It was a Saturday afternoon, and I was trapped in my bedroom, waiting for the plumber to leave so I could sneak into the kitchen and make a protein shake. I could still hear him grunting and groaning under the sink like a walrus in a crawlspace. Through my bedroom window—across the little atrium separating me from the scene of domestic violation—I could see his open toolbox: a chrome battlefield of wrenches, pipes, and filthy rags sprawled across the linoleum like the aftermath of a plumbing apocalypse.
My mother tiptoed into my room and whispered, “It’s so nice of him to do this.”
I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He’s not charging me,” she said with the glee of someone who’d just gamed capitalism.
“Of course he’s charging you.”
She shook her head. “He’s a friend.”
“You just met him.”
“His name is Paul Bergdorf. One of my girlfriends introduced me.”
“Mom,” I said, “this isn’t going to end well.”
“Keep your voice down,” she hissed, which is parental shorthand for I know you’re right but don’t ruin it.
Bergdorf shouted from the kitchen that he was finished. My mother floated toward the sound of her rescuer while I picked up my barbell and started doing reverse curls—the exercise of choice for sons on the verge of moral intervention.
From my vantage point through the sliding glass door, I saw the man emerge from under the sink. Paul Bergdorf was a specimen of middle-aged decay: a big gut pressing against his jeans like bread dough rising from its pan, grease-slick hair combed over his scalp in defiance of reality, and a face red and puffy as if carved from boiled ham. His eyes were glazed, his nose bulbous, his stubble crawling toward his ears. The man radiated cologne, sweat, and failure.
He wiped his hands on a rag, tested the faucet, and said proudly, “All fixed. Now before I go, I may not be the best-looking man in town, but I can make a hell of a steak. I’m talking big, thick, juicy steaks—barbecue the way it’s meant to be done.”
“That’s nice,” my mother said, “but no thanks.”
I continued curling, the barbell becoming heavier with every syllable of his pitch. My forearms burned, but my fury was burning hotter.
“I’ll get the best cuts,” he said, grinning. “You’ve never had steak like mine.”
“That’s very kind, but I’m busy.”
“Just pick a weekend. I’ll do the rest.”
That did it. I charged down the hallway, forearms pumped, veins bulging, looking like an interventionist deity of adolescent righteousness.
“How many times,” I asked, “does she have to say no?”
Bergdorf stepped back, rag in hand, suddenly less swaggering. “Hey, let’s cool it, kid. I just wanted to ask your mom out. I’ve been working on this sink all day—it’s the least you could let me do.”
“If you want to fix sinks for free, that’s your business,” I said, “but you’re entitled to nothing—not steak, not gratitude, not my mother.”
“I just wanted to barbecue,” he mumbled.
“Congratulations,” I said. “You’ve told everyone within a five-mile radius that you’re a steak virtuoso. Now leave.”
Bergdorf, perspiring and wounded, gathered his tools, slammed the toolbox shut, and stomped out to his truck. The engine roared, the tires squealed, and the house filled with the lingering scent of sweat, smoke, and Stetson cologne.
My mother stood in the kitchen, arms crossed. “You scared him away.”
“Damn right.”
“The neighbors say you’re getting too big and too scary. Maybe you should cool it for a while.”
“I’m not cooling anything.”
“Sal Tedesco says his son sees you working out with some crazy football player.”
“His name is John Matuszak,” I said. “And he’s not crazy.”
I could still smell Bergdorf’s presence hanging in the air like a curse. “God, he stinks,” I said. “That smell’s never leaving this house. Just hire a plumber next time, okay?”
I retreated to my room, slammed the door, and sat on the bed. My forearms throbbed. My conscience twitched. I turned to Master Po, my invisible therapist and ancient Chinese philosopher in exile.
“Was I wrong to drive that man away?” I asked.
“Your mother was managing the situation,” said Po, his voice calm as incense smoke. “You intervened because you lack patience—and because control soothes your fear.”
“But he wouldn’t leave.”
“Everything leaves in time,” said Po. “You must learn the difference between protecting and meddling. The sage does not seize control of others’ lives; he tidies his own.”
He glanced around my room: dirty gym clothes strewn across the floor, cracked tiles, a broken window patched with a Cap’n Crunch cereal box.
“Grasshopper,” he said, “before you become your mother’s moral custodian, try cleaning your own temple. It is written: the wise man polishes his soul before critiquing someone else’s plumbing.”
Cinemorphosis 
Leave a comment