Coldest of Calendars

Many a harsh Michigan winter ago, my brothers and I hammered framing nails, wheelbarrowed construction scraps around, and traded dirty jokes alongside a man named Eric. A shock of yellow hair topped leathery skin, his wiry frame hiding from the raw cold in stained, and torn Carharts. Blaring ZZ Top over our tinny boom box speakers, like a blonde orangutan with a tool belt, he swung lazily between the wooden trusses, measuring, throwing chalk lines, jigsawing, and brandishing his mammoth framing hammer, seemingly impervious to the elements.

Eric the Contractor.

My father had hired him to help us build our umpteenth garage to aid in storage of a contemptible virus--a rampantly spreading collection of unusable machinery, inoperable automobiles, and unwearable sports equipment. So momentous the occasion, and so grand was this umpteenth garage, that my father also hired all of us boys to help him. Understand that I use the term "hired" rather flippantly here though, as it simply meant we were allowed continued residence under the same roof, at the same dinner table, and in the same beds. My father was also kind enough to request for our services on December Saturdays, and again during Christmas vacation--thus guaranteeing our uninterrupted participation without school getting in the way.

On one particularly rotten cold afternoon, I remember holding one end of Eric's measuring tape, my miserable, and skinny ass wobbling on frostbitten toes, when I spitefully asked him if he'd rather freeze, or burn to death.

"Oh, freeze. Definitely." was his quick, and hardly hypothetical reply.
"Can you just imagine anything worse than the unbearable pain of burning to death?" he laughed in response.

Why yes. Yes, in fact I can imagine something worse than the pain of burning to death. How about the pain of freezing to death?

Who can blame him though, right? Ever since Empire Strikes Back, there has never been a cooler** way to (almost) die, than by slicing open one's own pack animal to keep warm. I just figured with Eric, he'd whip out that jigsaw, and carve open the nearest stomach--even if it were his own--just to keep warm for a few more moments. Man, what an awesome way to die.

Flash forward to last night, in my tiny Japanese apartment, whose heater has mysteriously failed. I've spent the painful shivering moments since, trying to find out just what the shit was so appetizing to mighty Eric the Contractor about freezing to death. I'm certain there could be nothing badass about waking from sleep just in time to be crushed under the frozen water vapor weight from your own breath. The tidy Japanese police would thaw out my corpse, and find had been desperately spooned open at the abdomen--a tragic attempt at keeping warm like our mighty contracting hero, Eric.

I think Daikin-san owes me an apology.

And a new soup spoon.





** pun intended