I’m kind of a big deal at Sam’s Hardware, a local joint that’s been around since the ’40s. Well, I give them enough business. So, I better be. It’s one of few places left where the owner greets you by name and asks how your day’s going. I go for casual conversation: a little pick me up with my morning coffee. The problem is I feel like I have to buy something when I go in. So, I come up with a new project each time. I buy things to fix things that don’t need fixing and end up accidentally breaking everything, giving me a reason to go back. For example, I went in for multicolored door knobs and accidentally destroyed my door. I’m getting into the camaraderie of the whole handyman culture and hoping at some point the handiness rubs off. The other day I broke, fixed and then broke my toilet. Ultimately, I called my apartment building’s handyman to come fix it. Pal’ing around with him, talking wrenches and screws was a blast. But he was way less than thrilled, probably since I’d used the toilet after breaking it and was hovering over him the whole time. I’m also not even sure he used wrenches or screws.
Working with your hands is relaxing, an honest day’s work. The handymen keep asking if I have a real job. No, but I am technically working. And, it’s even more honest because I’m literally doing it for the love of it. Some might consider the amount of work I do without actually accomplishing anything impressive. I am a full time time waster. I called my tax guy, to see how much of this expensive handy work I could write off: “My tools are a creative inspiration. Does that account for anything?” He said it doesn’t. But, anything I use in my posts, I can claim as a write-off, which is why I’m writing this article.
Sam’s been acting quite strange lately, way less inviting, possibly because my recent purchases seem incriminating. What’s more plausible, I’m using this tarp and shovel to: “repot my plant” or “bury a dead body?” It doesn’t help that I’m always covered in blood and pit stains. I’m a klutz, so selling me these sharp metal objects is a recipe for disaster. It’s a matter of time before I loose a limb or at least a phalange. My next purchase will be a hardhat. He probably thinks I’m a liability, tripping down his aisles, almost knocking paint cans over, searching for god knows what. The last thing I want is another Wang’s Cleaners situation. If you haven’t read my article about having my mugshot on their wall of shame, read it and come back.
I’m not sure Sam’s into me, which is a little alarming. I feel like a forty-five-year-old man with his potbelly sticking out, snacking on cheese puffs is my demographic. Have I lost my touch? Is he just nervous? Am I that annoying? Regardless, I’ve spent so much money there; I’m pretty much his sugar mamma. You’re welcome. He probably talked to Wang. Venice Beach is a small town; everybody talks, which is why I’ve redirected my inspiration to something more innocuous: woodworking.
There are just fewer questions when buying plywood. And, my new lesbian woodworker aesthetic does it for a specific type of person. At least one hipster comes in a week, more to photograph the relic that is Sam’s Hardware than to buy anything. As they snap photos of the answering machine, I explain my “abstract woodwork expressionism.” I just roam around Sam’s striking up conversations about my fake craftsmanship. Sam should be happy with me, though. I’m driving out loiterers. These hipsters never ask, but I tell them: “My life is an Ikea instruction manual; it’s that confusing. But, each piece of wood is whatever you want it to be, like interpreting a cloud. Okay, what do you see in this? A penis? I see humanity’s untapped potential.” It was supposed to be a banana but ended up looking like a dick. Maybe, it’s my subconscious crafting tiny penises from plywood. To each his own.
The answering machine must be for show because every time I leave a midnight message of creative inspiration, it goes straight to voicemail. Me: “Hiiii, I just thought it’d tickle your brain for a minute… Hear me out, okay: wood that serves as a cookie jar but is in the shape of a bird. Instead of spitting out cookies, it spits out bird food. Oh, that’s a bird feeder. I’ll call you back once I’ve workshopped the idea.” Each morning, he’s disappointingly unimpressed by my creations. Great art is always under-appreciated. That or, he’s annoyed with all the time I spend before buying anything. Technically I may be “loitering,” but I consider it “providing entertainment.” At least I don’t reek of beer like other patrons, who I wouldn’t trust with a handle wrench. Anyway, I really can’t tell if I’m impressing, annoying, or just confusing everybody. My paint-stained cargo pants and push-up bra give off mixed signals.
Even when I can’t think of anything to buy, I mosey on in around five, stretching and ranting about a “long day’s work” and my bitch. By bitch I mean dog, but they don’t have to know that. “Yeah, my bitch keeps whining whenever I leave my house. I’m on a tight leash.” Assuming I’m into women, some regulars invited me one Friday night to Plan B, a grimy strip club off the 405. The seats are so disgusting, I’d leave needing Valtrex. The club hosts comedy nights in the parking lot, which is genius. Because, as patrons leave, the dose of feminism (from cynical comics) cancels out the sexism inside. I’m not sure who wins in this scenario. But, I’m getting off track. This article is about my tools for that write-off.
After six months, I haven’t run out of reasons to go to that hardware store. The more I scour my apartment, the more things I find to fix. I made my fish a tiny mobile above his tank and a headboard for my dog’s bed. I accidentally superglued my kitchen door shut. Who says sobriety has to be boring? At least my dog’s entertained. She stares at me, staring at my apartment, looking for untouched corners. It’s mental masturbation as I get way too excited coming up with ideas. They say you are who your friends are. Well, now, my closest friends are middle-aged, blue-collar, divorced dudes who don’t shower. So, what does that say about me? That I don’t shower? Well, that is accurate. To fit in, I’ve neglected personal hygiene. I have the sexy musk of a plumber, many of whom have taught me better ways to fix my toilet. I’d like to show my apartment’s judgmental handyman a thing or two. I’ll apply for his job next.
The only other problem with this whole charade is I can’t tell anyone all the stuff I’ve been fixing, and refurbishing is for a tiny two-bedroom pre-renovated apartment. They’d think I’ve lost it, which is debatable. Perhaps I’m crazy in a quirky, mildly endearing, yet borderline masochistic sort of way. Anyways, I had to come up with a backstory for my character: Noel, the handy lesbian. So, I live on a farm – yes, a hidden gem in Venice Beach – with chickens and a goat named Tony. Tony likes the cold, but gets sun burnt in the Summer, which is why I had to build that tiny shed. Fred, the homeless guy I let live in my garage (because, I’m an amazing person in this imaginary life), likes to grill in the evenings out back. So, that’s why I made that mini-deck, for him to lay his meats. He and I stargaze in my yard (why I bought that tarp), debating the meaning the life. Then, we listen to crickets chirping beside a pond I’ve constructed (why I bought that irrigation equipment), thinking: me, about a lesbian lover who got away; and him, probably about showering. After Fred found a new home on the beach, I adopted a Somalian kid on a Make A Wish grant. No, I don’t know why her wish was to live on a farm with a lesbian in Venice Beach, but you gotta give the dying twelve-year-old cancer patient what she wants. So, that’s why I built a tree house. In reality, I almost got kicked out of my apartment for building that. The managers must have a rule against fun.
If you’d like to hire me as your handy-woman, I’m only accepting cool jobs. By cool, I mean, useless crap that’s ironically considered art. Dm me for details.