You weren’t my first choice. The other guy didn’t show up. Three times. Can’t say I blame him. Removing a stand of bamboo is a miserable job.
Well, I do blame him. Repeated no-shows? What a jerk.
So, on the third no-show, I called you.
You’d come highly recommended, but recommended the way someone recommends anchovies. The endorsement juxtaposed “hard-working” and “honest” with “rehab” and “recovery.” Nobody said “addict.” Nobody said “substance abuse.” They just extolled your virtues and that I should give you a chance. I heard only the subtext: trouble.
Just what I needed
Yeah, this was just what I needed: some wobbly guy who would run amok here and add to the chaos.
I’d had a run of spectacular bad luck. I was midway through a cocked-up renovation and had come up against criminal contractors, shoddy work and cavalier attitudes. One contractor had billed for city permits that didn’t exist. Another used wet framing plywood which swiftly gave rise to black mold and a bathroom demolished and redone for a third time. One guy was a “hugger.” Let’s not even talk about the electricals.
Despair drove most of my decisions. So I hired you.
Cross between a jockey and beef jerky
Thin, wiry, compact — you looked like a cross between a jockey and beef jerky. My heart sunk. I felt you were no match for the bamboo jungle that awaited you.
Tools were organized and I left you to sort it out. From the kitchen window, I watched the way you approached the job. Systematic. Organized. And diligent. The blistering August sun didn’t seem to faze you. You came back the next day. And the next. Soon, the job was done. I was impressed.
I mentioned that the fence needed painting. Thus began our routine.
Six years and counting
It’s now been 6 years and counting that you’ve been showing up here. In that time, I’ve come to know your story. Of how you found yourself in foster care at age 5. Of how your mom claimed you and your two siblings a few years later. Of the relatively happy childhood that somehow still allowed for you to start drinking at age 9. You told me all this without pity or pretense, a narrative shorn of justification.
At age 36, you and a buddy headed out for a holiday weekend. First stop was the liquor store for Canadian Club; a case. That weekend turned into a week-long blackout bender that cost you your job plus your car. The only souvenir of that binge was the receipt for the new transmission you had installed in that car, the car you were to misplace.
Permanently.
This was when you decided to get clean. Seventy days in a treatment facility saw you returned to the street utterly confident of your sobriety. You woke up in the drunk tank the next morning. Beaten up. Robbed. Bewildered.
“Powerless over alcohol”
You recount your epiphany: “That was the day that I realized that I was powerless over alcohol.”
The road to hell is slippery with good intentions.
That was when your appetites turned to crack cocaine. That’s when things got really crazy.
That was all a long time ago now. And then you ended up at my place.
You intervened when the French drains were installed upside down. The new walkway that was neither level nor straight, the pavers downside up? You fixed that. You saw my desperation. What was pronounced impossible or unavoidable by the men in their shiny F-250 trucks and Mercedes Sprinter vans, you silently set right. You reminded me that I wasn’t crazy.
Cleaning up after the flood
When I stood slack-jawed and empty-handed at the ignominy and incomprehension of things gone awry, you sought to console me. One of the things you often said was “You never know when you’re having good luck.”
I didn’t quite understand that. I was too busy cleaning up after the flood. But let’s leave that one alone. It was a misery but we got through it. I couldn’t have done it without you.
These days there’s always something else that needs doing. The hedge gets too high. Gutters need clearing out. You might advise a line of silicone along a window that gets too much weather. Right now you’ve suggested building a dry stack planter to raise an ailing dogwood out of boggy soil.
An extra pair of hands
When we’ve needed an extra pair of hands, you’ve volunteered to bring someone from the recovery society. My response remains: I trust your judgment, Mr. Wilson. The fellows you’ve brought have all been better than OK. I struggle here to find the appropriate adjectives to describe them. A tender sheepishness. Uniformly, a scalded earnestness. I make an excessively healthy lunch for you and the fellows. The offering is met with the gladdest of thanks; the smallest kindness unfailingly met with deep appreciation.
Two of them have died this year, victims of fentanyl.
We often chat while pulling weeds or sorting out the garage. You like to read and your interests are scholarly. Measured sentences reveal a thoughtful, well-informed mind. You’ve laid bare your transgressions, but you don’t want, nor need, my approval. A small tide of self-recrimination rises up in me when I hear of your many charitable efforts and your devotion to your siblings.
Through you, I’ve learned of the humility necessary to defeat addiction as well as the corrosion of self that fosters pernicious dependency. I’ve seen first-hand the beauty of broken-ness in the human soul.
Your life is a triumph
Your life is a triumph, Mr. Wilson.
You have been a catechism. I had my clock cleaned by unscrupulous contractors. Stripped of any sense of adult agency, budget and schedule blown to smithereens, I felt the only luck I had was bad luck.
I had someone else lined up for the job. He didn’t show up, so I defaulted to you. I wasn’t happy about it.
But you never know when you’re having good luck.
QUESTION: Who impresses you and why? Email Jane at booklessclubusa@gmail.com.
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Jane MacDougall is a Canadian journalist who has worked in the newspaper, radio, TV and film industries. Her columns have appeared in a variety of publications in Canada, including the National Post, as well as in the U.S. (She is also a trained chef who recently appeared on Sara Moulton’s PBS show, Sara’s Weeknight Meals.) You can email Jane at booklessclubusa@gmail.com and visit her website at https://janemacdougall.com.
