STRIP SEARCH

After saying he would locate an experienced, reasonably priced back-up helper sometime this week, my "Polish brother" Handyman today brings in a Romanian stripper (WINDOW stripper) to do some detail work: Stripping, sanding, and restoring the beautiful old oak windows, room entry arches and some spotty hardwood floor areas which have been covered by wall-to-wall carpet for as many years as I've been in that house -- almost three decades.  

Having someone here to pick up the slack in that area allows Handyman to focus on bigger projects, like drywall, leveling the kitchen floor and carpentry repairs. A few minutes after he introduces the new guy to me, Handyman excuses himself to run to Home Depot to get some supplies. Window stripper rather looks like Bluto in the Popeye cartoons -- but grayer, meaner and more fierce. Blubbery Bluto wanted to bop Popeye; NeuBluto would bludgeon him.

NeuBluto sports a volcanic eruption of salt and pepper hair and a furrowed unibrow that starts at each temple (and probably wraps around his entire scalp) and ends at his nose, forming an bushy exclamation point. His bulbous, splotchy nose suggests a propensity for barrooms and barroom brawls. Despite his harrowing demeanor, Bluto is friendly and immediately gets to work, sanding the wood in the kitchen archway leading into the dining room.  

I'm seated at the kitchen table, maybe six feet away from him, my face buried in the computer. In less than five minutes, Bluto bleats, "I got a girlfriend.  She can't keep up with me, if you know what I mean." 

He winks, I cringe. 

"I'm divorced. Twice. I got three kids." He studies me. "The youngest one, the boy, is gay." He pauses. My fingers freeze on the keyboard.  

"I don't know how he turned out gay, my other two kids are straight. I'm straight." He clearly needed to make THAT point. "But it doesn't matter to me if my son is straight or gay.  He's my son and I love him. And I'd fight anyone who tried to make trouble for him."

At this point, I hit the "s" key 35 times without stopping.  I didn't know what to do.  He's sending me a message. But what do I DO with that?  Say something?  Is he fishing? Is it code for "I got a gay son,  I got YOUR number!" 

Then, I'm thinking, it's none of his business, I've known him five minutes, this isn't friendship, he's working for me and...uh-oh, he's gonna tell Handyman. And then what's to become of our "I'm your Polish brother" riff?  Our chatty lunches?  Our male bro' to bro' bonding? 

Will he spook and run?  Will it ruin our working relationship? 

I HAVE AN ENTIRE HOUSE TO REHAB AND WHAT IF HANDYMAN WALKS OUT NOW?

Mind you, at this moment, as Bluto takes a breath, I've played this out -- twice -- in my mind within twenty seconds. 

Just as I'm about to say something in response, Bluto shifts gears. "When I said I'd fight to protect my son if anyone gave him crap for being gay, I mean it. "

I smile.  I'm thinking, this rough-and-tough bulldog is a softie! 

Bluto scrapes the arch wood with even more vigor. "I'm not afraid of a fight, I can tell you that. In fact, I have to go to court next week.  I hit a guy with a baseball bat."

I winced at the visual. I could almost feel the air swirl as the bat grazed my forehead, as I stumble to find something suitable in response that won't get me hit with a bat.

"Uh, why did you hit the guy with a baseball bat?"

"I think he was gay and he was coming on to me."

Clearly, our 'gay son' bonding moment is over and I quietly close the laptop so Bluto can't see my multiple gay.com chatroom conversations. 

I say something idiotic, like, "It's really serious, hitting someone with a baseball bat."

"You got that right. It gets better! Turns out, the guy is a cop."

"I guess it you're going to hit anyone with a baseball bat, a cop would be the last person to do it to, don't you think?"

"Well, yeah, but how could I know? He wasn't wearing a uniform."

"Was he wearing anything?"

Bluto gives me a dirty look and I start dusting my computer top with my fist.

Bluto resumes scraping the wood. "It doesn't look good for me. But, you know, I'd do it again if I had the chance. It wasn't my fault. I was...provoked."

I don't think I had blinked for about five minutes at that point. I nervously looked at my watch, wanting Handyman to COME BACK NOW. He had only been gone twenty minutes. In the dead air of silence, it was just Bluto and myself. I think he heard my beads of sweat hit the computer. I jump up from my chair, asking him, "Would you like a beverage?"

I am NOT getting on this guy's bad side. I'll send a car and a driver for him the morning if that keeps him happy and bat-free in my direction. Better yet, I'll give him double his pay NOT to come back.

"Nah, thanks." He pauses, squinting his eyes. "You're not married, are you?"

I shake my head, no.  

"I didn't think so."

It's only 10:30AM.