An Eye on Things
An Eye on Things
The delicate featured man with the salt and pepper hair grinned at me. From one knee, I returned a whisper of a smile. A small drop of perspiration skittered down my cheek. I hesitated, then slid my hand between his legs toward his inner thighs. An inch or two below his crotch, I stopped.
The smile vanished from his face.
“Don’t stop there,” he said.
I bit my lip and my eyes rose from his waistband to his sneer.
“It’ll be too short,” he continued. “Here, Rick, let me show you.”
I held the tape measure between thumb and forefinger. Vince plucked it from my hand and I stumbled back.
“Stand still,” he said, “or I won’t get a good measurement.”
As I stood rigid, Vince jammed the tape measure home. My voice rose two octaves.
“Hey!” I said.
“That’s how you measure inseams,” he replied. “A good eye and a steady hand.” “Try again – and don’t make me sorry I hired you.”
My first job. Rinaldo’s Tuxedo. A rickety building at the end of the bus route. Every weekend, nine to five. Pressing jackets, sewing pants, measuring crotches.
College was expensive.
When the measuring lesson finished, Vince grunted and climbed into the store’s display window. He opened a belt - and pants dropped around milky white ankles.
“Got to get these mannequins changed,” he said. “Lots of customers this afternoon.”
I took a step toward the workroom at the back of the store, but Vince held his palm up.
“Stop right there,” he said. “You know anything about tools?”
The closest I had ever come to a tool was walking past my dad while he hung pictures in the living room. But, I needed this job. “A little,” I lied.
“Good,” he said. “I’ve got an assignment for you.”
He laid the mannequin on its side, bare bottom facing the window. A little blue haired lady strolled past, stopped, tilted her head to get a better look. Vince tapped on the glass, waved. Her face red, she scooted away, hands fluttering.
“Not a bad looking broad,” he said, jiggling his eyebrows.
“Vince, she’s probably eighty. What’re you thinking.”
“What I’m always thinking!” he said, eyebrows arched.
He laughed and slipped his hand into his pants. “Okay, back to the tools…”
He pulled out two twenties and shoved them into my hand.
“Know where Stan’s Hardware is?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Buy me a drill with a bit that can make a hole the size of a dime.”
“Now?” I asked. “What about the tuxes for the church show?”
“Got it handled,” Vince replied. “You just get that drill - and Rick…
“Yeah?”
“…if you’re not back before pickup time, don’t bother coming back at all!”
Stan’s was a dozen blocks away. I wasn’t sure whether it would be quicker to walk or to grab a bus. As I stepped outside, my dilemma was solved. To the left, a block away, six green beasts lumbered out of the bus barn. Exhaust fumes swirled about their tires and curled into the cool morning sky. One by one, they rumbled onto the boulevard and motored toward me. As they approached, their speed and momentum increased.
The race to the bus stop was on!
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the lead bus gaining on me. My legs churned on the pavement as I attempted to out race it. It bore down upon me - and thundered past, spewing exhaust fumes into my lungs and street grime onto my clothes!
The city’s bus drivers are in a perpetual contest in which they receive points for each missed, splashed or misdirected pedestrian. If you’re not waiting at the bus stop with arm raised, the driver will blast past you.
Gasping for air, I was twenty feet from the stop when the second bus roared by, an indistinct blur. Chest heaving, I again glanced back. The third bus was closing fast, its driver’s eyes slit in determination. Missing three buses would not only be an embarrassment, but would probably give this guy enough points to be “Employee of the Week.” Coiling my leg muscles, I leapt toward the stop. Raising my right arm before I landed, I insured myself a seat on that bus.
The doors whooshed open. I climbed aboard breathless, but triumphant.
“I’ll miss you next time, kid!” the driver said.
I smiled and deposited my coins.
Stan’s Hardware. Dirtiest building in the city. Dust, soot and fifty years of cross traffic had coated the original red brick with a black, tar-like substance. Afraid of being caught like an insect on flypaper, I held my arms close to my sides as I pushed open the sticky, dirt-encrusted front door. Inside, a mangy dog raised its head, summoned all its energy in a vain attempt to rise and greet me, then sank back to the sawdust-covered floor. Barrels of nails and screws competed with the sawdust and miles of tangled rope for floor space. The smell of turpentine twisted my nostrils. I attempted to step around the dog and bumped a flimsy table stacked with gears, rubber tubes and belts. The table creaked and swayed - and a precariously placed metal sprocket tilted over the side and clattered to the floor. The noise roused a lumpy figure from behind a far counter. Five feet tall, two hundred fifty pounds, wispy brown hair, stained and tattered sleeveless T-shirt – Stan.
Stan rolled through a maze of shelves and tables to assist me. As he approached, he stopped to retrieve the sprocket and I noticed his hands. Although oily and stained, his fingers were long and sensitive. They lovingly caressed the sprocket. Here were hands that found comfort in tools, hands that knew what they were doing, hands that knew drills.
“What can I do for you son?” Stan asked.
“Need a drill,” I said.
“Interesting tool.” he said. “Full of sound and fury, producing - nothing – or at least little tunnels of nothing. What’s your pleasure? A power or manual nothing maker?”
I tilted my head and squinted. “Not sure.” I answered.
“Well then, what do you intend to put nothing into?”
“Not sure.” I answered.
Stan scratched his stomach, ran a grubby hand over his chin.
I looked at my watch. I was getting nowhere talking about nothing. Time to try a new tack.
“I’ve got forty bucks,” I said. “What’ll that get me?”
“Something,” he answered.
He turned around and foraged through a cluttered table. “I know there’s one here somewhere,” he said. “I’m not one for neatness. Some of the most interesting things I’ve found - or found out – came from digging into something messy. Hey, look at this!”
“Find one?” I asked.
“No, but I’ve been looking for this carburetor for two years.” He dumped it onto a table behind him and it slowly sank from sight. Somehow, I knew it would be another two years before he found it again.
“Hey,” he said, “look at this…”
A room full of discoveries and an hour later, I bolted from the store.
Pickup time was fifteen minutes away when I scurried off the bus. Vince stood outside Rinaldo’s, one hand on the door, one hand waving frantically for me to hurry.
“C’mon, C’mon, they’ll be here any minute,” he said. He put his hand on my shoulders and shoved me into the backroom. Spreading his arms wide, he parted a row of tuxedo jackets and pointed to two spots low on the wall.
“Here and here,” he said. “Drill a hole, here and here.”
I held out the drill to show him my purchase, but he just shouted, “Here and here, right now!”
As I finished, the front door chimed.
Vince whispered to me and rubbed his hands together. “Good job. Just in time.” He used an index finger and beckoned me to follow him to the front room.
“Right on time, ladies,” said Vince to the customers who filled the store. “Been preparing for you all day. Wanted everything to be just so for St. John’s Woman’s Auxiliary.”
A slim blue-eyed blonde with a husky voice said, “Thanks for donating the tuxes for this year’s show. We’re going to look so classy.”
“My pleasure,” said Vince. “Make sure you try them on. We want to see you at your absolute best.” He lifted a tuxedo from the pickup rack and called a name. A long-legged redhead stepped forward. Vince opened the doors to the changing room and hung the tuxedo inside - on a hook directly above the holes I had drilled!
“Rick,” he said with a smile that stretched from ear to ear. “Help the rest of these lovely ladies. I’m going in back – to keep an eye on things.”
