If I Had Any Nerves

Johnny bleached the shower yesterday. Because –

Hey, speaking of which, can I tell you what is worse than hiring an unreliable contractor? Working for one.

I mean, it’s unpleasant and all to live in a construction site for weeks or months while a fella you hired in good faith is in absentia. But how ‘bout if you wake up every day and get ready for work, only to be told to stand down because “something came up”? Or how bout if you’re not even told, just never picked up when you’re supposed to be? And how ‘bout if, when you finally do get to go back to finish, he screws off, and you’re the one who has to listen to the homeowners complaints?

Fun, huh? And that’s not even to mention the paychecks that don’t just automatically arrive in the mailbox every Friday.

So anyway, Johnny bleached the shower yesterday, because here’s what happened:

Last week, Johnny wasn’t feeling well. Very not well, in a manner he would neither want me to disclose, nor would you want to read. (Or, rather, nor should you want to read – judging from my responses to yesterday's post, some of you people are sick, sick, sick.). Let’s just say his euphemism was discomposing.

He worked through it, hoped it would go away, and when it finally didn’t he asked me to make a doctor’s appointment for him on Saturday morning.

Coincidentally, Bossman started feeling poorly in the exact same way on Thursday afternoon. So poorly, in fact, that they quite simply had to knock off early on Friday. And trust me when I promise you that discomposing euphemisms aren’t contagious.

The plan was for Johnny to see the doctor Saturday morning, then call Bossman and go to work to finish what they were supposed to have got done the day before. But when Bossman heard the result of Johnny's examination, he exclaimed “Oh my lord, I have that?” -- and took promptly to his bed. Well, first to the internet for scare-mongering, and then to bed.

(I’m still not telling. Suffice to say we don’t know how it happened, he’s on antibiotics, and it’s not an STD. And, if Bossman really has it, he most certainly did not catch it from Johnny.)

So Johnny recommended that, if Bossman genuinely believed he had the same condition, he should see his doctor right away and start a course of Cipro his own self (no, it isn't Anthrax, either). If he did so, Johnny was sure, they’d both be well enough to work on Monday morning.

Monday rolls around, Johnny's up at five and ready for the Bossman to pick him up at six. Six o'clock, no Bossman. Six fifteen, no Bossman. Johnny calls, no answer. 6:45, 7:30, same.

At 7:45 the phone rang. It was Andy. Sober! He was getting out of work in fifteen minutes and needed Johnny’s help picking up a piece of furniture. Johnny said he didn’t know if he could help or not.

Andy arrived at 8:00, they waited until 8:15, called Bossman one last time, and left. Two hours and fifteen minutes after Bossman was supposed to be here.

At 8:30, Bossman called. I gave him Andy’s cell phone number. I hoped perhaps he’d be picking Johnny up at 9:00 or something but, I found out later, no. He had “a lot of things going on,” he said, and would not be working that day after all.

Like what? I asked Johnny later, when I heard.

“I don’t know,” says Johnny. “Maybe he’s going to see his doctor.”

Yeah, well, maybe.

I don’t know whether Bossman saw the doc or not, but I do know he was supposed to be here at 6:00 again this morning and I know, again, he ain’t. I won’t go so far as to say I hope that Bossman’s euphemism dries up and falls off.

But I do hope it discomposes him a little.


Huh. Remember the shower? This was a post about the shower. I guess we’ll have to wait for it to come around again.

In the meantime, anybody want to finish that quote in the title? For one last pre-Thanksgiving POEM CONTEST?