Apprentice

I stood outside the front door and waited while someone inside opened a series of locks from top to bottom, painstakingly and slowly.

I checked my “While You Were Out” note. The message said, “Man says needs to sell house now- Mr. Voss.”

The house looked solid. Natural lap-siding gleamed with an oil coating like a good old baseball glove. A fat orange cat crouched and glared at me from a ledge on the brick chimney. This would be a nice listing.

I heard metallic clunking, clanking, and rattling from the other side of the door. Deadbolts opened, chains slid out of slots, and padlocks unhooked. At last, the door slowly opened and I was greeted by an ancient, silent woman with long white hair and otherworldly blue eyes. She didn’t respond to my introduction, and after a long gaze into my eyes, she smiled calmly, and waved me in.

She led me through the living room to the kitchen. As we slowly made our way, I admired rich paneling and hardwood floors. “HENRY!” she shrieked to no one. My heart jumped. She wandered back into the living room and sank into a straight-back rocker and stared out the window.

The kitchen wall-mounted phone was surrounded by a confetti-like spray of sticky notes covered with phone numbers, names, and indiscriminate scrawl.

I peered outside and saw a tall stooped man in overalls disappearing into a stout little shop building.

I slipped out back, and leaned in the shop doorway. “Mr. Voss?”

“You know it, son!” he said, grabbing a handsaw off a workbench. “Bring that drill, will ya?” The drill was an old brace-and-bit with big wood-knob handles. It lay among a neat display of chisels, hand planes, and antique tools in perfect condition.

“Let’s go!” he said. “Hang on to this two-by-two, Rob.”

He called me Rob for the next two hours, despite my protests, and we rebuilt the upper part of his redwood trellis. He ordered me around like an apprentice.

“Nice work, Ron!” he said when I drilled through a two-by-two, holding the wood-knob handle of the brace-and-bit against my chest, spinning the bit churn-like.

The man was 85 or 90 years old, with questionable mental lucidity, but a master carpenter, and in complete control of his physical abilities.

“Congratulations, Rob,” he said and shook my hand. “You got the job!”

“But I’m here to list your house for sale.”

“Did you hear me, boy? You got the job. You want it or not?”

I was unsure of my job description, Realtor, laborer, or both.

“Uh, yes,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

(To be continued………)