Business Hours for One - Painter and His Son

It was one of those nights. It was a Friday after payday, and the pay was mostly already gone. The worries were starting about the next week, the next job, and it was the middle of winter. My dad, with no work for a weekend, which he was not accustomed to, was pacing back and forth in the garage, trying to keep busy.

My Dad knows that when it gets warm again, come when we return to shoul for High Holy Days,

“Harvey, you were here in Winter; I could have used you for a job. I thought you were in Florida to see your grandkids and all.”

My Dad, after wishing so and so a “Good Yantiv!” (That is Happy New Year in Hebrew) He would politely look down, put his hand in his suit pants that get worn when it comes to holidays, funerals, weddings, you know, that kind of guy that rather be in anything but a suit, rattle his change, and his keys, and say.

“Yeah, I am still painting, and I will be painting when you need me!”

“But you are getting too old to do all that up and down and the ladders. When are you going to retire?”

My Dad used to say; I knew it as fact after he purchased what should have been the last van he would need for painting, which would be the real all but a slightly morbid response.

“I will retire when I am dead, in the ground. Here is my card; I can paint the place this year while you go to Florida.”

Yeah, it was going to be a long winter where those that knew my dad painted were too cheap and or too hardheaded to understand a shmeerer (Yiddish slang for those that slap on the paint and go to the next job) is not a painter and what he did was done with skill, and he was a true master of the craft.

My mom was on the couch, the weather was horrible, and a cold air blast courtesy of Lake Erie blasted another Frigid Toledo. But be that as it may, he was sick of staying in the house and waiting for calls that would not come anytime soon. I was bored because my buddies were preoccupied with the weekend.

So, the only thing Bergs do when there is nothing better to do is go for a drive—no direction in our minds but to get out of the house.

What my dad used to call affectionately, but more guttery, ‘Mortgage Hill.’ (That is a story, but not now and not here.)

Okay, back to getting out of the house, and our favorite destinations would be the Automotive Dealerships. Back then, they would turn off the lights when they were not open for business. They don’t want you to browse without the “Sales shmucks,” as my dad so affectionately called them, being around you all the time. So, my dad, with the little or just about no more money he had, and I, with about 25 or so in my pocket, did what we did on many and many occasions and went to our favorite pre-occupation area of browsing for cars. 

Hell, I know no lights on make it easier to get away with a crime, but my dad’s and my opinion would be,

“Fuck Them!”

In my mind, that is all good, and I see how people waste their time. I still like myself even after knowing how much of a burden that genuinely is. I have sold cars once or twice in my life, after all.

But in all reality, the little amount needed to keep lights on benefits the bias not to let people freely shop.

We thought we would never buy there anyway, but we could not buy anywhere because, with four kids, two in college, and two post bar and bat mitzvahs for a working-class family, we did the best we could to maintain a middle class.

What was I saying? We drove around Sylvania and then Toledo and started hitting the usual Dealers on the Central Avenue Strip. Nothing was really of any notice, nothing different that they took in trade, nothing that was very shocking looking at the cars being in various states of disrepair around the body shop (I know, ghoulish, but we all rubber neck at one time, and or another, do we not?) Seeing something destroyed peaks the human psyche; would anyone not agree?! I get laughed at by those fortunate enough to get a new car, and then it gets wrecked. (Maybe it is just plain jealousy with a tad of bitterness as well, who’s to say?) I do not wish injury or death, mind you, but seeing something there that you thought or heard or saw was this safe and yada yada yada, and then you see it for your own two eyes, that things are smashed and totaled.

Anywhoo, back to the driving around, and nothing piqued our interest. For some reason, my dad always wanted a Dually Pickup, so we headed towards Monroe and Secor Road to check out his favorite places to find such trucks, Bronde’s Ford. The dual desire could be from the Rock A Billy music he enjoyed listening to while in the garage. It was easy to understand the evolution of Rock and Roll was grown.

But also, he bought Cowboy Boots, I don’t know why, but he did. My mom always questioned him about that purchase.

His simple response was, “I always wanted a pair of Cowboy Boots.” Fair enough, so be it.

A Jewish Painting Contractor in Cowboy boots is something you never see, lol.

I like them too; it would be nice to be the person that blinds the person in front, then gets overwhelmed, just once in my life.

Bronde’s Ford we go, and I can still remember my dad’s mouth dropping and then laughing uncontrollably after using his grey glove to see the bottom-line price.

“They want thousands of dollars for this piece of Ford crapola! Kevin, come here; look at how much they want for this thing?!”

I am like, Dad, I know they want a lot. “No, come here, Bart, check this out!” When he emphasized something, his voice was always a little harsher and more strained than usual due to his smoking for so long. (The vocal cords take a hit, as well as the lungs in my mind)

I shrug, knowing damn well he will not leave that spot until I appease him, so I have a look for myself. It is all decked out; it has everything, and back then, it was around $50,000 in addition to the unique bells and whistles package after said standard price. Okay, so we are about to go home after freezing and looking at “SHIT, WE CAN’T POSSIBLY AFFORD,”and I go.

“Hey, dad, can we see if the Porsche Dealership is Open?”

He responds, “PORSCHE DEALERSHIP, ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!”

I replied, “Come on, Homer, are you going to get a $55,000 Dually?”

He says, “Hell yeah, you are right; why not!”

We make our way to the Porsche Dealership; I want to remember if it was a smaller stand-alone store or if it was part of a more prominent dealership and just an offshoot. My Dad looked after we drove around the lot to see if they had any “Nazi Mobiles,” as my dad called them out on the parking lot; nope, nothing. When he was going to aim the rolling Coffee and Paint Storage vessel (the painting van) home, I saw someone in the showroom; it looked like the Janitor with the garbage can in tow. I asked my dad to pull an empty parking spot. The van was an old 9-row passenger Dodge Van that was blue on the outside, and he nicknamed it the “Blue Goose.” My dad positioned the van almost within the parking spot; the enormity was that it was longer than any regular van. Hey Dad, I will see if he will let us in.

My Dad says, sure, “he will let us in because we look like we could afford a Porsche=P.”

I said, “Come on, he is a working guy like we are we can at least, see?”

I get out of the warm van, get to the door, and start knocking on it, hoping to get his attention. It is to prevail not to get him to notice me at first. He replies, already assuming a lost cause even to try this. My Dad saw this was doing anything to get the man’s attention.

“Bart, no Porsche today; let’s go home!”

I said, “Give me one more shot, Homer!”

I go back to the door, which is frigid, and I am pounding on the glass now. Helle’s belles with resolve in my pounding now. He would see me beating at least, or I would get the cops called on me at most. It was a personal competition because my dad already wanted to give up. The guy finally turned around and looked to be around my dad’s age, just a little shorter and with a crooked back. That was one shot, and I yelled.

“Hey, can we come in?!”

My Dad is already seeing this as a losing situation. He is drinking his coffee and rolls down the window to a light-up of a fresh BASIC Cigarette (he called them broom sweeps, lol, (because of the quality of what they used in Tobacco). I catch him mocking me with a polite, forced smile mimicking what I just asked. Then he waves it all off with him being a grumpy old fart with an “Ahhhhh” like he was already disgusted at the attempt. His all-time gesture was when shit did not go as he wanted them to. He motioned to my dad because he saw I was with someone else. Beyond my dad’s belief, the guy said,

“Sure, come on in. Is that your old man in the van?”

I said, yep, he said, “he can come in too.” Now my dad saw me waving him in, and he was astounded; I could see him say, “Shit, you little fucker!” with an additional thumbs up.

My Dad was in disbelief as he attempted to save the cancer stick and roll up the window simultaneously. The maintenance guy held the door for me, closed it, and opened it up again for my dad. Then he locked it back up. I don’t know if he thought we were homeless and had no place to go, but there we were, nevertheless. The Janitor, I wish I could remember his name, was like you want some coffee, my dad said back, just about bumbling his words with “Suryeah!”

With that, the Janitor got my dad his favorite thing in this world, coffee, and he looked at me and said,

“Do not touch anything, Son, and I mean it.”

I was like, "What? I am not here to not touch anything?"

“Meh, whatever, old man.”

So, I got into the first thing I saw. Interesting that the prices are not shown on the showroom floor, but when you are at that level, not something that is a concern. The carpet was pristine, and the placement of the vehicles was a way to accentuate the mini mortgage investments that were there to be procured. Right before, the Janitor, in response to what my dad had said.

“You can look at whatever, just try not to scratch it, etc.”

Dad made his way to the favorite thing in the world, and I made my way to, I hope, in a black-on-black 911 Turbo; it is the shit; I felt like I was sitting and surrounded by “MONEY.”

It was pristine inside, brand new, or damn close to it. The leather made the plunge into the seat slick and smooth.

(Right then, I thought about my 5 in one tool that my dad had me carry all the time when working with him. Then I was relieved remembering I did not work with him this night; it was a Friday, not the weekend.)

There was a 944 Turbo, my dad like, it was locked. Homer’s response was, “Just my luck.”

I found another 928 taken in on trade; I most likely felt like I was Tom Cruise for a second. Where was my Rebecca De Mornay?

After I got in and out of a couple more 911s and looked at the garage with the ones ready for delivery being detailed, one was set on a side entirely left alone at the front of the garage bay. The price tag was sitting on its seat, just being readied for some lucky rich fucker, I thought to myself. I can make up the number in the six digits, but due to the adhesive remover, the complete package and its unique description are lost to history for me to see. It was wide-bodied like a Gembella or Ruff; hell, I don’t remember, it was fat in the back as hell and pristine! My Dad was like

“Look at Those MEATS.” (Meaning the width of the tires)

My Dad always likes the look of a car with massive tires. Drag racing will get to you that way, and I, being brought up with it, also have an appreciation for widened tires and bodies. Classic car shows and the magazines that show classic cars lowered have a saying.

“The Ass Is in The Grass.”

No grass in the garage, but the tires were the biggest I have ever seen on any car on the road. That was accompanied by modified front and back fenders to make the thing look like it would take flight. The color was something of a mystic mixed with purple mixed with black. It seems as if it had an aura around it, combined with what Satan’s daily driver if there was such a thing. I kept saying, 

“WOW,” and my dad said, “No Shit Bart, WOW is not the half of it.”

I am warned, “Bart, don’t you dare try to get in it.”

It was tempting. No one around, all open to the world, just sitting there almost egging me on. But, this one time, we were already doing something that was not exactly on the up and up, and I hate to feel that I caused someone to lose their job or worse. We sat down to where I guess they would accept delivery of ‘spoiled brats’ as a mechanic I knew of would describe the very needy nameplate; we told the Janitor we were driving around with nothing to do. We made small talk as we watched the wind and the snow in thru the vast glass walls.

There were some questions about my dad’s painting, and then what do I do? My Dad said, “he is not a painter; He is going to college to do better!” He says, “I would have been doing the same with my son back in the day.”

I responded, well, at the time, “I wanted to work on a Top Fuel team.” (I know of all things) My Dad shook his head in jest right after that admission.

The Janitor said, “well, you guys look around for as long as you want; the bathroom is over there. It is nice to have company; it is nice you, too, is out together like father and son. I used to do that with my boy.”

He was a man of few words and returned to his business, cleaning the showroom building. My Dad and I looked at each other, he went to the bathroom, and I browsed some more. My Dad went to the toilet and moisied to and from the showroom. I picked up and catalog, and we both looked through it. With that, we looked at each other, and he said, 

“So, little Kee, are you done tonight?”

I said, “Homer, I am. Maybe we can go home, and you can build a fire as you used to when I was younger?”

He said, “You remember that, Bart?”

Like I was too old to remember how my dad, with his painting clothes on or being in his work boots from the factory, would roll up the Toledo blade into balls and start the foundation to make a fire. The general vibe that he would give off being relieved to be done with the day was vastly different when he left for work in the am. The pleasant way in which he happily brought in wood and prepped the fireplace was by placing the heavy metal frame that the wood would sit on. Doing quick work using the broom and the little shovel beside the fireplace for this activity and this alone. (Although there was a time, we would take the handle off the poker tool to attempt to get the chute unstuck when the clothes would get caught on their way down to the basement)

Anywhoo, what was I saying about that night and how the fireplace became the center of the moment, not the intangible things?

Great memories and great times every time. I used to know that when I walked in the house, after Hebrew School or after working at Foodtown, my eyes lit up, and I saw he was home and the welcoming site of the fireplace with all about in the family room.

I said, “of course I do, Dad! Those are the best times!”

We went back in the truck. The cold was still stale with the cigarette that was burned prior, “I won’t smoke on the way home.”

I was like, “I appreciated that, dad, and we can smell it.”

He started the truck and then rubbed my head as he used to when I was younger, “You are alright, little Kee! I will build us a fire.”

I replied with a huge smile, and “I said, love you, dad!”

He replied, “Bart, you are okay, my man. I love you too!”