THE TRUTH ABOUT WORK AND STAR WARS By ADDISON BLU When the work day begins, I start to believe that falling asleep again offers me a permanent hiding place. I ride in the passenger seat of the work van, my head leaning on the frosty window. I imagine that if I can steal one more nanosecond of rest, the day will never start. I d be like frozen in carbonite, asleep for good, and Dad would understand that carbonite freezing doesn t wear off quickly, even when you let a person out, so no point in trying to wake me up. The problem is, before we leave I always drink a little coffee, and then I can t fall asleep in the van. Dad doesn t know anything about carbonite freezing anyway. He talks during the whole ride to the job, even if I don t answer him and I use my jacket as a pillow. Who cares about his stomach ulcers anyway? Probably from all that coffee. I don t usually drink coffee either, because I can fall asleep at school and it s no big deal; but if I don t drink Dad s coffee before a job, it looks like I m trying to go back to bed. All of Dad s electrician friends must have gotten together with him and agreed that the most painful way to wake up your assistant is to stop the van and pull the parking brake like you were breaking its neck with kung-fu. I mean, the van s not going anywhere, but when we get to the job site, he still makes it sound like he s destroying the brake lever because he can. The sound is one of those things you hear that only has one possible meaning though. For example, when you hear a lightsaber being drawn, you don t think that someone is using a can-opener, you know exactly what the sound means. When the parking brake is annihilated, all hope is over. Grrrrrrr-iiiiiick. This time, I am hoping that Dad won t give me an anxiety attack later when he starts telling me I did everything wrong. Sometimes I hope that I will get cut or hurt on the job so that Dad will feel bad and tell me to take a rest. In my mind, I envision Dad dropping a hammer on my head, and at first it s a good thing, because I would be off the hook; but then Dad would tell me that I shouldn t have been walking under the ladder, and I d never hear the end of it. To him, it would be like I never had any sense at all because I was under the ladder that one time. Dad s taking advantage of his last chance to gulp down the rest of his coffee, which has to be cold by now. I open the van door. It s definitely sub-arctic out here. I let my feet drop out of the passenger side to the driveway. Someone s already coming out to meet us. Dad calls customers homeowners. Even if the person we talk to is renting the home, or just living there with someone who owns it, they re the homeowner and not the customer. I used to think this was a way of showing respect to the people we work for, but it probably isn t, because Dad doesn t respect homeowners. Today this customer walks up to Dad and says, Good morning. You need any coffee or anything? But Dad just pretends like the guy didn t say anything, the way parents do when kids are talking out of turn, and says, Let s take a look at that light fixture. Then to me, Buddy, put on your tools, you re wasting time. I never waste time, though, I m just waiting for him to say something, because if I put on my tools without being asked to, then
he ll tell me, You don t need your tools yet, I ve got something for you to do. Then he ll tell me to crawl around in someone s attic for an hour. I will undoubtedly get bit by a spider. The homeowner introduces himself to me, and I shake hands, but there s no need for me to say anything. Dad says, This is my son, Buddy, and so I look like the strong, silent type. Then the homeowner asks where I go to school, and I say, Oglethorpe High, which for some reason impresses him. He makes this satisfied look of approval and nods. I certainly didn t choose to go to Oglethorpe. Homeowners always have a very warm nature, like they re some form of alien species. I am wearing two jackets and my pajama pants are underneath my work jeans, but I am trying not to shiver. The homeowner is wearing a messed-up college t-shirt and running shorts and Adidas sandals. His arms are crossed, and this seems enough to keep the guy toasty. I can see my breath in front of my face, as if my life is being sucked out of me. There are only a few kinds of homeowners: young guys, who always care about colleges; old guys, who constantly act pissed-off but then turn out to say lots of nice things; there are old ladies who always seem confused. There is no such thing as a young lady homeowner. So I m freezing my head off, even though I ve got the hood up on one of my jackets, and this homeowner is acting like he loves waking up at 6 a.m. on a Saturday in January and coming outside in shorts. I m thinking about when Luke Skywalker got lost on Hoth and Han Solo had to save him, somebody tried to stop Han from leaving the Rebel base because it was too cold. The guy says something like You ll freeze to death. Han tells the guy, Then I ll see you in hell! I m always confused about that scene because Han s statement has to mean that the characters in Star Wars understand Christian theology. When this homeowner walked outside, I bet his wife said, It s too cold, you re gonna get pneumonia and die. So he said to his wife, Then I ll see you in Mos Eisley! It would only make sense. We go inside the house and the guy has kids who are already up, too. I wonder if his whole family loves to set their alarms for 5 a.m. every morning, and they get up all at once and drink coffee together like idiots. Kids don t need coffee to make them bounce off the walls, but these kids look like they have that extra edge. I would say all three kids are five years old or so, but one of them has a diaper on, and he is dancing like crazy even though there isn t any music on. Without consulting anyone, Dad starts looking at this light fixture and apparently he already knows exactly what to do. The homeowner guy is in the middle of explaining the problem, but Dad says to me, Go get the six-footer. The six-footer is a ladder that s six feet tall when you open it. And even though Dad just cut him off, the homeowner has this look like he s thinking, This guy is a super serious professional, lucky me. Every homeowner wants Dad to like them, too. They re always offering him food and asking him to come by and do more jobs. Maybe intimidation works that way with simple people, because the less Dad cares about what people are saying, the more they think that what he s doing is really important. And I m not gonna lie, I m jealous of Dad s Jedi mind-trick. He doesn t even have to move his hand around to hypnotize people. If it worked for me, I could just start talking over my teachers, and they d be like, Wow this student is insanely smart, I hope he thinks I m cool. Dad tries that crap on me too; he doesn t hear anything I m saying. As I m walking outside, the homeowner says, Well, I ll let you guys get right down to it then. Now the door starts closing, and I hear Yeah, let me know if you guys get hungry or anything, we ve got sand
I m outside now, getting the ladder from the van, and I know that I gotta seem busy for most of the job, so I don t rush. I grab a bottle of water from the case inside. Thank God it s not frozen. You see, mathematically, jobs work a certain way. If I work for two solid hours as hard as I can, I ll make two hours pay because I sit around afterwards and it looks like I m lazy. If I take six hours to do the work, then I look like I persevered, and I make six hours of pay. There is no way Dad would pay me sixty dollars for two hours even if I did the same work. He s gonna say he overpays me no matter what, and I have to justify my salary somehow. Even if I breathe in toxic gas in someone s crawl space for eight hours, Dad will still try to forget to write me a check later. That s probably why we carry bottled water in the first place: to wash down all the toxic dust he expects me to inhale. I m not thirsty anymore, so I drag the orange fiberglass ladder inside. Dad is all like, Did you have trouble finding the ladder? because he knows that ladders are gigantic and easy to find in the van. Did you have trouble finding out how to interact with other humans? I ask in retort. My face feels hot, probably from going outside where it s freezing and coming back inside, where it s warm. For a few seconds Dad pretends to be surprised or insulted; he puts on an expression of astonishment and stands completely still. Then, he goes right back to what he was doing. When things like this happen, I bet he actually prefers people be rude to him. I think it establishes a sort of mutual relationship, because he s going to be a jerk no matter what, and that evens up the score. If a homeowner cuts Dad off while he s talking, they ll probably become best friends. The problem is, when Dad tries that on me, I want to explode. I m not stupid, nor do I want to do electrical work. The lame responses that make Dad like me more are the same things that make me hate being around him. Dad is taking down this whole light fixture from the ceiling and he says, Hurry up and take off those switch plates over there. I know what a switch plate is, but I count at least seven in the living room alone, and he wasn t pointing to any of them. I say, Okay, which ones? And Dad, up on the ladder, turns red. Come on, the ones I told you we were gonna take off earlier. Then he puts his teeth together and in a whisper says, You re losing all the profit on this job. I know I m not losing all the profit on the job, because he charges by the hour, and he adds my time to the bill. You see, he plays this game: he asks me what he should charge; I pick an amount; he tells me I m right; but when it comes time for him to discuss the bill with the homeowner, he sends me away. He talks through his teeth again and says, Go load up the van, I ve got to talk to the homeowner. Instead of losing more profit, I take out a screwdriver and remove the nearest switch plate. I don t remember Dad specifically pointing out the plates earlier like he said, but there is a good chance I wasn t listening. On the other hand, I may have subconsciously heard which plates he was talking about because I take off three of them and he doesn t get mad about it. This is a sign that I picked the correct plates. I find it difficult to listen to Dad when he is talking about the job. He says something simple, but then he starts dissecting all the details right in the middle of what he was saying. For example: Okay Bud, we re gonna take down that fixture and figure out how to rewire the three-way, but that means that one of us might have to get up in the attic so yeah really, we could grab some testers and maybe it ll ring out and then no one will have to get too dirty. Instead of continuing to listen, which takes all sorts of brain power, I think about the testers
Dad was talking about using. Those things are genius because they actually measure something that people can t hear, smell, see, taste, or touch. Electricity is a lot like the Force in that way, because people can see the effects of both, but there s not a real explanation that homeowners can really sense for themselves. Electricity is definitely a religion. Most people go through life believing all sorts of things about electricity, even though they can t justify it. People think of electricity as the product of what electricity does, so electricity is light from bulbs and hot food from a microwave. Electricians don t understand any better; they just know how to make stuff happen, almost like religious ceremonies. Dad knows that you need a ground wire on every fixture, but he can t really tell me why it works that way and then show me that he s right. I mean, even if having a ground wire does what he wants it to, that doesn t mean that he knows how it does the right thing. Even scientists are speculators. They can t see electrons with the naked eye. So basically the Force could totally be real. I wouldn t be surprised if electricity is a small part of the Force that people harness for everyday use. Psychology could be people using the Force on other people s brains. One time, I made a penny move by using the Force. I focused really hard for a couple of hours, getting in tune with the universe, and I swear that I made the penny move like an inch. It happened slowly of course, and I used so much energy that I was really tired afterward, and I haven t given it a good try since then. Remembering how exhausting that Forcepower was brings my attention to how tired I am now. Four of the switch plates are off, but Dad needs me to do something else. Hold that piece of cardboard underneath me when I start cutting the sheetrock up here. My job for the moment is to stand still with a piece of a box in my hands while debris rains down from the ceiling and into my face. We could have swept up when we re done, which we will anyway, but Dad wants to put on a show, because here comes the homeowner and he stops to lean on the door frame in the hallway. Once again, he is in awe at my stoic work ethic, and I m beginning to think that all these kids aren t even his because he never even acts like they re around. All of the sheet rock that fell in my eyes and what I inhaled makes me want to squint and choke and call it a day. I ve had enough, but then Dad tells me move back to working on the switches. He grunts a little bit of drywall dust out of his own throat, and it feels good to know he s secretly suffering a little too. I d rather be spending my energy on finding the truth behind bigger things, like our spirits and stuff. I m not joking. Try getting electrocuted and you ll totally know what I mean about the Force being possible. Getting electrocuted isn t deadly if it s a small jolt, and Dad calls that getting juiced. It can t be explained by the senses: you can t smell or taste electricity, just like you can t smell the Force or Islam. For real, I m right there taking out switches and Dad is still talking, and I keep thinking about how the Force might be everywhere, and then one of the kids comes galloping up like he heard that I was giving away popsicles, which brings me back to the moment. The homeowner is nowhere to be found again, and I still haven t seen his wife at all, and this kid is skipping under the ladder. Dad is probably thinking about the liability, so he says, Hey little guy, why don t you run along and play somewhere else? The kid doesn t stop, so Dad lumbers down the ladder and tries to find the homeowner. Before he leaves the room, he asks me, What the heck is taking so long? I want you to pull the switches all the way out of the box, Buddy. I m too fed up to reply, but as soon as he s gone, I yank the switch out of the hole in the wall. I won t tell you that it isn t a coincidence, but I honestly think it is destiny that I am getting
juiced right now. Here I am, thinking about how electricity feels so different, and I grab hold of a hot switch with my whole hand. I couldn t have proven my own point about electricity any better. It pulses through me, overwhelming but stimulating all the same. All of the muscles in my arm tighten and it seems like a wave of liquid thought is flowing from my shoulder and out into the switch. Unfortunately, for someone like me, that sensation is also painful. There s too much going on in my body for me to comprehend. I know I said you couldn t taste electricity, but when I let go of the switch, there is a sourness in my mouth that tastes like lemons. Maybe that s why electricians call it getting juiced. Don t deny that the Force could be sending me a sign, a confirmation that I am on the right track. You know it s possible. About The Author Addison Blu Williams is a member of Mensa and a new Calliope subscriber. He is a contributor for Duffel Blog, a military news satire, writing as Bill Ashleigh. He loves spending time with his family and playing video games. This is his first published story. When I let go, I get a bad head rush for a second and I m trying to find my balance, knowing that I ll get tortured if I m caught standing still. The switch is bouncing on its wires where it comes out of the wall. Dad walks back in and stops right past me. He s still facing away, and for these few seconds I m scared to death because I just can t take another complaint now. I reach back for the switch to pretend I never stopped working. Dad says, You know, if you didn t hate electrical work so much, you could probably be pretty good at it. I think you might have it in you, it s in our blood. You ve been doing fine today, I m just giving you a hard time. Those words definitely don t sound like something Dad would ever say on a job. I want to say something, but I feel that for once he s sensing the same thing I m sensing. And if my Dad can sense it, and I can sense it, I totally think the Force is real. h h