Page 8 of Error Handling
“My low tire pressure light is on. Your brother was supposed to fix it yesterday. I haven’t heard from him.” She humphs.
“There’s probably enough air to drive to the gas station and pump it up.”
“Do you really think I could figure that out?”
“Yes, I really do. You figured out how to raise three children.”
“Your dad’s hangry but he won’t admit it. I need to feed himnow.”
“DoorDash probably delivers.”
“Pizza places won’t deliver out here, so I doubt anyone else does.”
The elevator chimes. A moment later, the doors part, releasing a family of four. The dad holds the elevator for his wife and kids, and then he scoots out of the way while I enter behind the lovely brunette.
“DoorDash delivers, I promise. Just download the app. It’s easy.”
“Someone has to drive me to my cataract surgery. Your brother won’t do it. I can’t even trust him to fill up my tires.”
“Mom, you’ll figure it out. I promise. Nothing is wrong with Dad, right? Except that he’s hangry?”
“Have you been around your dad when he’s hangry? It’s not pleasant.”
“I’m sure it isn’t, but I’m meeting someone tonight, and I really—”
“A girl?”
“May...be...,” I say slowly.
When the elevator reaches the ground floor, I file out behind the brunette. She takes off at a fast clip, her glossy hair sashaying along with her hips.
We both veer left. She lengthens her lead as we walk.
“...the first you’re telling me about her.”
I’m so enthralled by the woman’s confident walk that I missed the last thirty seconds of my mother’s comment.
“I was afraid this would happen,” she continues, unaware of my lapse in attention. “I told your dad you were going to find a girl in some faraway city, marry her, and never come home.”
“It’s just a blind date, Mom.”
My mother is silent a moment, an indication that I took the wind out of her sails. Slightly. “Well, I hope you two don’t hit it off.”
“Gee, thanks.”
I head left toward Charleston Harbor. The brunette has already turned the corner at Battery and is out of site.
“...you can work in the office as an apprentice under your dad while you get your degree. God willing, he has at least four more good years in him.”
“I don’t want to be an engineer.”
“Your brother is too busy with his tool and die company, and your sister has to stay at home with those kids. I don’t think Harv is capable of running the business, and besides, he’s not family. It would be a lot simpler to write our will if we could just give the business to you.”
“I don’t want to be an engineer,” I repeat. It doesn’t matter how many times I say it.
“Son, you’re almost thirty years old. It’s time you got a real job.”
I bristle at her comment. Being a handyman has paid my bills, and paid them well, since I graduated from high school. I’ve learned how to plumb toilets; how to wire houses; how to frame, drywall, and finish rooms; how to replace broken siding and damaged shingles. What part of that isn’t “real?”