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.)

Frank

Frank met me at the door with his yelping Pomeranian. The dog, high strung and asthmatic, leaped on the back of my legs, her sharp claws feeling like they were shredding my calves.
"Down!" I shouted at her. "No jumping!" It's not my style to be shouting in my customer's homes, unless they're shouting at me, in which case I've been known to dish it back after my breaking point has been reached. The breaking point just got a little closer with the Pomeranian.

Frank was a rail thin senior, sporting a Boston Red Sox ball cap. He wore a thin jacket in the house over wrinkled clothes. With red-rimmed eyes and wispy grey hair poking out beneath the hat, he was an older version of my brother-in-law Lee. Spitting image, aged twenty years. I marveled again to myself how there seems to be a Divine set of molds we are  all made from, with archetypical patterns for each brand of human. Frank was in the Lee mold and wore the very same worried expression I've seen on Lee's face.

"I'm losing all my food," he explained. "The fridge stopped working a day ago. It's just been sitting there. I only go shopping every three weeks since they took away my driver's license."

Refrigerators are one of those modern conveniences you cannot live without. You can get by if your dishwasher fails, or the washing machine. But not the fridge. A warm fridge is a breeding ground for all kinds of bacteria. A home-bound senior whose nearest relative is a daughter in Maine surrounded by uncaring neighbors who loses a fridge is in a crisis. I was hoping I had the part on my truck and could get it back up and running for the guy.

"I lost my wife last year," Frank said, seating himself stiffly at the kitchen table. I noticed old pill bottles, faded prescriptions and yellowed newspaper clippings strewn on the table top. "Breast cancer. We had been married close to sixty-five years." At the mention of his wife, his red-rimmed eyes began to fill. I thought they would soon spill over and trickle down his face, but he had been grieving a whole year now and was nearly cried out. You don't live that long with someone and not feel pain when they leave you.

My folks were married half a century. After my Dad's passing, Mom would speak of him rarely. He was verbally abusive, and I think his being gone gave her some relief. Only once did I see her stifle tears at his memory, but that was after he had long been dead and the memory of his verbal put-downs were softened. Frank was a tender man, not giving to verbal assaults as far as I could see. There was a deep kindness about him. I would have enjoyed his company more were it not for the asthmatic Pomeranian frantically pacing the kitchen now demanding my attention.

"She thinks she the boss," Frank explained. "She's a rescue. I got her after my wife died. It's just me and the dog."

I was able to get the fridge up and running. It was a bad cold control and I luckily had the part on my truck. We spent some time sorting through his frozen foods to see what was safe to keep.

"My daughter said Stop & Shop has a food delivery service," he said as I was packing up my tools to leave.
"It's called Pea Pod," I said, nodding.
"Helluva' name," he said.