A year after moving away from my hometown to attend college I found myself in Seattle for the summer and in need of a job. At this period in my life I was under the impression that matching means your outfit is all the same color. So I would go out looking for a job in a red shirt, red shoes, and red pants. It is a very literal interpretation of the concept, but it is the only pure form of matching.
Unable to score a hosting gig dressed as a gay Blood (gay-ngster), I looked in the Classifieds and found a job advertising for a Landscaper/Handyman. I called the number and told the man who answered that I had experience. This was a lie, but I figured anyone can mow a lawn or ruin someone else’s property with tools so I went to the interview.
The interview was at a guy’s house deep in the suburbs. The guy: Chuck Brackett. He gave me a business card that said Chuck the Handyman when I arrived.
Chuck was indeed the ultimate handyman for many reasons. First of all, his last name is literally Brackett, which is a thing that handymen use all the time when fixing things.
He told impressive stories of blue-collar heroics such as the time he won a lot of money gambling on his ability to pick up a dime with a fork-lift.
Stepping in his house I was introduced to his lovely wife as well as their three young children.
After some lying I was hired and Chuck pawned me off on his wife and I rode around with her mowing lawns for a few months and everything was good.
Then one day Chuck told me I was going to be riding with him because he needed me to install a doggie-door on someone’s house.
Even though I’d rarely picked up a tool in my lifetime I just figured I’d spitball it, so he dropped me off at the house with a bunch of tools and went to do another job.
I got a saw and cut a big chunk out of the person’s wall which was the exact size of the doggie-door. At that point I figured I’d do a little math and that, although a doggie-door would fit into a hole its’ exact size, it would probably be dislodged on a regular basis.
So, I calmly called Chuck and told him I’d need a bigger doggie-door. He arrived at the house, cigarette dangling from his lips, and was so pissed that he calmly excused himself to chop down a redwood.
That wasn’t the worst call ever.
The worst call came a few days later.
I was back on landscaping duty and Chuck’s wife was telling me about this film that I should see called Left Behind. She let me borrow it after work.
The film espouses the belief that Evangelical Christians will be Left Behind on earth after the Apocalypse.
I watched a little bit of it and it sucked, so the next day I gave it back and included another movie with it to return the favor.
That movie: Requiem for a Dream.
The film is directed by Darren Aronofsky and features an amputation and double-dildo scene amongst a morbidly frightening backdrop of hopelessness and despair.
Did I factor in the utter-difference between these two films? One a Christian Propaganda piece and the other a slightly less disturbing cringe-fest? No.
Was I imposing my preferences onto his family?
Nope, I didn’t think about any of this. I’m just an idiot who gave them the last film I’d seen. I figured it would be a conversation starter I guess.
The next day Chuck basically threw the DVD at me and explained that the entire family had watched it together the night before.
All he said was, “That is a really terrible movie.”
Agreed.
At that point our working-relationship deteriorated further and I was let go a few days later. I still feel bad picturing the family together watching one of the more heinous films ever made.
Worst. Call. Ever.
I am gasping. GOL