Page 20 of Error Handling

I shrug. “It was an honest mistake.” I maintain a wide stance and a sturdy grip on the ladder while Kahlil works on unfastening a burned-out florescent tube.

“Man.” Kahlil tsks and shakes his head. The inch-tall hair on the top of his head doesn’t budge. He’s growing it out in preparation for dreads. “You didn’t think to ask her last name before you committed to a date?”

“Her name was Sarah, and she was looking for the other half of her blind date. What was I supposed to think?” And she was beautiful. And I wanted to believe luck had shined upon me.

But the more I thought about it over the weekend, the better I felt about how things went down. I’m headed to Puerto Rico. Now isn’t the time to start a new relationship. I don’t need a beautiful, charming brunette to distract me from my dream of starting my own house flipping business. I’ve worked too hard saving up my seed money to change directions for a fling. Butthese aren’t the kinds of conversations guys have while changing lightbulbs in a public space.

“I’d have asked for her last name,” Kahlil says. He frees the tube and lowers it to me. I set it on the work cart and then grab a fresh tube. I do all this while maintaining a steadying hand on the ladder.

We’re the only two in the Herschell Conference Room. Mikey, our boss, sent us to the student center to change bulbs in a dozen or so rooms. An easy morning’s work.

Round metal tables with faux wood tops dot the space and are surrounded by heavy, padded chairs. A thin chair rail breaks up the walls. White squares on the upper half frame student paintings and photography.

I can’t imagine paying thousands of dollars for an art degree. Everyone wants a job that allows them to play all day. Isn’t that what artists do?

I prefer objective work. Unscrew a burned-out light bulb. Screw in a new bulb. Flip the light switch. Success! Versus the work-life of an artist: 1) write a screenplay, 2) share it with the world, 3) half the world loves it, and the other half bashes it on Rotten Tomatoes. Success?

As much as I enjoy consuming art, particularly music, I’ll stick to measurable tasks, the success of which is easy to judge, like a circuit that’s either on or off. Either the faucet works, or it doesn’t. Either the toilet flushes or it doesn’t. Simple.

“What did Mikey say when you told him you botched his match-making attempt?” Kahlil says.

Mikey, our boss, is Sarah Ramsey’s brother. The Sarah who thought it was funny to wish me the runs.

“I haven’t told him,” I say.

“He’s going to find out eventually. You dissed his sister. How do you think that’s gonna go?”

“I’m sure he’ll forgive me when I show him her rude text.”

Kahlil finishes removing the third fluorescent tube and hands it to me. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Is that how it goes?”

“I have no idea.” I hand him a fresh tube and Kahlil goes to work installing it. “All I know is she was mad. I didn’t bother to make amends. I don’t want to date a woman who thinks other people’s illnesses are fodder for sick jokes.”

Kahlil laughs. “I see what you did there.”

I didn’t say it to be funny. After mentally replaying my comment, I still don’t see the humor.

“Sick jokes,” Kahlil says. “It has a double meaning.”

I furrow my brow at my coworker.

“What am I going to do with you, man? You don’t even get your own jokes.” He sighs and continues fiddling with the bulb. It’s giving him trouble. “You’re not worried about losing your job?” he asks after finally popping the bulb into the sockets.

“Why would I lose my job?” My arm is getting tired from holding the ladder. A small annoyance. Much less than the annoyance I would have endured if Mikey had sent me on a clogged toilet run. College students are no higher on Maslow’s hierarchy than toddlers. Their lack of bathroom hygiene is shockingly similar.

“Family is family,” Kahlil says. “He might feel protective. You stood up his sister. That’s pretty bad.”

“It was a mistake,” I reiterate. “And I may not be employed here much longer anyway.”

Kahlil drops his hands to the top of the ladder and looks at me disapprovingly. “You aren’t talking about taking that job in Puerto Rico, are you?”

I shrug.

“You need to stay here in my hometown, in the best city on the southern coast.”

I can’t argue. Charleston is the best southern city I’ve visited, and I’ve been to several: Houston, Tampa, Nashville, Raleigh. I’ve traveled the country doing small jobs for friends, family, or customer referrals. This is the longest I’ve stayed in one place since I graduated from high school. I’ve been at College of Charleston for three years, and it’s allowed me to sock away a large sum of cash.

“The job in Puerto Rico pays eighty thousand a year,” I say.