Carpentry in Virginia
Carpentry in Virginia was not unlike that in Texas, but there were fascinating differences: the weather, the building materials, the roads, the scenery, the food, and the inspiring people.
June 5th, 1987
It was 4:30 a.m., my first non-homeless day living in the faraway lands of Northern Virginia. I had thirty minutes to prepare for a two-hour commute to a job site in McLean, just a few miles northwest of Washington, D.C., and the Potomac River.
It was brisk for an early summer morning. I had been wearing cutoffs and t-shirts to work in Texas, but had to wear jeans, a flannel shirt, and a coat that day. A coat in June? What have I gotten myself into? I didn't have time to make coffee before I left Jack and Sue's house, so I stopped at a 7-Eleven for an extra-large coffee and a package of rubber chocolate donuts before heading north on I-95.
By 5 O'clock, I was on the road, stuck in a sea of brake lights pointed inbound toward Washington. Is this the commute I dreamed of three days ago in Little Rock? While sitting in traffic, I found a Rock-and-Roll talk show on the radio featuring a DJ who called himself Greaseman. It was the year of the 1987 NFL football strike, and listeners were calling in to share their empty-headedness with the world. The dialog was moronic but entertaining, and helped pass the time while stuck in heavy traffic.
I arrived at the job site about 10 minutes early. Jeff (my new boss) was already there alone, with his tape measure, meticulously cross-checking the dimensions of a wooden form someone had constructed for the concrete slab.
"Mornin', Jeff," I said as I walked toward him. "Virginians like their summers cold!" Jeff chuckled.
"Mornin', Matt! You got that right, but it'll warm up quickly. So you found a place to live, eh? Where at?"
"Woodbridge."
"Woodbridge? That's way the hell out there!"
"Yeah, it was a long drive, but I feel at home, and my roommates are good people. I might later find a more centralized home after I learn the area, but the drive wasn't too bad and Woodbridge sure beats the hell out of the roadside park in Centreville."
"Roadside park?"
"Yeah. I slept there in my truck Wednesday night, but wasn't alone. The park was full of people in work trucks and vans doing the same. There must be lots of folks who have come to Virginia for work."
"There are, and we're still trying to recruit more help from Texas. So far, you are the only one brave enough to make the trip."
"Desperate might be a better word," I said.
Jeff laughed. "Well, we're happy you are here, and we have lots for you to do. Did you bring your copy of the plans?"
"Yes. I'll get them from my truck."
Jeff walked me through the architectural drawings for the project, beginning with the concrete slab of the semi-octagonal two-story addition, which would add nearly 1,000 square feet of living space to an aged but well-maintained home, perhaps built in the late 1800s.
"These forms are not level or square. They are close, but close is not good enough. Your first task is to fix these forms because we plan to pour the slab tomorrow. I know it is Saturday, but are you available to help us?"
"I am nothing but available, Jeff! You know I came to Virginia to work, right? The last thing I need is a Saturday off. I am available Sunday too, if you need me."
"Thanks, Matt, but we should finish tomorrow before three. Once you fix these forms today, you can take the rest of the day off. There won't be much to do on this project until the slab is ready. We should be ready to rock on Monday once the concrete has cured."
"Sounds good, Jeff."
"I'm heading back to the office," Jeff said. "The cement mixer is supposed to arrive at 7 a.m. tomorrow. I will be back here at 6:45 a.m."
"Okay, Jeff, see you tomorrow."
Carpentry in Virginia
After Jeff left the job site, I got a 4-foot level and a tape measure from my toolbox and began checking the forms. Jeff was right. They were off, but not by much. I'm going to like Jeff. He cares about quality. He could have let that handiwork slide by without question, but he didn't. Jeff knew construction, and he also knew that any carpenter (me, in this case) framing a wooden structure on top of this slab would be struggling with perfection, right down to the last piece of trim; he put in on me to ensure that the foundation I was going to build upon was level and square. Clever fellow.
I spent the morning adjusting the forms, and once they were spot on, I added extra wooden braces so that the weight of the wet concrete pushing against the sides of the forms would not throw them out of whack. Without them, all my work would have been a waste of time. Around 2:00 p.m., I double-checked the forms again, packed up my tools, and headed to Woodbridge. The trip back took less than half the time of the morning commute.
On the way to Jack and Sue's house, I began thinking about the 'measure of value' in Bob's company slogan and the attributes someone (not necessarily Bob) might use to rate a worker's value, not just a construction worker's, but any worker's. The most fundamental measurement of an employee's value is reliability. It doesn't matter how skilled a person is if he (or she) is always late or sometimes doesn't show up for work.
Prosperity in the Washington, D.C., area was ubiquitous. 'Help Wanted' signs were posted at convenience stores, restaurants, beer joints, and restrooms. That's right, restrooms. One day, I saw a posting—Wanted: Experienced Plumber—on the wall above a broken urinal. If I ever lost my job, for some reason, I was sure I could find another before sunset. If I ever lost my job, for some reason, I was sure I could find another before sunset.
After taking the Horner Road exit to Woodbridge, I stopped at a nearby Safeway to stock up on coffee, beer, and essentials for the week. My funds were limited. I would come close to running out of money by the time I received my first paycheck (the upcoming Friday). But I was tired of eating sandwiches, so I decided to try Jack's Little Caesars pizza suggestion. I bought a buy-one-get-one-free pepperoni and green pepper for dinner on Friday and Saturday nights.
As I turned onto their street, I could see Jack and Sue's castle at the end of the cul-de-sac. Their van and Air Stream were gone. They must have left for North Carolina, I thought. I had the house to myself.
After I ate Friday night's pizza, I unpacked my jeans and t-shirts into a small chest of drawers and hung my shirts and coats in the closet. Since I didn't have the room in my truck to bring along my color TV from Austin, Jack and Sue loaned me a small black-and-white portable so I could watch late-night shows in my room.
I hadn't talked to anyone in Texas since I left Austin Monday morning - that seemed so long ago. It was hard to believe how much my life had changed in five days; I had driven 1500 miles across four states, found a roof over my head, made a few new friends, and worked my first day as a carpenter in Virginia. I had arranged employment before leaving Austin, but finding a clean, safe place to live in less than 24 hours was a miracle. Someone was watching over me, and it was time to call my family and friends and let them know that I was not lying in a ditch and had arrived safely in Northern Virginia.
Around dusk, after taking a hot shower in the bathroom next to my room, I walked back wearing a towel around my waist. I had left the blinds open on a small window that faced the house next door. While closing them, I glimpsed a young girl gawking at the naked upper half of my body from her room. When I caught her eye, she giggled and scrambled off. I'd better remember to close my blinds.
Before bedtime, I set the timer on Jack and Sue's coffee maker to brew a pot at home, avoiding spending precious survival money on 7-Eleven coffee.
I wondered how long it would take to drive back to McLean early on a Saturday morning - I didn't figure there would be much traffic on I-95 - but I left at 5:30 anyway. Traffic was light.
As I approached the Beltway Loop, I noticed a cloud of flying bugs swirling around street lights above the freeway. What the hell is that? I thought as I drove through the swarm. One of them managed to latch onto my left windshield wiper. It looked like a locust - the kind we had in Texas - but I had never seen them swarm. Weird.
The Robert of All Trades
I arrived at the job site at 6:15 to find Jeff checking the forms, as he had done the day before. Jeff doesn't work by the clock; he probably woke up thinking about those forms.
"Mornin' Jeff, how're they looking?"
"They are perfect, Matt, I couldn't have done better, and I see you also added extra braces. Good thinking."
"Is it just us today?"
"No. Robert will be joining us to help finish the concrete. He is a short guy but strong as an ox. You will like him."
"Is he a carpenter too?"
"Robert can do just about anything, but his specialty is foundations. He is the one who built the forms for this slab. He did a good job, but I'll bet he never framed any wooden structures on top of his slabs. If he did, you wouldn't have had to fix these."
Robert drove up before 7 in a Chevrolet version of my economy-sized Toyota truck. He hopped out of his pickup, holding a half-eaten sandwich in one hand and a thermos in the other.
"Mornin', Robert, I want you to meet Matt. He is one of our new carpenters from Texas."
"You came all the way from Texas for work?" Robert asked.
"Yeah, believe it or not," I replied. "It is good to meet you, Robert."
"Same here, Matt."
Before long, the concrete truck arrived, and Robert and the driver went to work. Robert directed the driver at every stage of the pour. Jeff and I joined the fun wherever we could, but Robert ran the show. It was clear that this wasn't his first foundation. After pouring the concrete, the mixer left the job site, and Robert commenced trowelling the slab to completion. He was proud of his work, and rightly so. Pouring concrete is hard, but Robert made it look easy.
"It looks like someone made some changes to my forms," Robert said. "Was something wrong with them?"
I looked at Jeff for his response, but he said nothing.
"No, they were perfect," I said, "except for the area by the door. That's the part I changed. I was thinking the homeowner probably got drunk one evening and kicked the form out of place while he was admiring your work."
"That's some pretty good BS, Matt," Robert said, chuckling.
Jeff laughed.
"Robert, next week I want you to help Matt frame the walls and roof of this addition," Jeff said. "It will be a learning experience for you both."
"I would like that," Robert said.
"Me too," I said. "It'll be fun!"
We finished our work around noon. Robert packed his tools and left. While Jeff and I were cleaning up the job site, Jeff said, "Hey Matt, when I first moved to Virginia, I was bored and looking for things to do after work. I joined the Texas State Society of Washington, D.C. They host fun events, like concerts and picnics, that are free for members and guests. They have an event called Terlingua Two-Step next month with Jerry Jeff Walker as the live entertainment. Do you want to go? I can get us tickets."
"Hell yeah! That sounds great! Jerry Jeff?" I said with a big smile.
"Yes! They occasionally get George Strait, Clint Black, and other well-known country musicians. Let's talk about the details when it gets closer," Jeff said.
"Sounds like a plan."
Jeff was like me, a misplaced Texan stranded in a strange land hundreds of miles from home. I had a feeling he and I would become good friends.
Feeling good, I began the long drive back to Woodbridge. When I got home, I ate my second pizza for dinner while watching MASH episodes on Jack and Sue's VCR until I fell asleep in a chair.
On Sunday, my first day off, I washed and dried the clothes I had worn while traveling and stowed them in the drawers. I spent the rest of the day studying the blueprints for the new addition and organizing my toolbox for my first week's work. I planned to work as many hours as was allowed, from dawn until dark, every day if possible, until I caught up on past-due bills and stockpiled a few extra bucks in the bank.
On Monday, one week after I left Texas, I walked out the front door at 5 a.m. and noticed Jack and Sue's van was back in the driveway. They must have gotten home late.
It was another chilly morning in Woodbridge, but the temperature was supposed to rise into the 80s by mid-afternoon. The drive to work was not unlike Friday - heavy traffic with Greaseman babbling more foolishness on the radio. I arrived at 6:45 and saw Jeff and Robert talking to Bob Wells.
A Swarm of Cicadas
When I opened the door to my truck, I noticed the locust-like bugs were everywhere-thousands of them-flying all around the job site.
"Good morning, gentlemen! What the hell are these bugs?"
"Cicadas," Bob said, "The 13-year and the 17-year cicadas are breeding at the same time this year. They live underground for 13 (or 17) years and emerge to the surface to mate."
"Man, they are nasty!" Robert said as one of the creatures landed on the bill of his Redskins cap.
"They spray this clear crap while they are flying around," Jeff said. Sometimes, it feels like a light rain."
"Sperm," Bob said. "Cicada sperm."
"Nice," I said. "Welcome to Virginia, eh?"
"Don't worry, they'll be gone in a few weeks. When they are through mating, they die," Bob said.
"It won't be soon enough for me," I said.
"Me neither," Robert added, "but when they die, there'll be millions of stinky cicada bodies everywhere! And when it rains? Cicada soup! Nasty stinking cicada soup! And__"
"That doesn't seem so bad, Robert," I interrupted. "So we will have to put up with the nasty little bastards until they croak. And when they do, from what I just heard, we'll have free soup for a few weeks?"
"Okay, Matt. You're going to make me sick," Robert said with the cicada still clinging to his hat.
The four of us, even Bob, the company's president, strapped on our tool belts and went to work. Bob wasn't afraid to break a sweat - or so he wanted us to think. He worked with us until noon, then he took off his tool belt and put it neatly in the trunk of his shiny Mercedes.
"It looks like you guys have got this," he said. "I have to meet some customers about a new deck job that I want you to work on, Matt. It should be ready to start when this job wraps up."
"Sounds good, Bob, and thanks for the Cicada lifecycle overview," I said with a smile.
He returned the smile, waved to Jeff and Robert, and drove off.
By the end of the day, Jeff, Robert, and I had framed and stood up the first-floor walls and had the second-floor joists in place. On Tuesday, we decked the 2nd floor and stood up the second-floor walls. On Wednesday, we began framing the 7-12 hip roof and tied it into the existing structure. By the end of the week, the framing was complete, and I received my first paycheck from Wells and Sons Builders.
I only had a dollar and some change left from the money I made in Austin for the trip to Virginia. I stopped at a nearby gas station and spent what I had on three gallons of unleaded, which barely moved the needle on my gas gauge from E. My truck was sucking fumes by the time I cashed my check and made it to another gas station to fill up. Most of my earnings went toward past-due bills, but I kept enough cash to survive until the following Friday.
In week two, we began installing the vinyl siding the architect specified in the blueprints, and by Friday, the new addition was 'dried in' and ready for sheetrock.
Happy Hour with Jack & Sue
Life in Virginia was going to plan, I thought as I drove back home to Woodbridge for the weekend. I stopped at a store along the way and picked up a six-pack of beer. When I walked through the front door, Jack hollered from the basement.
"Hey Matt! Grab a beer and join us for happy hour!"
"That sounds great! I'll be down in a minute!"
I peeled off a beer from the plastic binder of my six-pack, put the others in the refrigerator, and walked down the stairs to the basement. Jack and Sue were kicking back in their easy chairs. Jack motioned for me to sit in the "guest" chair, where I took my seat.
"So, how do you like your new job, Matt?" Sue said while Jack lit a hand-rolled cigarette.
"I have no complaints," I said, "except for the traffic. It takes on average about two hours to get to McClean in the morning, but at least the commute back to Woodbridge only takes half the time."
"Hmmm, three hours of commuting every day will get old," Jack said with a look of concern, "any chance you will get a project closer to home?"
"Yes. All of the other projects are closer to Clifton," I said. "There's a deck job coming up that I am looking forward to. That one is in Fairfax Station."
"Oh, that's just right up the road from here," Sue said, relieved. Jack and Sue were as happy to have me as a roommate as I was to be theirs.
"Have you ever been to Washington, DC?" Jack asked while passing the hand-rolled to me.
"No, but I would love to go and check out the museums, the capital, the Washington Monument, and to pay a visit to that Ronald Reagan fellow," I said with a smile, "I want to ask him when those jobs he promised are supposed to 'trickle down' to us working class folks."
"Good luck with that," Sue said with a grin. "Presidents are hardly ever in Washington; they often travel to other countries or to one of the states to give campaign speeches. You might have had a better chance of seeing him if you had stayed in Texas."
"What's wrong with this picture?" I said, chuckling. "Ronald Reagan is in Texas while I am in Washington?"
"One Saturday when we are in town, and you are not working, we will give you a guided tour," Jack said, "We know some great places to eat in Georgetown after a long day of sightseeing in our nation's capital."
"I would love that," I said, "By the way, I think the little girl next door might have a crush on me."
Jack and Sue snickered.
"You'd better watch it, Matt," Jack said. "That girl just turned 12. That's marrying age from the West Virginia hills she came from."
"I'll be careful," I said. "The last thing I need is girl trouble from a 12-year-old."
Roy the Painter
On Monday, I arrived at the McClean job site to find Clint chatting with another fellow wearing a painter's outfit, sipping steaming beverages. I hopped out of my truck and walked toward them.
"Hey Matt," Clint said, "I haven't seen you since we met that day in the office. How do you like the job so far?"
"I could complain, but who would listen?" I said.
"You got that right!" he said with a big grin. "Hey, I'd like you to meet Roy Pietro, my brother-in-law, who is also the painter for the company. He will be working with you this week."
"Hey Roy," I said, "It is good to meet you."
"You too, Matt."
"Well, I need to get back to the office," Clint said, "Jeff and Robert are working on other projects and won't be back here, so you two are on your own to wrap this job up. Let me know if you need anything."
"Okay, Clint, see you next time," I said.
Clint drove away, leaving only Roy and me.
"I'm afraid I'm not a very skilled painter, Roy."
"Well, that's why I am here, Matt. You take care of the carpentry work while I handle the painting."
"Agreed," I said.
Remodeling homes built in the late 1800s with modern materials offers a wealth of creative opportunities. Framing often had to be custom-cut from nominally sized lumber to match the shape and size of existing materials and trim work artfully milled to match the ornate features of the old house. You never know the construction of one of these old walls until you cut into it. On one occasion, after removing plaster and wire mesh from a wall section, I discovered a 60-year-old copy of the defunct Washington Star newspaper someone had stuffed into a corner to seal a crack. There was an ad for a three-story Victorian on a corner lot in Northwest Washington, D.C., selling for $8,000. It was like reading the contents of a time capsule.
Roy was a master with his caulk gun. It looked like a machine had done the work. He never had to stick his finger in the joints to dress them up (like I would have). One pass with his caulk gun was all it took.
"I am impressed," I said, admiring a perfect bead of caulk.
"It wasn't a skill I learned overnight, Matt," Roy said. "The trick is not to ever put your finger in it."
"Hey, are you ready for lunch?" Roy asked. "I am starving. I know a little cafe nearby that has excellent food. A little old Vietnamese lady owns the joint and cooks everything. Do you want to give it a try?"
"Yes, that sounds much better than the ham sandwich I made this morning!"
We hopped in my truck and drove around the corner to the tiny cafe. There was only enough room inside the small dining room for three 4-seater tables, and three more outside under a covered patio. We grabbed one of the tables inside and ordered burgers and fries.
It was as though we had known each other all our lives. While eating our lunch, we began chatting about anything and everything. Roy was a stocky fellow in his mid-thirties with medium-length curly brown hair. He was born and raised in Alexandria, Virginia, and was well acquainted with the Washington area. He loved camping and hiking the Appalachian Mountains in Virginia and West Virginia, drinking beer, hanging out at bars, and was a master rhetorician. He was proud of his Italian heritage and strong work ethic and would not accept anything less than perfection on the job.
"That burger was darn good!" I said, "Excellent choice!"
"They have some pretty good breakfast, too," he said. "Let's meet here before work tomorrow."
"Let's do it!"
I arrived at the small cafe at dawn. In the dim light, I saw Roy in his wrinkled white painter's suit sitting at one of the outdoor tables with an open newspaper stretched in front of his face. A lamp burning inside the restaurant reflected newsprint onto the lenses of his tortoise-shell glasses.
"Good morning, Roy," I said, "Anything interesting happening in Washington today?"
"No, just the same old crap, let's order breakfast."
I ordered two eggs, toast, bacon, and coffee, while Roy had bacon, egg, and potato tacos. We met at the small cafe every workday morning for the next two weeks while we wrapped up the McClean job. I liked the bacon-and-eggs breakfast so much that I never ordered anything else. It was reminiscent of the breakfast I used to have at Jim's back in Austin. Oh, Austin. How much I miss my friends and family back in Texas.
On Friday, at the end of the last day on the job, Roy said, "Hey Matt, let's go get a beer."
"Sounds good to me. Do you have someplace in mind?"
"Sure. Follow me in your truck. There's a joint not too far away."
We arrived at a small neighborhood bar with a parking lot big enough for only 3 or 4 cars. Most of their customers, no doubt, come on foot.
The air-conditioned bar was chilly, musty, and smelled of stale smoke and spilled beer. Roy and I grabbed a couple of empty barstools and ordered tall beers from a scruffy bartender.
"Nome, Alaska!" Roy began, intentionally loud enough for folks sitting close to us to hear. "1973!"
"Yes!" I said. "The Iditarod! I hear the weather gets mighty cold in those parts."
"Temperatures with windchills near minus 100 degrees, if that's cold enough for ya, pard?" Roy said.
"Were you there?" I asked.
"Where the hell else would I be with a sled dog team in 1973?" Roy chuckled.
"You know, Roy," I said. "I'm starting to think you're full of crap!"
Roy slapped the bar top and laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.
"I think you're full of it too, Matt! Let's order another round of beers and get plastered!"
We both laughed, shared stories (some true; some probably not), and drank beer until nearly closing time.
"Before we leave this bar tonight, Matt, I have just one word I want you to remember...Preakness."
"What's Preakness?" I asked.
"You'll find out."
That evening, I received an unexpected call from Bob, who told me he didn't think I worked fast enough to justify the hourly rate he'd agreed to pay me and wanted to reduce my pay from $13 per hour to $10 per hour. I was in shock.
After a stretch of uncomfortable silence, he said, "Are you there?"
"Yeah, I'm here."
"Don't take this the wrong way, Matt. You do great work, and everyone likes you. Once you gain more experience, let's revisit your hourly rate.
"I don't know what you expect me to say, Bob. I drove halfway across the country to work for $13 per hour, not $10."
"Say you will give it a try," Bob said.
"Okay, Bob."
"Thanks, Matt. Have a good weekend," Bob said and hung up the phone.
I cracked open a beer from the refrigerator and lit a cigarette. Bob must be nuts, I thought, if he thinks he can drop my pay by three dollars an hour and expect me to be happy about it. Many carpentry job opportunities in Virginia pay more than $13/hour. I'll take this time to find that better-paying job. The next day, I picked up a Washington Post and began scanning the ads. I circled about 10 carpentry job ads near Woodbridge, averaging $15/hour.
On Sunday evening, Jeff called to see how I was doing after Bob dropped his bomb.
"I like working with you, Jeff, but there's no way I'm working for $10/hour. I'm planning to make some phone calls on Monday. With this economy, I'll land another job before the day is up."
"Are you going to call Bob and let him know?"
"No, to heck him," I said. "Bob will figure it out when I don't show up. He has already paid me for the work I have done, so we owe each other nothing."
"I don't blame you, Matt, but let's not Bob get between us. We have the Terlingua Two-Step coming up, and we don't want to return to Texas someday without any fun experiences to share with folks back home."
"Oh hell yeah, Jeff, that goes without saying. You and I are solid."
Late Monday morning, I received another call from Bob. He was surprised that I had not yet shown up for work. When I told him that I couldn't accept working for less money and was looking for another job, he changed his tune. It was like talking to someone else.
"Now that I understand you better, Matt, I will pay you $13/hour, as per our original agreement," Bob said. "Will you come back to work for me?"
[Sonovabitch! That 10-dollar-an-hour crap was a bluff!]
"Okay, Bob," I said, "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Not today?"
"No. I'm taking the day off."
Since I was employed again and a little frustrated with Bob, and had worked almost every day since I had arrived in Virginia, I decided to relax and go to the movies. A new show called Die Hard, starring Bruce Willis, had just been released and was showing at a theatre in Springfield. When I arrived, I bought a movie ticket, a large popcorn, a Coke, and an overpriced box of Milk Duds and walked down a long hallway to a door that opened into an immense theatre with row after row of empty seats. Only two other people were visible in the large room, a young couple sitting in the middle section, three rows from the front. This movie must suck, I thought. It WAS a Monday, however, and early in the afternoon on top of that. More people might trickle in before the movie starts. That didn't happen, but there I was, two hours later, I had torn through my popcorn and large Coke, wiped out every last Milk Dud, and was on the edge of my seat when John McClean jumped off the roof of the Nakatomi Building! Wow! I feel sorry for the people who missed it.
A Carpenter from Culpepper
The next day, I woke up early, re-energized, and ready for work. ["Woddle doodle dottum, dottum doodle doddle day, the Greaseman, WWDC FM News, Washington..."], The morning radio blared as I drove north on Highway 123 toward Vienna to meet a carpenter named John. When I arrived at the job site, a man was cutting wood that he had piled up on sawhorses.
"Are you John?" I asked.
"Yes," he said, "you must be Matt. It is good to meet you. Do you know which one of us is supposed to be running this job?"
"No, probably you," I said, "but no one has told me anything. Until we hear otherwise, what do you say we run it together?"
"That'll work for me," John said.
John lived on his family farm near Culpepper, Virginia, and spoke with a Jimmy Carter-style accent.
"I hear you're from Texas," Jimmy Carter said. "How long have you been a carpenter?"
"About six years," I said as if responding to a job interview. "I've done residential, commercial, and a little industrial carpentry, and have built lots of decks. How about you?"
"I have been a carpenter all my life," John said. "My father was a carpenter, my mother was a carpenter, my grandfather was a carpenter, and so was my great-grandfather."
"No sh*t?" I said. "Carpentry is in your blood!"
"You might say that. My wife is a carpenter too, and so are our two children," he said, extending his hand. "I'm John Carpenter. It is good to meet you!"
"Aw, hell! You bastard!" I said, laughing hard, "You really had me going! Although I was getting suspicious when you said your wife AND kids are carpenters."
"Actually, my wife IS a carpenter," he said with a chuckle, "she and I are a team. You will meet her on a job one of these days."
John was a good man and a superior carpenter. He was loaded with old-school wisdom that he wasn't afraid to share. That certainly qualifies as a measure of value. Good work, John.
An unexpected thing happened to me after working with John for a few weeks - his contagious peanut farmer accent began to wreak havoc on over thirty years of talk-like-a-Texan training I had acquired as a life-long Texas boy. I hadn't spoken out loud with that accent (yet), but the dialogue of my thoughts had gotten the bug.
Toward the end of the day, Bob suddenly pulled into the driveway, drove his Mercedes within inches of John's sawhorses, and jumped out of his car. What does he want now, I thought, still miffed about the hourly wage horseshit. Maybe he wants to drop my pay to $8 an hour.
"Hey, John and Matt, I need your help framing a hip roof on one of our jobs up the road. The guy I hired to do it doesn't know what the hell he is doing."
"No problem," John said. "Matt and I will have it built before the end of the day."
"What?" I said. "We haven't even seen this roof. How can you say we can finish it by the end of the day?"
"How many roofs do you NEED to see? Besides, I have been working with you all morning. Between you and me, we'll knock this out of the park."
"You better be right, Mr. Car-pen-ter," I said.
Bob laughed.
We followed Bob to the job site. When we pulled in, I noticed that the carpenter, David, on the job had the ridge beam set but no rafters installed. After introductions, I grabbed my tape measure and a level and climbed a tall stepladder to check the ridge beam. I made some quick calculations and measurements and determined that the ridge was spot on. David knew SOMETHING about roof framing, after all. Bob was not always the best judge of a worker's 'measure of value,' as we have once again witnessed.
"Everything looks good," I said, eyeing Bob. "We just need to install the rafters. Is that what you were getting ready to do, David?"
"Yes," David said.
"Matt, why don't you do the cutting, and I'll jump up on the wall and holler down the measurements," John said.
"That'll work for me. Is that okay with you, David?" I asked, giving Bob a look that said, "Why again are John and I here?"
"That's fine, Matt. I'll load the rafter material on the sawhorses for you," David said.
After about two hours of cheerful blow-and-go production framing, John, David, and I had the roof completely framed and ready for sheathing.
"You guys did a hell of a job today," Bob said. He looked at me as though he was seeing me for the first time.
An Evening in Washington
The following Saturday night, I met Jeff at his house in Burke to drive into Washington, D.C., in his truck to attend the Texas State Society's Terlingua Two-Step party, eat Texas-style barbecue, and dance to the tunes of Jerry Jeff Walker. We didn't know anyone at the event, but managed to introduce ourselves to some pretty gals and persuaded them to dance with us for a few songs until Jerry Jeff paused for a break.
Jeff and I went to the bar and ordered a round of beers. While there, we noticed that Jerry Jeff was sitting alone on the small stage from which he had been performing. He looked bored, so we strolled over to introduce ourselves.
Jerry Jeff Walker saw us approaching and stood to welcome us.
"How you boys doin'?" Jerry Jeff hollered.
"Mighty fine, sir! My name is Jeff, and this here's my good buddy, Matt."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Jeff and Matt. Are you boys from around here?"
"Hell no!" I said with a smile. "We're just here trying to make a living while the Texas economy recovers. And when it does, we'll be high-tailing it back home."
"I hear that," Jerry Jeff said. "There ain't no place like Texas. Say, I saw you fellas on the dance floor. It looks like you're enjoying the show."
"You bet! What can be better than two-steppin' to the live music of Jerry Jeff Walker?" Jeff said. I nodded.
"Thanks, boys, it has been fun chewing the fat with real live Texas folks, but I'm afraid I gotta get back to work. You fellers have big-ole-good-one!"
"Thanks, Jerry Jeff. Maybe we'll see you at a show in Texas someday."
"Well, if you do, be sure and say hello," he said.
"We sure will," I said.
Jerry Jeff tipped his hat as we said farewell and returned to our seats. The girls we danced with before the break suddenly wanted to get us back on the dance floor. Was it because of our newfound fame after having been seen speaking to the legendary Jerry Jeff Walker? Or were they just drunk? It didn't matter to us. We danced and partied until they kicked us out. Good times.
While heading back to Virginia, Jeff told me about a 'Texas' bar he had heard about in Rockville, Maryland.
"We should check it out one of these Friday or Saturday nights," Jeff said. "I heard it is like the Dallas nightclub on Burnet Road in Austin."
"You have been to the Dallas nightclub, Jeff?"
"Hell yeah, what self-respecting Texan has never been to the Dallas nightclub?"
"I didn't know it was so popular," I said. "I went there countless times, but I did mainly because it was less than a mile from my house."
"You were lucky," Jeff said. "I used to drive thirty miles to get there from Lago Vista."
"Rockville won't be much different," I said. "I think it is every bit of thirty miles from where we live."
"Thirty minutes isn't too bad," Jeff said. "I've driven further than that for a night on the town."
There was a period of silence as we crossed the 14th Street Bridge over the Potomac River back into Virginia until Jeff spoke up.
"By the way, Matt," Jeff said. "Yesterday was my last day at Wells and Sons Builders. I got a new job as a superintendent for a home builder near Springfield."
"What? Really?"
"Yeah, for the past several weeks, I had been getting the feeling that I am not living up to Bob's 'measure of value,' and thought I'd better find something else before I got shit-canned. Bob is not easy to work with and hard to read, as you well know. I hope you don't think I am abandoning you, Matt. I'm the one who talked you into moving to Virginia to work for Bob."
"Not at all, Jeff. I was packed and ready to leave for Virginia before you called me at my house in Austin that day. It was pure luck that you caught me 10 minutes before I left. While you and I were on the phone, I figured it was best to accept your offer and have SOME job lined up rather than nothing at all, and if I didn't like the job, I could always find something else...but you know what? I have learned a lot working on Bob's projects. One of these days I will move on myself, but for now, as long as I am making money learning new techniques, I am content."
"Well, I'm glad it worked out the way it did," Jeff said. "Otherwise, we might never have met."
"Me too."
We arrived at Jeff's house a little after midnight. Before I left for Woodbridge, Jeff said, "So, Matt, what do you think about the Rockville club?"
"How about we go next Saturday night?" I said.
"Now you're talking!" Jeff said with a big grin. "I'll meet you there around 8?"
"See you there, Jeff!"
I learned plenty from everyone I met and worked with during my first few months learning carpentry in Virginia—Jack, Sue, Jeff, Robert, Roy, John, and even Bob taught me something unique I could take to my next job.
~Matt
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