Coffeehouse Chronicles: Partners, Peppers, and Power Tools

What up, Chroniclers? Got yer cup?

Pull up a chair because I've got updates. Apparently, retirement is still a concept I'm experimenting with.

As most of you know, I went back to work part-time for the Department. For those who didn't know, SURPRISE! I'm helping with backgrounds and trying to get more people into the hopper. So far, nobody has escorted me out of the building, which I choose to interpret as success.

Recently, the Department made a change. Officially, it was not a knee-jerk reaction. Unofficially, it was absolutely a knee-jerk reaction after some knucklehead out there did something spectacularly dumb.

The new arrangement has us working with partners.

Now, before you feel sorry for me, my partner is my buddy, Ed Roman.

Basically, we're handling either his cases or my cases. Whoever owns the case gets to pretend they're in charge while the other guy drives Miss Daisy. It's actually worked out pretty well.

A week into this new setup, we stopped by Walnut to say hi to some of my desk-dwelling former coworker peeps. A few of them noticed I wasn't behind the wheel.

"Where's your car?" they asked.

I explained the partner system.

One of them looked at me and said, "So how's that working out for you and Ed?"

Turns out it's a blast.

Yeah, it slows things down a little. The Department essentially has two people doing one job. But Ed and I get along great and spend most of the day laughing.

In fact, the Department may have made a terrible mistake.

At one point during the afternoon, I heard Ed humming a tune from our childhood. Then I realized what it was.

Without even thinking, he started singing the first few letters:

"R…”

"R... A… G…”

And then I immediately chimed in.

"R... A… G… G… M… O… P… P…"

“RAGMOP!”

The next thing you know, there’re two grown men in a government vehicle singing a song from the Cecil and Beany cartoon show.

Then we graduated to Super Chicken.

And finally, because we are true professionals, we finished with Tom Slick.

We looked at one another and burst out laughing.

For those of you under fifty, this probably sounds like two escaped patients from a memory-care facility. But for those of a certain age, you understand. Saturday morning cartoons were an event, not a streaming category.

Our childhoods were glorious.

Another thing I've learned about Ed: the man loves In-N-Out Burger.

And when I say loves it, I mean if they offered a loyalty program based on emotional commitment, he'd own stock.

His order sounds less like fast food and more like somebody reading a medical chart:

Double-Double. Protein style. Mustard fried. Pickles. Onions.

Plus a cheeseburger made exactly the same way.

And an extra-large Diet Coke.

Because apparently that's where we're drawing the line.

While we're eating, he slides two little ketchup cups over to me for my fries and offers me some of the yellow peppers he’s picked from the condiment counter.

He looks hopeful.

His mouth is full of burger, pepper juice, and dreams.

I have to explain to Ed that I eat like an elderly woodland creature with digestive sensitivities. Those peppers may taste wonderful now, but six hours later they'll have me questioning every life choice that brought me to that table.

I'll stick with Chipotle.

Minus the peppers.

Minus the suffering.

Minus the emergency meetings with my gastrointestinal department.

Meanwhile, the HB and Loops (you remember the Duchess of Deadlines, right?) have finally moved offices.

Apparently they grew tired of sharing parking with homeless encampments, shopping carts, and whatever fresh episode of The Walking Dead was happening outside their old building.

Their new office is over by the college, which naturally transformed John and me into a moving company.

My primary responsibility remains what I've affectionately dubbed:

Sparkletts Water Bottle Replacement Technician.

It's a prestigious position.

Somebody has to do it.

I also spent a day setting up the HB's office computer. Since they're a tax office, I figured we'd try to make life difficult for any aspiring cybercriminal driving by looking to harvest tax returns from a parked Corolla.

Then came alarm systems.

Then cameras.

Then door-entry codes.

Then changing door-entry codes so all the people who helped install everything couldn't continue wandering in whenever they felt nostalgic.

Basically, I'm glorified tech support with family rates.

The HB, in her endless quest for organization, decided she needed a rolling file cabinet under her desk.

She ordered one from Amazon.

Naturally, it arrived in approximately 4,372 pieces.

"Now what am I supposed to do with this little thing?"

I walked into the living room and found her surrounded by boards, screws, mystery hardware, and that tiny Allen wrench manufacturers include as punishment.

Every so often I'd poke my head around the corner.

"Need help?"

"No."

Five minutes later:

"Need help?"

"No."

Ten minutes later:

"Need—"

"I SAID NO."

Then she hit a snag.

One of the little hardware widgets didn't look like the picture. After some investigation, we discovered the factory had cut the channel in exactly the wrong spot.

So now she had a file cabinet project dead in the water.

I checked the paperwork and discovered this company's warehouse was practically around the corner from our house.

She called them.

Explained the problem.

The customer service rep said,

"Not a problem, Mrs. HB. We'll take care of you."

And they did.

By sending an entirely new file cabinet.

Not the part.

The whole cabinet.

The HB looked at me.

Then looked at the extra cabinet.

Then looked back at me.

And said, "If this part had been built correctly, I'd have two file cabinets for the price of one."

I immediately responded with my best Denzel impression from 2 Guns: "I know a guy."

My guy is my pal, Dave Barker.

Pictures were exchanged.

Dave replied as expected: "No problem. I'll see you Saturday."

Dave's basically a woodworking wizard.

I rolled up to the house, strolled into his garage with the defective cabinet part, and Dave immediately began explaining the process.

Then he explained it again.

Then one more time. Just to make sure.

Meanwhile, I'm standing there thinking:

"Buddy, I don't need to know how the sausage is made. I just want breakfast."

Dave is a "measure twice, cut once" guy.

Actually, scratch that.

Dave is a "measure four times, test on scrap wood, rethink his life choices, measure again, then cut once" guy.

He carefully tested the cut on scrap material.

Didn't like it.

Adjusted.

Tested again.

Liked it.

Measured the real piece again.

Adjusted the blade.

Measured again.

Checked the moons and stars.

Probably consulted a druid.

Then finally made the cut.

Perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

While I was there, I started talking to Dave about making one of those giant wooden welcome signs people put next to their front doors.

You know the ones.

Five feet tall.

Swap out the little "O" depending on the season.

Pumpkin.

Snowflake.

Flower.

Flag.

Whatever.

Dave immediately launched into an explanation about wood species, grain patterns, moisture content, and where to buy materials.

To be honest, all I heard was Charlie Brown's teacher:"Wah wah wah wah wah wah."

Because in my world, wood falls into two categories:

1. Wood...and

2. Fancy wood.

I just want to build the sign.

Sure, I could probably buy one online for less money.

But where's the fun in that?

Reasons to Build It Myself

1. I get to spend a day hanging out with Dave in his garage, inhaling sawdust and pretending I know what I'm doing.

2. It'll be sturdier than most of the stuff I saw online and probably survive several actual seasons.

3. Most importantly, I'll be a hero to Dave's wife, Marcia, because Dave will spend the entire day focused on a project instead of wandering into the house every twelve minutes asking: "Hey, whatcha doing?"

Plus, I'm pretty sure his dogs like me better than him anyway.

Well, Chroniclers, that's all from this edition.

I'm off to sing cartoon theme songs, avoid hot peppers, assemble office furniture, and continue proving that retirement is apparently just regular work with fewer meetings.

Until next time...

You know what to do. Drink 'em if you got 'em.

#coffeehousechronicles