For emphasis, I pancaked my hands together and pretended to drive a flat trailer (my palm) over the flat road of the other palm. The guy gave me a big smile as I made little revving sounds like a small truck. “Pratty lady,” he said, laughing, flashing me his gold tooth. I missed the joke but laughed along like this was part of the discussion. I pulled a picture of Jay’s house out of my pocket. “I build now,” I hollered as I pointed to the photo and handed it to him.
He held the picture up to the ceiling like he was trying to see through it, and I added: “House on trailer, I make!” He suddenly looked at me with a sort of wide-eyed excitement (perhaps out of concern that I was yelling at him and using baby talk, or perhaps because he had finally realized what I wanted), and instantly I felt insecure. I crossed my arms, shifted my weight, and gave him a look like I knew precisely how deep the shit would get, like I was seasoned and savvy and had been building things my entire life. But I hadn’t, and he likely knew that, so he chewed on his cigar and chuckled, and then yelledat another guy in Russian, saying something that made the other guy laugh.
A few seconds later, another younger man walked in and intervened. He was the teddy bear’s son, a few years younger than me and dressed like a 1970s porn star (polyester shirt unbuttoned one too many buttons, and a pair of rayon pants that were tight on his ass and then flared to huge bell-bottoms at the ankles). He spoke something in gibberish to the other guys, and then looked at me and smiled. In broken English and with what seemed to be true sincerity, he offered, “Heelo, leedy. How can we be to heeping yours?” I instantly liked this guy, simply because I could perhaps stop yelling.
“I need a utility trailer,” I explained smiling, “so I can build a house.” I pointed to the picture of Jay’s house, and the son nodded his head and motioned that I should follow him past the men who were now taking a break to stare at me, leaning against the wall in their baggy coveralls, smoking cigarettes and smiling.
He walked me to a parking lot in back of the building where we strolled around, looking at trailers. Over the next half hour, I was able to communicate that I didn’t need sticker pockets, ramps, or tie-downs (various bits of metal that dangle off the trailer frame itself). I told him I simply needed the usual trailer “package” of metal side rails, cross braces, lights, brakes, and the ability to hold at least 3,500 pounds on each of two axles.
Through all of this, I tried to sound smart and wellreasoned, but halfway through the discussion I realized I was all balled up inside, which is why I felt compelled to kick the trailer tires and knuckle-rap the metal side rails. At one point, I even kneeled down and peeked under the trailer at the metal springs strapped to the axles. “These look great,” I exclaimed without knowing. I swaggered and tried to appear calm, but inside I was a mess. And all the while, the young Russian nodded his head in agreement, smiling and offering sympathetically, “You make good hoose with most kind trailer of me.” It was just the confidence boost I needed, and just like that, I handed over six hundred dollars as a deposit on the trailer. “You peek her up seeks week,” he said, smiling.
I walked home from the trailer place, nervously chewing my lip. Suddenly, the idea of building was real. I was all in, as they say in Vegas; I had coughed up six hundred dollars and it scared the crap out of me.
Up to that point, in my arrogance and naïveté, I’d imagined I was perfectly suited for building a house. I just needed the right how-to books and the proper tools. But walking home from the dingy trailer place, after pretending to be something I wasn’t, it finally sank in that I was planning to build a house. I was going to try to build something one thousand times bigger than me, capable of rolling down the
He held the picture up to the ceiling like he was trying to see through it, and I added: “House on trailer, I make!” He suddenly looked at me with a sort of wide-eyed excitement (perhaps out of concern that I was yelling at him and using baby talk, or perhaps because he had finally realized what I wanted), and instantly I felt insecure. I crossed my arms, shifted my weight, and gave him a look like I knew precisely how deep the shit would get, like I was seasoned and savvy and had been building things my entire life. But I hadn’t, and he likely knew that, so he chewed on his cigar and chuckled, and then yelledat another guy in Russian, saying something that made the other guy laugh.
A few seconds later, another younger man walked in and intervened. He was the teddy bear’s son, a few years younger than me and dressed like a 1970s porn star (polyester shirt unbuttoned one too many buttons, and a pair of rayon pants that were tight on his ass and then flared to huge bell-bottoms at the ankles). He spoke something in gibberish to the other guys, and then looked at me and smiled. In broken English and with what seemed to be true sincerity, he offered, “Heelo, leedy. How can we be to heeping yours?” I instantly liked this guy, simply because I could perhaps stop yelling.
“I need a utility trailer,” I explained smiling, “so I can build a house.” I pointed to the picture of Jay’s house, and the son nodded his head and motioned that I should follow him past the men who were now taking a break to stare at me, leaning against the wall in their baggy coveralls, smoking cigarettes and smiling.
He walked me to a parking lot in back of the building where we strolled around, looking at trailers. Over the next half hour, I was able to communicate that I didn’t need sticker pockets, ramps, or tie-downs (various bits of metal that dangle off the trailer frame itself). I told him I simply needed the usual trailer “package” of metal side rails, cross braces, lights, brakes, and the ability to hold at least 3,500 pounds on each of two axles.
Through all of this, I tried to sound smart and wellreasoned, but halfway through the discussion I realized I was all balled up inside, which is why I felt compelled to kick the trailer tires and knuckle-rap the metal side rails. At one point, I even kneeled down and peeked under the trailer at the metal springs strapped to the axles. “These look great,” I exclaimed without knowing. I swaggered and tried to appear calm, but inside I was a mess. And all the while, the young Russian nodded his head in agreement, smiling and offering sympathetically, “You make good hoose with most kind trailer of me.” It was just the confidence boost I needed, and just like that, I handed over six hundred dollars as a deposit on the trailer. “You peek her up seeks week,” he said, smiling.
I walked home from the trailer place, nervously chewing my lip. Suddenly, the idea of building was real. I was all in, as they say in Vegas; I had coughed up six hundred dollars and it scared the crap out of me.
Up to that point, in my arrogance and naïveté, I’d imagined I was perfectly suited for building a house. I just needed the right how-to books and the proper tools. But walking home from the dingy trailer place, after pretending to be something I wasn’t, it finally sank in that I was planning to build a house. I was going to try to build something one thousand times bigger than me, capable of rolling down the
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