The Handyman, by Brian Spaeth

I am a handyman. No, that is not really accurate—I flatter myself—a real handyman would, at the very least, have a business card, a roster of clients, some form of advertising, and maybe a car or small truck to get around town and to carry tools and supplies. I possess none of these things—therefore I am not a legitimate handyman. Even at this I have failed miserably—but even this is untrue, because in order to fail, one must make an attempt of some sort—and I have made no attempt—I merely wait until I am summoned to one of my periodic tasks. You see, I have only two regular clients: the main one being my mother, and the other, her next door neighbor, Frank DeMarco. The possibility of a third client sometimes arises, but this is extremely rare, because not only do I not seek out new clients—I also strongly discourage their acquisition.

I am usually called upon to repair various things: a once dependable old door may have become jammed, for instance, as an aging building, gone soft in the middle, settles wearily around its frame; or a shelf has begun to complain, threatening to dislodge its burden; or perhaps a few old ceramic tiles have cracked under invisible pressures, and must be replaced with new ones; or a room requires a fresh coat of paint to cover the old one, which has become an embarrassing travesty of itself.

I bitterly resent being identified as a handyman—I detest that word—even though I inhabit the role in name only. So I resent something that I am not. But in taking this attitude, I realize that I have further compounded my errors by insulting the profession, which in the proper hands could be perfectly respectable, and might theoretically lead to a decent if modest income. I have fallen into this situation in the same way that I have fallen into everything else: by default. I seem to have no ability to plot my own course—things just happen to me.

The fact is that I suffer from a fear of other people, and am very uncomfortable in their presence. In addition, I suffer from a peculiar lack of will: even though I have already outlined a few simple and obvious steps that might lead to a much greater level of success, I have absolutely no intention of implementing any of them. These handicaps make it difficult for me to earn a living of any kind. Since graduating from high school, I have bounced around aimlessly, from one unskilled, part-time, minimum-wage job to another—rarely lasting longer than a few months at any of them. Consequently, I exist on the margins of society, living in poverty, and frequently dependent upon the generosity of my mother, and Frank DeMarco—a situation that causes me to deeply resent both of them. Now, it isn’t that Frank and his wife Mary are unpleasant people—not in the least—they’re perfectly friendly, agreeable, and even generous—no, that isn’t the problem. The problem is that they live in the house that had once been mine—the house that I had been born in! They had purchased it from my grandparents after they had grown too old to properly maintain it, and I suddenly found that I had become a caretaker in the house that I had grown up in!

Whenever Frank requires my services, his request invariably arrives through the intermediary of my mother, which I consider to be a further degree of humiliation (why can’t he contact me directly?) To make matters worse, whenever I visit my mother, she always insists upon reimbursing me for the bus fare that I require for the trip, and to make matters worse still, I always shamelessly accept it. 

Will it ever be continued? You can ask Brian on Facebook

Are my excoriations of myself at an end? Hardly, because I ask the question: what kind of man charges his own mother a fee for his help, and in addition, allows her to pay for his transportation back and forth? I am disgraceful in every way, and I can see no escape from this predicament.

TO BE CONTINUED… 

short stories /// fiction /// surrealism /// fantasy