The Secret Life Of OGX

May 15, 2009 at 10:07 PM | Posted in Journal | Leave a comment
  The seven year old girl interrogated me, and I reciprocated.
  "Who are you?"
  "Who are you?"
  "Katelyn.  What are you doing here?"
  "What are you doing here?"
  "Just playing.  Do you live here?"
  "Do you live here?
  "No.  I live right over there."  She pointed.
  "You live right there?"
  "And you’ve never seen me before?"
  "Then why would you think I live here?"
  "What’s your name?"  She changed the subject, pretty slick.
  "I’m Bryan.  I’m Joey’s cousin."
  And she was done talking to me.

  I went back to working on the tiller.  I should have been at my sister’s house working on a project there to get her house inspected, but bees ran me off.  I have a thing about bees.  These were giant monster killer bumble bees with fangs, stingers, and uzis.  And they were off their meds.
  I set up the sawhorses, got out the wood, got the extension cord hooked up in the house, got out the other tools, and went over to the shed.  What I needed to accomplish, according to the inspection report, was:
  "Repair trim and spot paint on shed."
  I grab the all-purpose hammer…which reminded me of a saying I read the other day:
  "When the only tool you have is a hammer, all your problems begin to look like nails."
  I grabbe ye olde hammer and go to the shed to pry off the old trim.  Buzz, buzz, buzz, the bumble bees appear, and I back off judiciously.  I have a thing about bumble bees, okay?
  I make a few more attempts, and every time I go near, the bees come out in formation and hover menacingly until I back off, then they circle and disappear.  Damn bees.  Finally, I does me some givin’ up.  I leave everything out and I go to the hardware store and get some wasp spray that says it kills bees also (because you can never be to sure).  My plan was to wait until closer to sunset, when the bees are "less active."  I’ll show em less active.
  It was only five-ish, and it was going to be light out till close to 8pm.  I wasn’t going back until six or so, I figured.  That was my justification for taking a turn and going to see if Joey was home.  He was, and he was outside talking with a friend–it’s like Mr Rogers’ Freakin Neighborhood over there, someone stopping by all the time, kids running around, people having a few beers…
  The friend–Eric–was explaining to him about a tiling job Joey needed done, and then he left.  But he needed to borrow Joey’s tiller, and it was broke.  Joey and I loaded the tiller onto the back of the golf cart, and took a ride down to the other cul de sac (Joey’s street is one big court with three little courts off of it, so it’s a complete dead end, and one end backs into a park.) where we meet…shit, what was the guy’s name?  I don’t think Joey introduced us.  He was an old guy, probably mid-70s or so, if not older.
  He could fix it. He had a machine shop in his garage.  He looked at it and said to take off the guard and take off the flywheel housing, and just bring that to him.  Oh.  Joey wanted to just leave him the whole thing.
  We took it back to his house and he scrounged up a few tools.  All we needed was a 7/16 wrench, a 1/2 inch wrench, and a 1/2 inch socket.  Not easy.  He has tools, but not normal ones like that.  He also has to drop one daughter off somewhere up the street and a son that has Boy Scouts.  While he runs around a bit, I work on this for him.
  I figured I owe him, plus, I know he can’t handle a wrench very well because of his hands.  He’s good with concrete and building, but I have no idea how he is with engines.  I’m not great, but this was simple.  I got it apart for him, and we rode back down to the old guy.  He was home, and instead of leaving it with him like Joey thought, he fixed it right there for him.  The string on the starter broke, so he had to open it up, rewind the spring, and replace the string and handle.  Done.
  We took it back, and I got to putting it together pretty quickly while Joey did something.  He intended to help, but I wanted to get it done for him.  But he finally did find a 1/2 inch socket, and that was helpful putting it back together, which we worked on together.
  All this time kids are running around randomly (is there any other way for a kid to run, honestly?) and a few dogs.  Everyone knows Joey.  We get the tiller together.  I’m not sure what time it is, but I’m pretty sure I have to go.  Joey gives me some paint to paint the ground with, to mark where we want the patio.  That should be fun.

  I stop by the house to make sure that I missed dinner and pissed off Detroit, then went back to my sister’s house to finish up what I was going to do.  I get the spray out.  Ya-hoo.  I spray under the eave of the shed, and then back off.  I wait, and the formation of bees appears.  I spray them, watching carefully to see if they come after me. 
  My careful analysis of Bee Psychology convinces me this is highly unlikely, for a few reasons:
  First, it’s poison to them, so their instinct is to want to leave.  Second, they can’t necessarily tell from which direction the attack is coming.  Am I right?  Am I right?  I hope so, because alot the bravery I had going into this was based on that assumption.
  I sprayed the foamy matter at them, and the background of the shed gets splattered.  Again and again–they fly away, they come back, I spray.  Eventually, they don’t come back.
  Good thing, too–the spray was empty.
  It was about 730.  I hurriedly ripped the old trim off of one corner of the shed–it was 2-1x4s–and measure.  I made the two cuts, then nailed them up.  Okay, that took about 6 minutes.  I decided to go ahead and prime them, that way all I had to do was paint, and I was running out of days that I could wait for non-rainy weather.  Priming them took less than five minutes because I am fast, inaccurate, and I have low standards.
  I had brought all the tools over there before, working on a different job.  Since all that was left was the painting, I took everything back except the ladder, and loaded the truck up.  While I was loading, a bee floated by me erratically, diving into the grass.  Kamikaze?  Whatever, he had missed, and it looked like he wasn’t going to get up and fly again.  I stepped on him a few times, because he wouldn’t die, like some sort of bionic zombie CIA bee.  Eventually, I got him.


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