Gain Say

I'm struck with how difficult it is to be completely honest. I mention Janitor College and people leap up in their seats, correcting my memory. There were only eight people, at that last tail-gate reading in Colorado, in swirling snow. I know because I was the reader and I can count. I couldn't believe anyone was there, the night before a storm hit. Never address me as Sir, I'm always somewhat less than that, but Troy's son called. I'd built a house for them decades ago, a great house, I never expected to influence anything. An interesting house, a vertical cantilever, using the longest sticks of timber I'll ever again address. 36 foot 8x8's, notched for floors on four different levels, with a central staircase, and I can't remember where the idea came from, of floating treads made up of 2x4's glued on edge. I had a friend there, just out of prison, that had a cabinet shop, with a glue machine and more clamps than God, and over a weekend, with an ounce of pot and several cases of beer, we laminated 42 of these treads, each one composed of eight 2x4's five feet long, which then had to be belt-sanded and finished. There were no stringers, the treads just clear-spanned the space and died into the walls. You have no idea how difficult this was; but I was somewhat younger then and the impossible was merely a challenge. I remember going over the math night after night. The various treads were notched in at points that I scribed with a transit, working alone, as is my want, using an ice-pick, to mark the lines, and I'd frame in a support, as if I knew what I was doing. I remember, clearly, one day, Troy had driven up to the job-site, another ridge, god help me, and watched, while I made a mark, and asked if I knew what I was doing. Not really, I replied, but I was probably the best person for the job. Not that I believe in anything, but I was driving along the river road, the tubular fog was palpable, humming a Grateful Dead tune, "Broke Down Palace", and I was pretty sure I saw an image of the Virgin Mary, in an oil slick, as it drifted away. Something about the surface of the water, the way it rippled, seemed to carry meaning. Inadvertent key-strokes are the bane of my existence. I don't mean anything. Forget I mentioned it, just a butter smear I can lift out with a brown paper bag and a hot iron. Nothing, really.