Wednesday

My head hurts from trying to keep everything straight.  I need to visit the men's store to try on suits, I need to assemble a guest list, I need to sort laundry and on and on.  And it is all at the behest, the small things I need to do in exchange for the generosity of others:  my mother, my grandfather, my wife.  The confusion is of my own making, the cost of waiting too long, too many decisions to simply put off...

At the men's store the salesman is instantly casual and personable, an adept of the new model that says you should come off like a high school friend that only shared the good times.  He makes the suits, shoes, cedar hangers a personal favor to him.  While pretending to study the dim rows of charcoal, navy and tan I think that perhaps there were reasons I delayed this chore.  I have the strength of personality to turn down socks.  I'm so relieved when I walk out that I walk all the way to the rink end of the mall, climb the stairs and buy a mocha and biscotti.  Enough feeling comes back that I can even congratulate myself a little.  The suits really did look good on me, I should wear  turtlenecks, there's nothing affected about outfits, etc.  These daydreams meld seamlessly with the general mood of sunlight, instant reward and hushed footfall on carpeting.  My impending ten-hour shift seems like a momentary pause...

Back in the hot parking garage that stinks of gasoline, burned and unburned, and the pent-up frustration behind cars endlessly waiting for that chirping and blinking Explorer that never backs from its spot, back in this World War II-era fascist fortress, reality sets in.  Sarah Vaughan's voice rises to a shriek and I jab the button too late.  After some minutes of pushing and prying the cassette pops free, trailing a syrupy line of tape.  The cassette renaissance is over after a brief few days.  I practice my coping skills and turn on the radio.  A decent instrumental starts in, to cheer me in the darkness of the out ramp.

And more importantly, the bastinado torture of my $20 boots is over.  Beside me, nestled in their box, is a perfectly serviceable pair of Roebucks, all clean gold leather, brass hooks and eyes and leatherette padding.  At work, waiting for the shuttle, I feel protected and buoyant, even cautiously optimistic.  I make small talk with Mark while watching for the white rectangle of the bus.

Today's toolbox meeting is run by Jody, who, as usual, has no list of warnings and adjurations, but contents himself with a description of what we will do; it's bad enough:  we must kneel and crawl under some newly-installed gratings to hang fiberglass on the walls of a great sump.  While we kneel and make great Ss and Us with our drywall knives in the bug filler Stacy recites his favorite bits from Commando.  We make this last the rest of the long, tedious time under the gratings, even branching out into Robocop and an appreciation of Ronny Cox.

As I work the bug filler, an epoxy compound that looks and feels like snot, great drops of it coat my forearms, blending with the long glass fibers that rub from and fall off the sheets we're hanging.  The chem glove gauntlets I wear do nothing to stop this process.  For a while the coating seems mobile and relatively benign; after all, there's no odor, no irritation except from the fibers.  A little solvent will take it off.

A little solvent does not take it off, merely smears it around.  A few fibers reluctantly come off on the rag.  The rest remain in the gummy matrix on my arm ("I don't need a gun to kill you, Matrix!").  As I write the fibers jab and abrade my skin.  I've already spent a good hour tearing half-and quarter-inch pieces off my arms.  Hours remain.

On the bus Jay laughs when I quietly state that the dried crap is my skin now, I may as well get used to it.  I pull off an ugly scab of epoxy and fiberglass.