I Wonder What Ever Happened to What’s His Name

I Wonder What Ever Happened to What’s His Name

 

You may have noticed that I do not use some given names of people I write about in these blogs.  In some cases it may be because I’ve forgotten the name.  In other cases, I don’t wish to precipitate a desire for anyone to take legal umbrage at my recollections.  It would be pretty difficult to say that more than one person with the same name had the same experience on the job when they were working with me.

 

You probably remember High Pockets; his story isn’t too far back.  I saw High Pockets one more time.  We were working on raising the roof of a malt shop.  At that time not every place had air-conditioning.  The roof was being raised to allow room for additional insulation and also for extra venting in the attic.  The flow of air would cool off the building below.

 

Wouldn’t you know it, High Pockets was running the job.  A ladder was set up in the center of the room so we could get in and out of the attic space.  I only had a little wiring to do and I believe that I got it all done in one trip.  When I entered the attic, there were High Pockets and his carpenters.

 

In an enclosed space, and with three carpenters and one electrician, each supplied with a hammer, the pounding was nearly non-stop.  I say “nearly” non-stop because every once in a while, for some reason or other, all of us would stop at the same time.  The cessation of pounding would cause the owner of the malt shop to walk across the floor, ascend the ladder, and try to ascertain why everyone had stopped working.

 

That would make High Pockets mad.  He was on his knees with his hammer in his hand like he was going to pop him one.  Each time that happened I worried about the continued life expectancy of the owner.  However, before the owner’s head showed up through the access hatch we would once again resume pounding.

 

I’m sure the carpenters pounded on a piece of wood just to make a sound, whether it was construction or not.  I know I did.  I thought of it as preserving the owner’s life.  I have no idea what happened to High Pockets.  I never saw him again.

 

One day my boss and I stopped in at the malt shop for a cup of coffee.  The proprietor/owner hurried over pointing to the tools in the bosses back pocket.  (The boss always carried a few tools in his back pocket.  He never used a tool pouch or a small tool kit.  That’s where I learned the habit, good or bad.)

 

The malt shop proprietor was concerned lest the tools cause damage to his seating.  The boss reached back and handed the tools to the proprietor handles first; “See, they won’t scratch anything.”

 

The proprietor said he had just recovered all the seats with leather.

 

To tell you the truth, I‘m sure some of the bosses tools had the sharp side up…..

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