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The Limping Mr. Roaf
This is the first full week we, that is me and my boss, and one helper from my boss's brother's crew, have spent on the home of professional offensive lineman Willie Roaf, and I'm tired.
The carpenters are some imports from Mississippi, or Alabama, or somewhere, so we are not familiar with them or their ways. Their trimming work is adequate, and they put it up pretty fast, but they put too many nails in the wood and do not do any rough sanding on outside corners or caulking of exceptionally large gaps. They are nowhere near as good as the Sentilles brothers (even though the elder scarred me for life when he pushed the 380 pound Viking convection oven into my temple) who are the other trim carpenters (other that the avowed racist) we work behind. Even without bribery the racist and the Sentilleses are better than these guys and when you bribe them, hell, the Sentilleses especially, do so much extra finish work that the work day for a painter is easy and free.
Back at Roaf's, today was the spray day for oil based primer and I'm keeping my spraying boss supplied with whatever he needs and issuing orders to the other helper, and running (ok walking) here and there and about an hour into it this poindexter-looking carpenter comes in and I give him a one sentence summary of the situation, telling him if he can leave, then leave for about an hour and everything will be fresh, the air will be breathable, and the windows will be open.
I'm wearing a respirator so can't smell the fumes myself but assume the house must be pretty rich with scent. Now this poindexter is going to get to the bottom of things his own way and since I ignored his initial question as to what we were spraying-- because as I said I felt it should have been pretty obvious to a tradesman--but not this one, and he, as if now completely bereft of his considerable patience, practically scolds me as a dolt by saying loudly and slowly--"What-are-you-spraying?"
Painters, as you might imagine, are not the most revered of tradesmen and this goofy boy thought his attempt at an architecture degree and his affection for jargon-laden speech was all it would take to one up the likes of me--the long hair with the brownie glaze in his eyes. Well, I was in a hurry up to this point, not having really made direct eye contact with this boy, but, now called for, burned full rasputin into his querulous blues--and if contempt were love I would have been kissing instead of hissing-- "What does it smell like?"
Now of course this is my story and who's gonna be the hero (even when being an asshole) other than me, and so as it goes the poindexter blinked a couple of times while sliding off his high horse and almost apologized, "I don't really know, I have sinus problems."
I told him "oil based primer," and when he, still intent on getting to the bottom of things, asked, "how long will you be spraying?" I delivered the punch line of my initial summation, "one hour," and then dismissed him by continuing the duty for which I am paid.
By 9:30, which is three hours into the workday for us, we had the entire upstairs of the 13,000 square foot house primed, by spray and brush. The windows had been done previously. I was ready to go home and take a nap, but four hours later was sanding windows when my boss finally said, "let's get the hell out of here." I went downstairs and around the side of the house and washed the oil-based primer dust off my arms, and face, and out of my nostrils. As I came around the corner the builder we quit two years ago but have rejoined for this one job, is moving towards me with Mr. Roaf at his side and as it is clear none of us have time for the other I continue to swab my considerable nostrils with the wet rag, while the builder twangs opinion with southern accent, and Mr. Roaf limps.