollered.
"Here, Tommy," Aaron said, "you're the new guy; you take over."
"Tommy, please don't—" Before I could finish, Tommy's hands were covered in white mud too.
"That's great," I said. "We've been on the job for 30 minutes, and all we've accomplished so far is to make a big mess. I should hire a painter to float the walls."
"Don't do that," Aaron assured. "I'll clean up the mess while Tommy finishes mixing the mud. You don't need to hire anyone else; we can do this job."
"Okay...," I said, hoping Aaron would heed my reluctant tone.
We finished floating the walls and ceiling by the end of the week, but it was costly; it took the three of us three days to do what a skilled painter could have done in half a day (and with better quality). After I paid Tommy and Aaron for the week's work, I didn't have enough cash left to buy the materials I needed for Shuckley's wood flooring. Without an advance from Mrs. Shuckley, I would have had to finish building the Carnes' deck and use the final payment to fund the Shuckley job—but Mrs. Shuckley came through with a $2,000 advance. It was enough to keep my finances afloat while I finished her art studio, but it considerably reduced the final payment I had earmarked for taxes, medical bills, and monthly expenses.
Saturday afternoon, Tommy and I drove to Woodbridge to enjoy a home-cooked dinner with Jack and Sue.
"Have you been having fun since you have been in Virginia, Tommy?" Sue asked as she filled her wine glass.
"Yes. Well, mostly working with Matt on his carpentry jobs."
"What have you been doing?"
"Installing windows, digging footings, framing a deck, mixing concrete, and hanging drywall," Tommy said.
"That doesn't sound like much fun," Sue said.
"Matt calls it 'Carpentry Camp.'"
Jack burst out laughing.
"That sounds like Matt," Jack said.
"Hey, we've been having fun, too," I said, grinning. "I took Tommy to Washington to see our nation's monuments, and I brought him here to meet you two fun-loving people. What more can a person ask for?"
"Okay, Matt. You're off the hook," Sue said, grinning. "For now..."
Everyone laughed.
On Monday, Tommy, Aaron, and I began installing the wood floor and finished it in four days—it should have taken two—but the Shuckley job was finished; that was all that mattered to me.
While Aaron and Tommy packed up the tools, I did the final walk-through with Mrs. Shuckley.
"Thank you, Matt. You did excellent work on my art studio, and the whole family loves it," Mrs. Shuckley said, while handing me the final payment.
"Thank you, Mrs. Shuckley. I apologize for it taking so long. You know—"
"You don't need to apologize, Matt. Sometimes things happen that we have no control over."
We chit-chatted a while longer, then said goodbye. The hardest parts of any job are starting and finishing.
Later that afternoon, Tommy and I walked into my apartment expecting a blast of conditioned air, but it was warm, almost unbearable.
"Is the power off?" Tommy asked.
"No. The lights still work. Maybe the A/C is out," I said as I opened the door to check on the unit. "I see what the problem is."
"Can you fix it?"
"It's not broken. The power company in Northern Virginia has control over your high-energy-use appliances, so when the grid becomes overloaded—as it does on extremely hot days—they kill your thirsty appliances before they take down the whole works."
"What are we going to do?"
"Why don't you jump in the shower while I call my buddy, Roy, to see if he wants to join us for dinner. Maybe the power will be back on when we get home."
"Okay, who's Roy?"
"He's a buddy of mine—super cool—you'll like him," I said.
We met Roy at a beer-and-burger joint in Chantilly, just down the road from my apartment. The saloon was a sizable, dark, rustic (but air-conditioned) room with an open-trussed ceiling, a concrete floor, and a full-length bar stretching across the back wall. Picnic tables, stocked with salt and pepper, ketchup, and napkins, filled the open floor space. The menu was artfully written on a large chalkboard behind the bar—with a draftsman's precision—and clearly visible from any table. A righteous collection of old and new beer signs covered the walls.
"I like this place," Tommy said.
"Roy has a knack for sniffing out dives like this," I said.
"You know the old saying," Roy said. "'You can't judge a book by its cover.'"
"Good burgers?" I asked.
"The best!" Roy said. "Let's get a round of beers while we decide on food."
A waiter wearing jeans and a ZZ Top T-shirt arrived at our table. "What can I get for you?"
"We'll have three large Budweisers to start with," Roy said.
"Fair enough," the waiter said, hurrying off to the bar.
"Roy, you know my brother is only 16," I said.
"No one here gives a shit, Matt," Roy said. "They don't check IDs in places like this. Do you want a beer, Tommy?"
"Yes!"
"Then it's settled," Roy said.
We enjoyed half-pound burgers, drank two more rounds of beers, and told stories embellished with bullshit until after sunset.
"Tommy and I need to get going before it gets too late," I said.
"No way!" Roy hollered. "Let's have one more round."
We left the restaurant with a good beer buzz, but didn't have to drive far. We were almost home when I noticed the state police on my tail. Suddenly his overhead lights came on. I pulled into my apartment parking lot, and the police followed me in. An officer hopped out of the driver's seat and headed my way.
"Do you know why I pulled you over?" the cop asked.
"No, I'm sorry, I..."
"You were swerving back there and crossed the white line a few times."
"Officer, I live right here in this complex. How about I park my car for the evening and walk home?"
"I smell alcohol, Sir, and I need to see your driver's license."
He took my license and walked back to his car.
"Oh shit, Tommy, this motherfucker might be throwing me in jail."
A few minutes later, the officer walked back to my truck and handed me my license.
"Today's your lucky day. I just got a call about a major accident not far from here. You're off the hook this time. Now, turn your vehicle off and walk to your apartment from here."
"Thank you, officer."
He jumped back in his car and drove off.
"Tommy, can you believe that shit?"
"No. I thought you were going to the slammer!"
Once the officer was clearly out of sight, I drove my truck through the parking lot to my apartment and shut it down for the night.
A blast of cool air hit my face as we entered my apartment.
"Thank God," I said.
"Are we working tomorrow, Matt?"
"Actually, I thought we would take the day off. I have bills to pay and paperwork to take care of. Maybe you can go shopping on your own tomorrow and spend some of your hard-earned money. We can get together later for dinner."
On Friday, after Tommy headed to the mall in his car, I drove to the bank and deposited my last Shuckley check. It wasn't enough to pay all my bills, but if I delayed my quarterly tax payment, I would have enough for rent, utilities, and day-to-day living expenses until I got paid from Carne's deck the following week. Now the bad news: I didn't have any new work lined up after Carne's. A successful contractor would have had work in the queue to maintain financial continuity.
Friday night, Tracey, of all people, called and invited me to go with her and her family to the Baltimore Inner Harbor Festival on Saturday. I was skeptical. What was Tracey up to? I haven't talked to her in months, and suddenly she wants to get together?
"I don't know, Tracey, my little brother, Tommy, is visiting me this month, and..."
"He can go too, Matt. The three of us can ride in your truck and follow my mom, dad, and sisters in their car. It won't cost anything; my mom already purchased the tickets."
"Okay, hold on, let me ask Tom—"
"Yes!" Tommy hollered, without knowing what he was agreeing to.
Tracey laughed at his response.
"I guess that means we're in," I said.
"Good. Meet me at my house tomorrow at 9, and we'll leave from here."
"Okay, we'll see you tomorrow."
"So who is Tracey?" Tommy asked.
"I met her the year I moved to Virginia. Things were getting serious, until she decided to sleep with her ex-boyfriend while I was in Texas for a month."
"And you still talk to her?"
"I was pissed at her for a solid year, but now I'm over it. We're just friends now."
We were on the highway to Baltimore by 9:30. The weather was perfect; clear and cool. Tracey was a little cuddly, but then we all were, with the three of us crammed into the front seat of my Toyota pickup.
We arrived at Baltimore's Inner Harbor about an hour later. A live band played country music from a stage surrounded by food booths. I found one that served beer on tap and bought a large Budweiser in a clear plastic cup.
"You've got to be kidding," Tracey said. "It's too early to drink beer!"
"That's where you're wrong, young lady. It's never to early to drink beer."
She frowned, but I shrugged it off; my days of trying to impress Tracey were long over.
We strolled around the festival for about a half hour, then Tracey's dad said, "Okay, are y'all ready to head home?"
Tommy and I shared a look: What?
I thought her dad was kidding, but their family unanimously agreed and began heading back to the parking lot. I slammed the rest of my beer and followed Tracey and Tommy back to my truck.
No one said a word until we entered I-95 South.
"Daddy doesn't like to stay away from home very long."
"No shit," I said.
"Tomorrow," Tracey said, "we're planning to visit my aunt and uncle who own a house on Chesapeake Bay. My uncle has his own private wooden dock and ski boat that he uses to tend his crab traps. It will be a whole day of water skiing, barbecue, and crab cakes. Do y'all want to join us? Daddy's not going."
"Oh, well, since your dad's not going—," I said. "What do you think, Tommy?"
"It sounds like fun to me," Tommy said.
Sunday morning, we met at Tracey's house again. Tommy wanted to drive, so we took his car. Tracey and I rode with Tommy, while Tracey's mom and sisters piled into their Camry.
Tracey's aunt and uncle's house was just as she described: the ski boat, wooden dock, and mouthwatering crab cakes. We spent the day on the water, then enjoyed a fine barbecue dinner afterward. Tracey flirted with me all day, but I didn't bite; it was fun being the prey for a change.
After a fun-filled day in the salt air, Tommy drove back to Centreville, while Tracey slept in the back seat. I tried to stay awake to keep Tommy company, but kept dozing off. We arrived in Centreville at dusk, dropped Tracey off at her house, and headed back to my apartment.
Tommy and I stayed up talking until after midnight.
"So, Matt, how would you rate my work this past couple of weeks?"
"Well, I think if you weren't my brother, I would have fired you."
"Really??"
"Look, Tommy, it is late; I don't even know what I'm saying anymore. I need to go to bed. Tomorrow's another day."
The next morning, a commotion in the living room woke me from a deep sleep. I listened for a minute while I collected my thoughts... a suitcase zipper... coat hangers clinking... the zipper again... oh shit! Tommy was packing his clothes, contemptuously. Did I say something to anger him—? Yes, I did—I remembered—what an ass I was.
"Hey, Tommy," I said, timidly. "Are you about ready to head to work?"
I cringed, waiting for his response, but only silence came—for what felt like a long time. He's either going to tell me to go to hell or not say anything and drive back to Texas.
"Yeah...I'm ready," he said, unsure.
"Okay...Do you want to go out for breakfast before we head to work?" I said, trying to lighten the mood.
"Okay," Tommy said.
He didn't say much at breakfast—mostly just browsed a discarded Washington Post someone had left at the table.
When we arrived at the Carnes' residence, Bennie Carnes was studying the deck frame Tommy and I had built the week before.
"Hey, Matt. I've made a small addition to our deck. Have a look at my new plan."
"Wow, that's a lot bigger! It will require at least four new footings."
"No problem, Matt. Do what you have to do and send me the bill."
It wasn't like landing a whole new project, but it would put at least $4,000—of much-needed skin—toward my financial security.
Tommy dug the first new footing in record time while I began framing the expanded deck.
"Hey, Matt, is this one deep enough?"
"You're already done?" I said, checking the depth with a tape measure.
"26 inches, Tommy?" I said, laughing. "You went from two inches too shallow to two inches too deep!"
"I wanted to make sure it was deep enough. Last night you told me you would fire me if I weren't your brother."
"Oh, Tommy. I apologize for that. I don't even know where those words came from. There's nothing wrong with the way you've been working. I've been worried about my finances lately and was thinking about how unproductive we've been. Before I broke my hand, I had plenty of money to play with, and a little lack of productivity here and there wouldn't have meant much, but last week, things were tight."
"When we were doing the tape and float?" Tommy asked.
"Yes. I just about blew a gasket when Aaron stuck his hands in that mud."
"I could tell you weren't happy."
"That was a learning experience for me. Taping and floating drywall is a skill—one that none of us have. If I had hired a painter to do it, you and I could have taken Thursday and Friday off and hiked the Appalachian Trail or taken a drive to West Virginia."
"Are things better now?"
"Yes, I just needed to finish that Shuckley job. Now that it's over, I can focus on more profitable projects, like this beautiful deck. I may not know anything about finishing drywall, but I can build a deck blindfolded. If we finish this project by Friday, which we should easily do, my finances should be back on track." (That wasn't entirely true—the finance part—but Tommy needn't be burdened by any more of my troubles.)
"Well, let's get to work!" Tommy said, smiling.
"You said it, boss!" I said with a grin.
By the end of the day, we framed the new deck section, shored it up, and poured the concrete in the new footings. Productivity was through the roof.
Tuesday morning, we began laying the 2x6 cedar deck boards and had them all installed by lunch.
"So, what are your plans when you get back to Texas, little brother?" I asked Tommy, taking a bite of my ham-and-cheese sandwich.
"I might try to find a job until the fall semester starts at Del Mar."
"A carpentry job?"
"No. Construction is not for me," Tommy said, smiling.
I laughed.
"It's certainly not for everyone," I said. "For most people, a job is just a means to an end; people work to pay their bills and keep a roof over their head. A basic job doesn't define who you are; it's just how you make money. That said, whatever job you take, even if you don't like it, you have to do it to the best of your ability and show interest by suggesting ways to improve how certain tasks are done. If you don't, you'll be miserable. Now, on the flip side, if you're really passionate about your work, love what you do, doing your job each day will be a reward."
"Is that how it is for you and carpentry?"
"You know it, bro! I enjoy building and fabricating things—especially out of wood. In a way, it is something that I've been doing my whole life. Sometimes I enjoy the work so much, I almost feel guilty getting paid for it."
"That must feel good, to know what you want to do with your life."
"I enjoy what I do, but it wasn't planned. It is the result of trying various fields of interest, then selecting one that suited me. I worked cattle auctions, pumped diesel, drove an 18-wheeler, attended college, worked different jobs at a hospital, painted houses, then somehow became a carpenter. I might be doing something different for a living some day, who knows, but I'll always be a carpenter at heart. It's one of those 'Durable Trades' that a computer or robot can't steal."
"What motivated you to get into drafting?" Tommy asked.
"I needed to learn the skill to draw plans for my construction projects, but it's also a fundamental step toward becoming a designer, an architect, or an engineer. See how it works?"
"I think so. Is that the career path you want to take?"
"Yes...no...I don't know. I don't want to lock myself into a particular career path. Some people enjoy doing one thing their whole life; there's nothing wrong with that. All I'm saying is that strategy doesn't particularly work for me."
"It sounds like you have it all figured out," Tommy said.
"Ha! Not by a long shot. You know, sometimes I feel like something is missing in what I do; that missing piece that will tie everything together."
Tommy nodded.
"Well, let's finish up here and call it a day," I said.
On the way back to my apartment, we stopped at a restaurant for chicken-fried steaks, then headed home for much-needed rest.
Lying in bed that night, I thought about the words I had spoken earlier, about something missing from my work, the missing piece that would tie it all together. Where did that come from? One minute I was talking about how much I loved carpentry and construction, and the next, something was missing. Puzzling.
Tommy worked with me one more week, then, Saturday morning, he packed his belongings and prepared for the long journey home.
"Well, how did I do at Carpentry Camp? Did I earn the carpentry merit badge?"
"With honors, Tommy. Now get going before it gets too late. You don't want Mom worrying."
"Okay, Matt. See you at Christmas?"
"I'll be there," I said.
I watched Tommy's car drive away until it vanished into thick traffic.
A few days later, I ran into Mrs. Shuckley at a grocery store.
"Hi, Matt, where is Tommy? Is he still visiting you?"
"No, he left for Virginia Beach a couple of days ago to visit with our mom before heading back to Texas."
"Do you think he learned anything while he was here?"
"I don't know...I hope so," I said.
"What about you, Matt? Did you learn anything while he was here?"
"Unquestionably—lessons I will carry with me my whole life."
May-1988
~ Matt