Max

The kid was lying in wait behind the sofa at the top of the stairs. It was late afternoon, and between battling scattered showers, wind, crabby customers and a heavy tool bag, I was pretty well spent for the day. I had a dishwasher to fix before I could call it quits. I hoped the repair was fast and easy.

The Universe had other plans.

The kid jumped out at me in greeting as I wearily climbed the stairs. "MY NAME IS MAX!" he exclaimed loudly. "AND I'M FOUR! WHAT'S YOUR NAME?"

"George." I replied tersely.

"GEORGE? GEORGE WHAT?"

"Washington," I said heading for the kitchen. The boy's mother, a blond like her son, probably mid-thirties, smiled apologetically.

"Max loves to have visitors. Especially workmen carrying tool bags..."

I had a sinking feeling right then and there. Some folks I meet think their dogs are the cat's PJ's and insist I fawn all over them so they leave me alone to do my job. Others have kids. Some have both, but frankly the dog owners are the worse. At least a kid can hold up the end of a conversation when not buried in a smart phone.

The sinking feeling was early warning radar I was about to be targeted for a full-fledged assault by little more than a toddler whose mother didn't have a clue how to handle a workman in her home. Sure enough she headed for the back room, leaving me to the designs of the Four Year Old.

As I anticipated Max headed right for the tool bag and started pawing through it.

"Max, you can't mess with my tools," I said, taking a screw driver and pliers from his fists. "They're dangerous. You might hurt yourself."

Max scowled. "My Daddy has tools," he announced, sullenly.

"That's great. Is he a carpenter?"

"NO!" Max returned, disgusted. Everyone knew his Daddy wasn't a carpenter. Silly question.

As if to emphasize the fact that because his father had tools, the kid dived into my tool bag once again. I retrieved the volt meter and hoisted the whole bag on to the counter top out of temptation's way. Max sat against the sink sullenly.

I used the battery-powered screw gun to take apart the dishwasher door in order to replace a broken door latch. This was no small feat. The genius engineers at Maytag had figured out a way to make servicing the machine as difficult as humanly possible. My theory was they wanted folks to just give up and buy a new machine. I was close to ripping out my hair assembling the latch on this one.

"How old are you, George?" Max asked. He had been sitting quietly playing with the old latch I had handed him.

"Fort-eight..."

"My Daddy was thirty five," he replied quietly.

I caught my breath. It was the "was" that grabbed my attention. For the first time I looked at the little boy sitting there. Really looked. Instead of a demon intent on making an already tough day even worse, I saw a needy little kid. Someone missing his Daddy.

"Hey Max," I answered. "Wanna' help me put this thing back together?" The boy brightened, a huge smile lit his face. I handed him the screw gun and showed him how to drive in the twelve screws that held the door together. He was an expert at the job and didn't need much coaching.

"Great job, Max!" I enthused, packing up my stuff to go. "If you ever need a job, we're hiring."

"Thank you," mouthed his mother silently, seeing me to the door. I could see the weariness beneath her eyes. She had needed a few moments alone. I nodded.

"Is your last name really Washington?" she asked. I shrugged, smiling and stepped into the raw winter's air. The sun broke through the clouds, finally. I relished the warmth. The golden rays lit up the picture window of the house.

Max was there smiling, bathed in sunlight, waving good-bye.

(Originally published 10 yrs. ago, this is a condensed version. Max would be a teenager now.)