ONE
MINUTE MOORE
Just call me Mr. Salad
If there’s one thing I hate about myself, it’s that I’m useless. As in, the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing. As in, which end of the hammer do I use. It’s not easy maneuvering your way through life as an imbecile. I mean, the looks I got
when I put a quarter of oil in the rad! The guys I have beers with are pretty much all blue collar. They show up at the pub all
RANDALL MOORE
dirty and sweaty from doing a real day’s work. They talk about trucks and heavy equipment and NASCAR, and I sit there like a dummy, thinking now might not be the time to mention my barbeque exploding. It’s not easy, ‘cause you never feel like a “real” man. The lads invite me to the cottage to
put a dock in the water and what can I do? Make a salad! Doesn’t matter what breaks in our house. The kids immediately tell their mom, because
she can fix things. I’m the dork who had his father build him a birdhouse for Grade 5 woodworking. Teacher had a good laugh over that one. We have a swimming pool. Above ground. Water is green. I don’t
have a problem with green water, but it embarasses the girls when they have friends over. Pretend it’s a lake, I say. I did call the pool guy, though. “Mike,” I said, “I think I need a new pump.” “Now why would you say that?” he asked. His tone said he was talking to a moron. “Well,” I said, “it’s not, like, pumping water into
the pool.” The pool guy showed up, shook his head and
fixed the problem in all of two minutes. Green water turned blue. My wife the educator had the summer off.
Which meant I was in prison for the summer. Projects. My wife loves projects. It’s what she lives for. They give me nightmares. A new toilet. A new bathtub. Washer and dryer. Paint for the bedrooms. A deck that needs work. The yard is a mess. She wants a porch out front. What the hell do I know about building a porch? I don’t know how to build a birdhouse. I put oil in a
rad. I blew up my barbeque. So I call red-neck Jimmy. Need something done, you call Jimmy. One of those irritating guys who can damn near fix
anything. “Oh yeah, not a big job,” he says (of course), then adds: “Any
chance the young lad can give me a hand?” Like, I’m standing right there. Why doesn’t he ask me? Why doesn’t he
want me to help? Is it that friggin’ obvious? That’s when I decide to stop pretending. Pretending to be something I’m
not. ‘Cause everyone seems to know anyway: I’m useless. But hey, not everyone can make a salad.
74 BOUNDER MAGAZINE You can hear Randall every morning on CHEZ 106.
www.bounder.ca
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