There’s been a parade of tradesmen through my house lately as we remodel our bathrooms; and, even though they have different jobs to do, they all act pretty much alike.
For the most part, they arrive around eight in the morning, forming a ring of trucks in our driveway. It looks as if some wagon master has commanded the familiar circular formation in anticipation of Indians coming over the hill.
They all wear jeans and ugly, hard toed shoes. They are oblivious to mud and dirt and traipse around the back of the house to where we’ve built a ramp that enables them to walk up to our deck and enter the Construction Zone from our master bedroom sliding door.
Everyone hauls his own tools, as if not bringing the right one to the job site and having to borrow someone else’s is the sure sign of an apprentice. The plumber would never ask the electrician for a wrench or hammer. So at the end of the day, there’s a sorting of items that were pulled from various toolboxes by one person or another and then dropped to the floor for his possible future use.
Cell phones hang from every belt. And each one brings his own coffee thermos and cigarettes too, although I haven’t hung around during a break to see if these things are also off limits for sharing. At least they all know instinctively not to smoke in my house.
At quitting time they disappear, some saying goodbye while others race off. I sneak into the Construction Zone and take one last look at the day’s progress.
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