survival

I despise skilled manual labor. Painting is awful. A mess that spreads. Everything gets infected with paint. Your hands, the dirty rag, the clean rag, your neck, the radio. If you wipe one spot 3 other spots are soiled. In order to succeed, a meticulous approach is necessary. That’s why I hate skilled labor. It takes patience and process. I rely on shortcuts, eye-balling and clumsiness. In everything.

The past two nights I have been laying slate down on a basement floor. A cruel chore assigned to me by my girlfriend as punishment. My crime was not contestable so I accepted the job with head down. But today I was emboldened and challenged the merits of the penalty. She rushed me into a debate before I had put organized my arguments. I was demolished by logic topped with emotions. It was not a close match.

In volley ball knee pads, my task continued. My dogs circled and stared at the man on all floors, cursing at stone squares, but offered no assistance. They got bored and went outside to smell past poops. The work grudged on as I listened to sports talk radio. Arms caked with wet cement I felt almost masculine. I dumped the excess sludge behind a tree where grass does not grow. I was not sure what else to do with it.

There was some satisfaction, at the end. A step closer to completion and another assignment. I am free, so I could refuse these orders. But she is good and her conditions are good and I want to remain. Survival is our first instinct and it serves us well.