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Millennial Angel

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Our homeowners’ association informed us that the termite inspection would be Friday. I opened the door to three uniformed men at the crack of dawn. There was the boss, a guy in his sixties, then a second guy, a bit older, and a big-boned millennial with “Angel” printed on his shirt. They were very intent on being professional. Our HOA was a new account for them.

I offered them leftover Chanukah candy and joked with the boss– “Were you a good boy last year?” He didn’t get too chummy, but took the candy and asked if he could have another one for his wife.

The only thing I had to do was give them access to the attic, which is reached through the ceiling of my small, walk-in closet, which is off my bedroom, which is where my husband was sleeping, because he is on Sabbatical, and he doesn’t have to get up for anything or anyone. “Tell them I have a cold,” he said.

They men followed me up the stairs and through the bedroom to the closet. They noticed the human in the bed, and I said, “That’s my husband. He’s not feeling well.”

“Bless his heart,” the boss said, “We’ll be quiet.”

“I’ll be downstairs if you need me,” I said, and went back to the beautiful first morning after the rain and the L.A. Times’ cheerful reportage about President Trump’s first 100 days.

A while later, the boss shuffled into the kitchen. “Uh, ma’am. I need to show you something.” My crisis litany went through my head– whatever it is they’ve broken; it’s only a thing. It might hurt for a second, but it’s only a thing. It’s only a thing. I doubted any of them had stabbed my husband. When I followed the boss into the bedroom, the husband seemed to still be breathing.

The boss led me to the hallway outside of my closet where I saw a stepladder reaching to the ceiling and a gaping hole with pink insulation wafting out of it like a tutu. Bits of plaster drifted to the floor.

Angel starred down at the carpet. I couldn’t tell if the dampness on his face was sweat or tears. He was that upset. The second guy was looking nervously at the boss. The boss was looking at me. I knew he was waiting for me to go ballistic, but I wasn’t going to give him that.

“It was an accident,” I said. “As long as I don’t have to pay for it, I’m cool.” Angel looked somewhat relieved. I really couldn’t believe my husband was still in bed, and I was betting he was going to stay there while they cleared the rubble and vacuumed.

Later, Angel stopped at the kitchen table and handed me a form to sign. He was pretty shaken up. I wondered who his mom was. “You’re freaked out, aren’t you?” I said.

“Yeah, kind of,” he said. “I was only supposed to step on the joist, but my foot slipped.” I thought he might cry.

I rummaged through my mind for the appropriate teachable-moment language for when a child doesn’t make the team or falls on stage or otherwise perceives they have failed at something.

“Angel,” I said. “The only way you move forward is by falling down a bunch of times and getting back up. Some people call it failing forward. This is just God tapping you on the shoulder letting you know that you’re doing great and moving ahead.” The second guy came by with an armful of plaster and nodded vigorously. “It happens to everyone,” he said.

Then the boss stormed by, fuming. He headed for his truck. I raced after him. It’s hard for millennials to get jobs, and I wanted Angel to keep his.

The boss slammed the truck door. I knocked on the window. He let it down a bit. A woman was sitting next to him. I had no idea who she was. Then I realized she must be the wife. “Look,” I said, “I know Angel screwed up, but he’s a good kid. Very polite. He presented himself professionally. That’s hard to find in a kid. Maybe you could use this as a teachable moment? Easier than training someone new?”

He glared at me. “I’ve known him since he was born.” Ahhh. Angel was probably his kid. The woman was probably his mom. She gave me a nod as if to say, “Thanks, I’ll take it from here.” The boss sighed, resigned, like this might not have been the first time Angel slipped off a joist, and what are you going to do in this economy when your kid needs a job?

When I went back upstairs to the bedroom my husband was up and standing under the hole. “What the hell?” he said.

“Go back to bed,” I said. “It’s only a ceiling.”

 

 


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