Of a Certain Age

The painter showed up in his ballcap and Sherwin-Williams hoodie just as the worst of winter moved in, biting our fingers and faces with freezing temperatures night after night.

“It’s too cold,” Jose said, the first of many three-word sentences that would make up his communication with me in the coming weeks.

He unloaded a dozen ladders and lined them around the foundation, like an aluminum fence. Then he took a long look at my house.

“It’s very dirty,” he said. “Bad boards everywhere. It needs work.”

Indeed it did. If HGTV had a show called Overdue Maintenance, my house and I would be the stars. The house had just turned thirty years old, and its age showed – a few wrinkles here, a couple of scars there, and all around in need of a refresh, as the house gurus would say. My man Jose would be the specialist I needed.

***

I showed up at the eye doctor’s appointment and discovered that he wasn’t just an eye doctor but an oculoplastic and reconstructive surgeon.

A plastic surgeon? I kept thinking, I’m here because I have watery eyes and cataracts. Sure, there’s a droopy eyelid or two, but I don’t need reconstructive surgery. I’m not Evel Knievel.

“I’m going to look at you,” the oculoplastic and reconstructive surgeon said, “and I’m going to say some things you won’t understand. But that’s just for our records.”

He stood back and looked me over just as Jose had examined my house – like a detective viewing a crime scene. Then, for the next 30 seconds, the surgeon said some things to his nurse that, for sure, I didn’t understand. But I did catch two words: “weak blink.” That hurt. I knew I did a weak push-up and had weak resistance to Italian food, but was I so puny that I couldn’t manage a muscular blink of the eyes?

Apparently, yes.

***

Jose and his crew showed up for a few days and caulked every crack, gap, crevice, and seam from top to bottom of the house, end to end, side to side. Then they left and didn’t show up for a week.

“It’s very cold,” Jose texted. “Warmer next Monday. See you then.”

This wasn’t good news. Already, I was having to squeeze my car past the gear he’d stored in my garage: yet another ladder, plus a circular saw, a bunch of lumber, a case of caulk, and a pressure washer. But I couldn’t complain because I hadn’t yet paid him a penny. He had asked for nothing in advance, so at this point, he had more invested in the job than I did. I knew he’d be back – he and his crew said they enjoyed working on my house because I lived near a Chick-fil-A.

“No worries, man,” I texted back. “See you soon.”

***

I showed up at the pain-management doctor’s office for help with a mess of problems.

The physician’s assistant logged all my ailments and delicately gave me the bottom line.

“When people reach a certain age,” she said, “these things happen.”

There it was: a professionally licensed medical diagnosis that the years had crept up on me, seeping into the aged vulnerabilities of my bones, joints, nerves, and muscles. Bodies, like houses, deteriorate over time. If you’re lucky to live long enough, you’ll be unlucky enough to watch yourself and your house fall apart. My doctors and I can confirm it. So can my painter.

***

The winter weather eased from freezing to frigid, and the painter showed up with a full crew (though the ladders still outnumbered the workers four to one). They pressure-washed the house, blasting away the oak leaves, sea salt, and last spring’s pollen. Then, finally, weeks after the project started, they spread the first flush of fresh color across the tired, bland boards.

“Very bad before,” Jose said. “Much better now.”

***

I showed up at the urologist’s office, leaving the painters to finish their chicken sandwiches and move off to various quadrants of the house.

“This is old man stuff,” the young doctor said. “After so many years, the prostate gets bigger and pushes up against the bladder. That’s why you have to go so often.” He considered my situation. “I can get you down to one or two times a night, instead of three or four. I can’t get you to zero.”

I had to admire his honesty. I was, after all, a man of a certain age. And certainly, I was feeling it.

“I hear you,” I said. “Zero wake-up calls would be nice. But if you can get me to one or two, I’ll take it.”

***

The painter showed up for his last day in mid-January. Because of the weather, a five-day job had stretched to five weeks. He and his crew had withstood the cold and transformed the house, replacing the rotted wood, caulking every sneaky opening, changing out the faded and filthy garage lights, and covering over what they called the “boring old yellow” with a double coat of clean, airy gray.

“I like it,” Jose said. “Looks very good.”

I shook his hand and agreed. For a house of a certain age, it looked very, very good now. Jose was part painter, part surgeon, and part wizard. If he could use his saw, caulk, brushes, and rollers on me, he’d make me look, and feel, young again.

Tim Bass is coordinator of UNCW’s bachelor of fine arts program in creative writing.

To view more of illustrator Mark Weber’s work, go to markweberart.blogspot.com.

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