I’ll always be tired but never retired, you can count on me sir
Mr Jones always called my dad sir.
I’ll forget your name so I’d rather just call you sir
My dad always called him Henry while at the same time insisting we call him Mr. Jones.
Mr. Jones was my dad’s guy.
Not a slave, nor a servant, Mr. Jones was the handyman who took care of everything my dad didn’t want to take care of around the house.
Ten years younger than my dad, he was ten years older than me.
They met just after my dad went out on his own with his law practice. Mr. Jones was repairing the step in front of the old converted Victorian house where you found my dad tucked away in his little corner office.
I’m just starting out myself sir. But I’d love to come and take a look at that loose fence post for ya.
Sir
That’s such a funny word to hear coming from someone who was part of our lives. He did everything. He fixed leaky toilets, unclogged the sinks. He swapped out light fixtures and hung up towel bars. He patched the drywall that my brother put his fists through when that his shitty ass bitch of a high school girlfriend finally drove him to his limit.
Mr. Jones would even look after the boat and the docks at the end of the summer.
Just do not ask me to take care of your lawn. I can’t care for your lawn because I don’t care about lawns.
He’d sometimes say yes to coffee while he worked, but he never stayed neither for drink nor dinner. He never stayed and we never asked. He was professional and we felt comfortable with him in our home.
Some years he’d be around all the time, other years less. But there was always work to be done around the house.
Dad never did any of it.
Back in the 90’s?
He was at the top of his game.
I bill out for three hundred dollars an hour.
I can work have a day and pay three guys twenty five bucks an hour all day. They’d make something great, I’d have half of the day at the golf course and still come out ahead.
When he thinks of wages, what my dad’s willing to pay is based on his knowledge of the 90’s job market. Minimum wage was five dollars an hour and a dude could maintain a lifestyle with a car and an apartment earning twelve.
That makes it tough for him to find a ‘handyman’. He thinks if he slides someone a fifty, the chore will be done and the problem disappear.
Nobody you’d want to hire works like that these days.
It’s so tough to hire anyone you can trust - well, that’s what I experienced looking for someone to take care of the small jobs around here.
I opened a salon and needed a ramp built and a couple of sinks installed. I needed my dad’s guy. I phoned at least a dozen handymen and the results were dismal
Most didn’t call me back. four came to see the job, two were late and I hired the one who didn’t smell like weed.
But when he was supposed to come and do the job?
He didn’t show up.
Me? I want someone to come on tell me what it will cost and make the problem go away.
I just wanted my dad’s guy, Mr Jones
And now?
My dad doesn’t know what to do either.
After a recent job I heard their dance as I’d heard it a thousand times before. That work is just wonderful. Thank you. Please, never retire. I don’t know what I’d do without you Henry.
Henry laughed and shook his head:
I may be-tired but I’ll never be re-tired. Not like you sir. Me and the wife, we’re bad with money. I’ll be working for you til I drop dead.
And ya know what?
That’s exactly what happened.
Henry was out on his machine with his buddies. He’d had a couple of bud lights and an order of wings.
And on the way home?
Boom.
Massive heart attack.
He dropped dead.
Right there.
On the spot.
They say he was happy. He had a belly full of beer and wings and he was out in the woods on a a machine. No one got hurt and they say he died smilin’
So good for Mr. Jones.
Though, I suppose that since he’s dead I might call him Henry?
Either way, my dad and I are screwed.
Let know if you know anyone Mr. Jones’ out there.