What kept churning in my mind was how to get on with the repairs in any logical sense. I knew construction like I knew homemaking and despised it as much as I loved to go shopping for a new wardrobe in the Pentagon City Mall. Frankly, I needed the on-the-job training from a construction worker as well as a full team of laborers to complete all the repairs.
Where would I start? At the very beginning, of course, after everything was torn our and the dust had cleared. I had decided from the start that Billy wore the foreman's hat. Maybe he wasn’t the brightest bloke in this world, and he could do with more than a few strokes of refinement. But he had a personal stake in this house he grew up in, some tiny wisps of attachment to a past long gone. And just as he introduced me to the house in the first place, now he could round up a scraggly group of guys for for electrical, plumbing and repair work.
Besides being the foreman, I assigned Billy to be the overall fix-it man. Where he fell short on the art of supervision, he had the cunning skill to grasp and remember shortcuts. I was impressed by his resourcefulness in removing wallpaper. If you would think about it, it is so simple, commonsensical. It is just that such things don’t strike you until you see it with your own eyes. John made hundreds of holes in the wallpaper with a scoring tool, and then sprayed a mixture of water and vinegar on the walls. The wallpaper soaked overnight and the next morning, it came off in the hands like orange peel.
John introduced me to Monty Freeman, a thin, boyishly handsome son jack-of-all-trades who looked taller than his 5’8.” He insisted on referring to himself not as a contractor but as “a craftsman” first upon his introduction to me and then on a regular basis, as if to keep reminding me to treat him with respect. An ex-Navy aviation electrician's mate, he possessed undoubted manual dexterity in handling tools and machinery. Having been a sailor aboard the U.S.S. John F. Kennedy back when it was a brand new ship, he was trained to troubleshoot and repair the complex electronic and communications equipment aboard aircraft and became quite adept at conducting maintenance. He apparently loved his job and became quite proficient at it. It was heartening to see some one take so much pride in his work. The only military veteran of the group, he had quite a staggering experience as a heating and refrigeration mechanic, considering his rather uninspired childhood in the neighborhood of Anacostia. The last he remembers of his schooldays is being a rambunctious student in the very last 6th grade class at Congress Heights Middle School which was built in the 1800s and was one of the oldest school structures in DC. The school itself was a study in contrasts, resembling an ornate castle juxtaposed between rundown, vacant buildings and overgrown, littered lots of the battered and easily-forgotten environs of Congress Heights. This community had long been one of the poorest in the District. One could stand there and see large tracts of dirty brick apartment complexes, neglected and never-spoken of, broken down or boarded up, everywhere was the unmistakable stamp of poverty and deprivation. Remnants of this deprived past clung to Monty as he bargained and negotiated with dear life as if he had to fend for himself against all the other hoodlums and thugs in the neighborhood where we all were easy targets for crime.
With his obvious technical skills, he would have had a good future in the Navy but for the daunting obstacle of his complete revolt against the rigidity of the military hierarchy. Monty wanted to work in his own time, at his own pace and the way he wanted – in other words, he wanted to be his own boss, which was hardly possible in the Navy. He refused to be confined by a complex set of rules and more often than not found a way out of them. May be he did it once too often and got marching orders.
However, looking back on his seafaring days, Monty cannot but agree that he had a good time. He cherished the days let loose in liberty in wild ports like Palma, Spain and Sigonella, Italy. He enjoyed the passion and caresses from the healthy, sultry Mediterranean women who knew exactly how to please a man especially after a long period at sea. The extent of the sexual heights he reached at the hands of brown-haired bombshells was never relived ever again, not even in his most intimate dreams. Each experience made him lust for another woman, then another, then another. The variety was fascinating. Their passion and sexual awareness were amazing. His own sexual prowess was sharpened minutely with the training he received at the hands of experienced women. The stories he related had the men’s eyes glinting. Even though he threw military discipline to the winds in these escapades and he rebelled against it all the time, he still understood the meaning behind such discipline and training and that was what drew me to the man despite other negative factors in his character. In a strange, silent way, he and I understood each other at various levels of communication, for we were both a part of the Navy.
I assigned Monty to install the electrical system in the basement and to do some basic electrical repairs upstairs - a straightforward, clean and easy job. After all, it didn't take a whole lot of lifting, cutting, or scrubbing to lay electrical wiring and to install a switchboard. However, there were instances I regretted this decision, especially when the process became intricate and he started becoming difficult. In particular, Monty had lofty ideas when it came to payment. He had listened to me nonchalantly, with pretended indifference, as I outlined my plans. Then he looked at me blandly before his face broke into a monkeyish grin.
“I’ll charge you $12,000 for wiring the whole house—basement, ground, attic - all,” he announced emphatically.
I could not believe what I heard. “What?”
“ I said 12,000. That is cheap.”
“No, Monty, no way. My entire budget is $15,000. That is out of the question.”
My firm voice got Monty’s attention.
“OK, I’ll make it 10,000. You gotta a deal.”
I shook my head silently, my brows furrowed at this unexpected hurdle in cost. Monty pursed his lips obstinately.
“I can’t go lower than $9,000,” he muttered sullenly.
“5,000 – take it or leave it,” I said, with a firm resilient voice.
“F*** that, Mr. C, you gotta be kiddin’. I can’t make a living on that. I‘ve got bills to pay, my man. You’re in the military. The Navy will take care of you. Not this nigga. I could be sleeping on the streets tomorrow.”
Monty gave a hard, bitter laugh that dripped with self-mockery. The sardonic edge to his tone gave me visions of Monty teetering on the edge of eviction, eating pork and beans with the homeless. Did I have the heart to go ahead? I sighed with exasperation as my determination lost its momentum.
“All right, 7,500, but don’t push me, Monty because that is the absolute most I will give you.”
Monty had learned at every point in his life that it was unforgivable for a black man to show emotion. Whatever the blows life dealt him, he had to accept the pain stoically and carry on. But the travails of the black man had taken less traumatic turns over the past several years and now it was no sin for a black to show emotion. A ripple of relief quivered through his sagging shoulders that imperceptibly lost their droop as they were fortified by the hope infused by my words. Where was this leading me now?
Monty seemed ready to gallop another mile, his thoughts forging ahead onto untrodden territory.
“Hey C, my man, how about HVAC? Why don’t I do it all for $15,000?”
I was more than mildly irritated. Had he listened to anything I said before? How do you deal with exasperating rascals who never accepted the word “No”?
“Come on, Mr C, it’ll raise the value of your house."
Monty had renovated several houses for millionaire realtor Debby Jackson that had been so torn apart that sane people wouldn’t dare step inside those structures for fear of collapse.Monty and his partner Gameel performed miracles overnight.When they were through, the rickety dwellings often looked healthier than newly built houses.
“Monty,” my voice was icy with annoyance and intransigence. “I do believe you want to do the work I assigned you. If you try your luck too far, you just might find yourself out of a job.”
Monty stared at me as if I was some alien landed on the earth. He opened his mouth to carry on his vein of conversation, then thought better of it and shut up. I guess being street-smart also involves a shrewd assessment of when to leave off bargaining and accept what is offered. As I could see, his only saving grace but a considerable one, was that he was a decent contractor when he wasn't drunk or high on drugs. But more often than not, he was high on crack, booze, or both. There were the occasional days that he combined a deadly cocktail of crack, whiskey and a cigarette dipped in embalming fluid and came to work with bloodshot eyes and horribly slurred speech. And then his mind would definitely not be on Lebaum Street, but out somewhere in the choppy Atlantic and his work would be crappy at best.
Jimmy Davis was to be the carpenter. I scrutinized with eagle eye, this light-skinned man not quite a six-footer, with an unkempt, steely gray beard and a bald pate he insisted on keeping covered with a hat even when he was indoors. I got the impression of a man who had allowed life to pass him by swiftly and inconsequentially so that now, with the best years behind him, there was nothing to write home about, nothing at all. He walked with a slight hump on his back but the steely bands of muscle on his forearms told their own powerful story. Despite his premature aging, he still had strength in his body and I would put it to good use, I promised myself silently. As I discovered later, for some obscure, unfathomable reason, women found Jimmy charming. Maybe it was his caramel-colored complexion or the obvious masculinity he exuded with his wild facial hair. Several times, I myself was witness to his obvious popularity with the women of the streets in the area. Once we had stopped at the traffic lights at Congress Heights, and Jimmy seated by my side waved and hollered at all the sleazy-looking women who passed by. I felt distinctly uncomfortable as the women all showered him with attention while also gazing at me with obvious curiosity.
“Hey,” he yelled at the top of his lungs at an olive-skinned female in a skin-tight skimpy skirt and see-through blouse. “You look mighty fine today.” She looked his way and then smiled in recognition. “Well thank you. I’ve been missing you, Baby,” she responded loud in a sultry voice dripping with invitation.
“You know I’ve missed you and I haven’t gotten none since. Will you give me some of that fine cooty, baby?” I noted with rising concern that Jimmy was getting aroused. For the love of heaven, please let the lights come on. But they seemed in no hurry and neither was the hooker. She leant against the truck door, her cheap, strong perfume wafting into the truck. She carried on huskily, “I’m savin’ it for you, hon. Hey, who’s that driving the truck?”
“Oh that’s my bodyguard, Jet Li. He won’t mess with you.”
At that moment, I could have cheerfully throttled Jimmy, and, as if to prevent any further escalation of unwanted passions, the lights changed and I pushed the gas pedal with all my might. Jimmy chuckled as if he could read my thoughts.
In spite of all these diversions, I was quite impressed with Jimmy’s philosophy on life and felt that John had picked the right man to be the carpenter. Jimmy explained to me how it important it was to lay out the floor plan and to measure everything to the “T.”
I was particularly taken up with his comparison of carpentry and construction to a chess game, stressing on patience, planning and concentration. “You can’t just go for the easy option. You have to go for what’s beyond and you have to get a feel for what’s happening on the board.” So, true, I thought to myself, when you take a step back and try to think objectively, it all made a lot of sense. I could see that it all required calculation and careful planning.
Jeff Bishop, the sunny-tempered, pleasant-faced former crack addict whose plump mien always lights up with a smile, is a pipe fitter by trade. Never daunted by squalid, filthy environs, he religiously lives by his motto: nothing is too heavy or too messy for him to deal with. His job may not rank too high in prestige, but his skills are undeniably in high demand and he has no qualms about charging an extremely high premium for it.
He is indiscriminate about location and takes on plumbing jobs in every nook and cranny of the city, and when it gets to the sewer business, the mess is unbelievable. Yet, he is able to take in all in his stride, after all, what matter, if in the end it brought him the green bucks. Jeff has volumes of such squalid stories in his memory bank he would relate to create a diversion in the monotony of the tedious renovations. He told grimy, sordid stories of working on the condos on Danbury St SW, near South Capitol Street where sewer lines of individual buildings were never connected to the city's sewer lines. And so it happened that for a good 20 years, the waste from the bathrooms ran into the ground and eventually seeped through the basement walls, oftentimes creating visible pools of sewage. Homeowners had to install a sump pump that worked 24 hours a day to pump raw sewage out of the basement and out onto the back alley. The ensuing revolting situation defied description, with toilets stopping up and drinking water becoming contaminated. Eventually the city gave up and demolished the buildings. Jeff spoke of stories that the city had worked out a deal with Centex Homes, an established builder known for constructing upper middle class town houses in the past. It would a first for Centex Homes to build housing in the city and it would not be long before they realized this was a different kettle of fish. I was going to make Jeff responsible for unclogging my drains, for installing two new bathrooms and for replacing faulty plumbing. Intuitively I knew he would do a good job.
As for myself, being the homeowner, I had to be anywhere and everywhere at the same time. Granted that I had no handy skills, but I would assist wherever and whenever needed. Mine was the vision that guided the whole project, and so, with aesthetic sense bolstered by exotic imagination, I would be the architect and lay out the floor plan for our new and improved basement. Furthermore, being the prospective owner I would have to make tough decisions. The final ruling on all things would rest with me. Not that I had the faintest idea how it would work out with this motley crew, but I was determined to make it work. I would learn with experience how to be persuasive, friendly, and helpful and be the firm boss at the same time. My truck would come in handy in getting the supplies together and I would help each one when the need arose.
When the renovation crew assembled in my presence, they were all eager to get going – the sooner they started to work, the sooner they would be paid. Only Jimmy seemed inclined to delay - as long as I didn't mind loaning him money to go down to the liquor store to get his malt liquor. Jimmy would visit any store so long as it sold liquor but he preferred the one on Southern Ave on the Maryland side simply because it was cheaper and the beer was chilled.
With all the hiccups of getting started, we finally got started. The initial task was to clear the house of all the junk. The old 1970s era RCA CRT TV set with gargantuan speakers on both sides had to go. As cumbersome as a solid desk, it seemed ten times heavier when we tried to carry it out. The threadbare sofas, the stained chairs, the worn and creaky beds, the dust-laden drapes – everything, just everything had to go. It did not make it easier for us with all the souvenirs, photographs, and trinkets of the past lying around. Looking at them, I felt an interloper. Technically, the house had to be free and clear of all items before we closed the deal and Tracy promised do handle this without delay. Although I rather disapproved of the unsentimental and flatly impersonal approach, I could see she didn’t care about the memories anymore and wanted to move on and leave the past well behind. John, on the other hand, seemed inclined to take time to reminisce, to go over stuff slowly, reflectively and keep the past snugly tucked in the present. I felt distinctly uncomfortable as I stood watching John pore over old scrapbooks and photo albums, talking to himself, tracing his fingers over images, smiling at times, and then allowing the tears to stream down his cheeks. It seemed obvious that he missed Anne – the only mother he had ever known. Yet, for all the love and caring Anne had given him, John had not made anything worthwhile of his life. He never reciprocated Anne’s affection by helping out in the house or by doing things for her. He did not finish school and became a further burden as a school dropout. Lacking commitment and reliability, he could not hold a job. Having taken one disappointment after another from John, Sonny grew disillusioned and finally put him away as belonging to the dregs of humankind. However, he lived with Anne and Sonny until he got himself involved with a woman in Washington DC when he was in his twenties and got her pregnant with his child. He could not bring himself to marry her and settle down into stable married life. He kept himself aloof from long-term relationships until he traveled to North Carolina when in his thirties and married a woman there and had more children. Yet, even then, the shifty, vacillating streak in his character surfaced and he was unable to hold onto a job for long and was soon on the brink of poverty with several mouths to feed. Weak and easily inflamed, John turned on the people closest to him, got himself arrested for battery and assault, and spent several months in prison. His marriage was a farce and his children disliked him. After sixteen years, in 1992, he decided to break ties with North Carolina and get back to Washington DC. Now, as John sat lost amidst the memories, I could almost feel sorry for him.
I had agreed to rent two monstrous forty-foot dumpsters as an incentive to move things along but I had not inquired the price beforehand. I was, thus, flabbergasted when I got the bill. Each dumpster was $450. It took no more than a couple of hours to fill them to the brim with broken down furniture, a rusted up refrigerator, a tired and worn out stove, faded and torn clothes.I was paying almost a thousand dollars just for trash removal!Oh, well, I thought. It had to be done anyway. Apart from paying for the dumpsters, I was determined to make myself scarce and to let Tracy and John handle the clearing. I didn’t want to intrude on their privacy. Letting go of the past, unraveling memories was such a personal thing. The only humane thing was to leave them alone.
After the house was emptied of trash, I began the renovation process in earnest. It started with a bang, literally. It was 5.30 and the late evening sun was filtering in through the windows.Blam!Blam! The blast of a double-barrel gun pierced the relative quiet of the sunset hour. The men kept on working as if gunshots were part of a normal workday. I stared out the window, my nerves tingling with a rush if anxiety. A
police cruiser came by and parked across the road. I moved away form view. The best thing was to stay away from it all.
My thoughts slipped back to Southern Avenue, the notorious line of demarcation between Maryland and the District of Columbia. In the past, drug dealers and punks would gather in this area furtively, and handle their dealings in stealth and silence. They were always alert to cruisers passing by. When suspicions were aroused and the police turn up to investigate, the drug dealers simply cross the border from DC to Maryland or vice versa. This worked amazingly well for the bad guys and there was precious little that law enforcement could do but to stare in utter amazement. Sometimes the drug dealers would unceremoniously run into a wooded area or through a footpath that snaked between brick houses. After all, they knew all the shortcuts even better than the cops. They knew the art of self-preservation like the palm of their hands. They knew the places where the lights were out, which houses were vacant, and which blocks were rarely patrolled by the police. And the footpath was littered with debris as if a tornado had rolled through and picked up everything in its path. Empty bottles of Richards Wild Irish Rose, malt liquor bottles and folded bottle caps used to cook heroin. An empty $10 bag of crack cocaine was tossed carelessly nearby. The drug dealers took over the border community like a monstrous grip on a piece of fragile ceramic dish. There was a time that the footpaths were the quickest and most convenient connection between DC and Maryland. Now it was too dangerous to transit it even in broad daylight.
As I moved away from the window, I was greeted by a choking cloud of dust. It was as if a tornado swept through, and I calmly waited for a few minutes for it to blow over and for the cloud to settle. I stood by and watched John repeatedly bashing a sledge hammer against the wall, his face a caked mask in a thick mat of gray and brown. As I stood at the door, he continued as if he didn’t see me. Then I called his name a couple of times. Finally he turned to look at me and smiled from ear to ear. He glanced down at his watch. We were supposed to go to Home Depot that evening, but I figured—what the heck—I would join him. I had a tough day at work and smashing the heavy sledge hammer against the brittle plaster and plywood was amazingly therapeutic.
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