Chapter 9

During the summer of that year I had, on a number of occasions, been invited to Frank’s home for weekend bar-b-cues. Most often there would be a couple of other people there as well and the socializing was, for the most part, good fun. It was at one of these weekend do’s that I met Mark for the first time. I never did get to know his last name. He seemed a likeable person but exhibited similar traits to Frank. He talked a lot, he had opinions on almost everything, and he had an ego. Mark was always respectful of Frank’s guests in spite of often being humiliated by Frank, who made no secret about being his boss. 

The atmosphere at these bar-b-cues was festive and the wine and beer flowed freely. Kim would always produced a visually appealing and delicious tasting garden salad. Frank was sufficiently intoxicated by the time it came to bar-b-cue the chicken, steaks or hot Italian sausages, that he seemed more intent on cremating them rather than cooking them. The rest of us would make fun of his cooking style and Frank would defend himself by saying that meat tasted better with the surface area blackened, and it had been scientifically proven that charred meat was good for the digestive system. Of course nobody agreed with him but understood the futility of arguing with him.   The fact that there was always a substantial quantity of meat left on the grill did nothing to persuade Frank to adjust his cooking technique.

There were also times when tensions ran high. This usually occurred when Kim would do something insignificant that happened to annoy Frank. He would shout at her and make an unflattering comment, she would respond by saying something like “I don’t think you need to shout or treat me like shit!” and he would commence a tirade of abuse such as “you fucking slut bitch, you’re as stupid as a fucking monkey!” etc. etc. Not only would he unabashedly humiliate her in front of guests but also in the presence of their now 18-month-old boy. Everyone who witnessed one of these episodes must surely have wondered what the long-term consequence of this kind of example would have on the adorable and smart young child.

A couple of days after one such incident we were commencing work at Bill McFee’s. This particular job was to install one-foot square tiles on the steps and platform at his front door and then to lay the same tile over a six by five feet concrete walkout from a ground floor bedroom through French Windows. 

On the way over to the job site I mentioned to Frank that I thought he had been a little hard on Kim at the Bar-b-cue. Showing no sign of remorse he replied, “she’s a fucking bitch. All women are sluts and bitches”. Angered by his stupidity I asked him “And what about your mother? Do you think your daughters will grow up to be sluts?”

“Fuck man no! That’s different,” he said.

“Well, you did say all women and that includes your mother, my mother your daughters and my daughter” I said with some indignation.

“I din’t mean all women. I just meant most of them. The ones that only want to get fucked all the time by whatever prick they run into”. His reply oozed cynicism and I decided to let the topic go. However, I did continue to think about his remarks and wonder about the poor disenfranchised woman upon whom he had preyed during the course of his shadowy past. 

Frank broke the silence with a comment about Bill. “He’s one of the people I’ve helped make a pile of money and he’s always wanting more. But we’re friends and we help each other. I don’t charge a lot of money for this job and he’ll pay cash. The other thing is he’s very fussy so don’t fuck up anything or make a mess!”

Although there was a lot I liked about him, there were times when I thought his belligerent manner needed to be quelled. With the nonchalance of someone who didn’t give a damn I said to Frank “Look, if you think I can’t do the work or will be a hindrance I’ll be quite happy to leave right now!”

“For fuck sake man will you relax? I only mean we have to be careful” he replied.

“No. You said if I fucked up or made a mess, you didn’t mention we!”

“Well you know what I mean, we just have to be careful” he replied, his tone much softer.

In spite of many moments of frustration for me, I thought the job went reasonably well. Frank is not what one might call a ‘hard taskmaster” he is more of a ‘difficult taskmaster’. By that I mean he will say “give me that thing over there” without offering a clue as to which specific thing he wants. When there is a moments hesitation he says something like “what the fuck’s wrong with you, do I gotta do everything”. Another typical example of his unclear manner of communicating is “pour some water into the bucket!” and as soon as the pouring commences he yells “whoa! Not that much I only wanted a little”. Of course it’s just as likely he will say, “for fuck sake man, keep pouring I’ll tell you when to stop”. Just like the cement always being a tad wet or a tad dry it was evidently impossible to do anything just right.

At the end of the first day we had finished installing the tiles on the steps and porch. Bill offered a couple of cold beers and we sat around talking about the fabulous job we had done thus far. The second day was much more difficult for me. Having mixed the tile grout, Frank began to apply it to fill the spacing between the tiles. He applied the grout liberally, pouring it over the entire surface of the tiles before using his float to smooth it into the spaces. This made my job much more difficult since I had to remove the excess grout with a damp sponge after it had dried a little. This was a repetitive cycle of wipe and rinse and after three hours of this work my hands, softened by the constant immersion in water, were raw and bleeding at the finger tips from the fine, and, apparently razor sharp sand particles in the grout. Bill, having seen my plight, sympathetically offered four band-aids with which to cover my wounds. On the other side of the coin, all I got from Frank was “for fuck sake man, how come your hands are so soft? Look at my hands, they’re a real man’s hands”.

This kind of ‘macho’ comment didn’t goad me into the contest that he liked to engage in; i.e. the characteristics that fit his definition of masculinity. Instead I preferred to respond with “my ancestors came out of the jungle about a million years before yours did, so you still resemble a thick skinned ape rather than the civilized breed of mankind that Bill and I represent”.

Whether it was Bill’s instant outburst of laughter or whether my reply was too deep for his comprehension I do not know, however, it was sufficient to dampen his enthusiasm for further debate on that issue. 

Working 4-5 hours a day we managed to finish the job in 3 days and Bill only had to call us back one time to point out an area around the base of the wall which should have been grouted but which hadn’t. I took the blame for this omission since Frank said accusingly “Giovanni, I told you to let me know if I missed any places” followed by much head shaking and a few mumbled ‘F’ word phrases. I suppose I could have argued the case but since the fix would only take 30 minutes I was content to say “ah well, we’ll have it fixed up in a jiffy so let’s do it and get back to the other job”. And so it was.

Half way down the hill from Bill’s house we encountered a shining black late model Ford truck coming up the hill. Frank stopped the car and at the same time the truck stopped alongside us. The window of the truck was already rolled down. A blond haired, unshaven, bleary-eyed head lolled out of the window. Frank got out of the car closed the door and began to converse with the occupant of the truck. I saw Frank reach into his pocket for his billfold; he pulled out a few bills and handed them to the other person.

I didn’t ask any questions when Frank got back into the car and we resumed our journey. It was Frank who said “Poor guy, he needs medication and don’t have any money”.

Being a caring sort of person I inquired, “What’s his problem?”

“He’s in bad shape, he got a illness and need medication to help his nerves. Poor prick would sleep all day and all night without his pills,” replied Frank.

“I guess he must be a good friend for you to hand over money like that”.

“I’ve known him for a while. He helps me sometimes with my stuff when he’s not too fucking tired to get outta bed”.

I must admit I was curious to discover what kind of illness would make a 30 something year old man want to sleep all day and all night but decided not to intrude too much into someone else’s affair.

Frank continued the conversation with “You’ll probably meet him again. His name is Dave McCreary and I gotta be his fucking nursemaid. If he can’t do his thing he’ll just keep coming for more  money”.

“So what does he do for a living?” I asked.

“He’s a plumber but can’t keep a steady job ‘cause of his problem. I get him enough work to get by”.

I felt some admiration for the rough edged and sometimes uncouth Frank. “I think it’s a good thing that you are doing. Not too many people would bother to go that far, friend or not” I said with sincerity.

“’Ey, I told you that’s what friends are for, and I can be your best friend or your worst fucking enemy!” retorted Frank.

The last comment somehow spoiled the whole incident. I’ve known a number of people who prided themselves on the principle that they said what they think. The problem with many such people is that their thought process seems to terminate prematurely. Experience tells me there are few people who think so clearly all of the time such as to confer the right of unfettered free speech without, at least, having to suffer consequences for ill-considered opinions, comments, or ideas.