The Tool

I meet a lot of great people in an average day. Thursday was one of those days.
A fellow realtor showed my new listing twice this morning before I'd even been over there to give it the once over. Just might be getting an offer on it Friday. While I was at the house, the guy measuring the rooms couldn't say enough nice things about the place. And the woman who shoots my videos agreed to a night visit to capture the house under the lights, so to speak.
The new owners right next door to my listing are putting in a suite downstairs. I chat up one of the guys. Feel bad it's not later in the day so we could crack a beer. But he'll be around.
Later, I popped into the bank to cash a cheque. Turns out the teller is the daughter of the client we're doing a huge reno for. Pays me a very nice compliment about my work over at her mom's house.
Then there was this prick at Home Despot who liked to wag his finger.
But I guess I should back up at this point....
We're at the taping and mudding stage of the aforementioned reno. Most of the work is in a basement so dark and damp Edgar Allan Poe set one of his short stories in it. The only way to dry out that mud between quitting time and the next morning is to bring in kerosene heaters like the ones you see on the sidelines at CFL games.
I go to HD to rent three heaters and two carpet dryers to keep the air circulating.
First thing Thursday morning - 7 to be exact - I get a call from my drywaller that the basement walls he mudded the day before are not only not dry, like he needs them to be, but they're "wetter than they were" when he left.
"It's as if the heaters weren't on at all."
"I'll deal with it as soon as I get there," I reassure him.
He then spends an hour or two diagnosing the equipment malfunction when he should be sanding and applying the next coat of drywall mud. And then he leaves because you can't sand wet mud. Losing a day of mudding means we have to push back all subsequent trades: painters, floor layers, plumbers and sparkies for their final appearances, all of them. Getting trades to a job site is like getting UFAs to sign with Edmonton: it only happens under duress.
When I get there. I check the breakers, the extension cords, the fuel levels, the I/O switch. Everything short of calling Holmes on Homes. No matter what I try, I can't keep the heaters on for more than a couple of minutes before they shut down, the basement still as damp as a fat girl at an Oilers practice.
I load up the heaters and haul them back to Homo Depot. The machinery might not be fired up, but I am. So I do a lot of counting to 10. I try to explain to the Tool behind the rental desk that the heaters don't appear to be in working order.
"My drywaller went home. He couldn't work. He said the walls were wetter this morning than they were last night."
"That's impossible. He's using too much mud," the Tool offers.
"Um, how would you know how much my drywaller used?"
"I spent 20 years drywalling. I know."
"Maybe I didn't explain it right. I've just spent the past hour with these things and I can't get them to stay on for more than a minute or two. And even midday the basement we're doing is cool and damp."
"You should have called us this morning. I didn't hear the phone ring," he tells me. For emphasis, he picks up the phone at the rental desk and slams it back down.
"I just got to the site. Spent an hour trying to determine why these heaters don't work. And here I am. If you'd like to fire them up and test them, be my guest."
"We can't do that."
"OK, can we get a manager down here?" I ask, getting tired of this guy's attitude.
"Sure can." He gets on the blower.
Just when it looked like we could get happy ending (bypassing the minions almost always works), the Tool chips in: "I don't know why you were using kerosene. Nobody uses kerosene anymore."
3...2...1...
We have ignition.
"If nobody uses kerosene anymore, why do you rent kerosene heaters?" I ask, confident that my logic is irrefutable. It was, but for emphasis I muttered "fucking idiot."
Next to me is some skinny prick. Maybe 50 or a little older. Probably divorced with at least one kid in rehab or on the street. He spins around and tells me in this chipmunk voice, "Now that was uncalled for (arguable). You don't need to use that kind of language (he was right)."
But as he's saying it, he's wagging his finger at me, like he's scolding me.
"I must have missed something. Are you my dad or my elementary school principal"?
"If I was your dad, I'd slap you," the skinny chipmunk tells me.
So I get in his grill. And I mean "spousal" close.
"Waive that finger at me again. I'll snap it off and shove it so far up your ass you'll have to rent pliers to take it out."
"Go ahead. Hit me. I'd love to sue you."
Shit. It was like looking in the mirror. I've used that line so many times it's a cliche. It was probably the only thing he could have said other than, "I'm a cop" that would have made me back down right then.
Now the Tool is speed-dialling the manager. I hear him say, "it's urgent."
Meanwhile, Mr. Language Cop and I are chirping away.
"I did not wag my finger at you," he says, wagging his finger at me some more.
"Give me five minutes to get my store credit. Then you can waive that finger at me outside."
"There was no need for that kind of language." I'm thinking, "how many of his kids had to kill themselves before he realized he was an overbearing asshole? "
"Look old man, by the looks of it you're only about five years away from your dirt nap, but if you keep this up you're gonna have your fatal heart attack right here in the store."
At this point, he's trying to pay for the 1/2 inch crimper he's renting. He's whispering his phone number to the other tool rental guy (he's staying WAY out of it).
"No worries old man, I've already got your wife's phone number."
He starts to turn toward me, like you''d reflexively turn to avoid being hit by a flying bee. But he catches himself, thanks the bystander clerk, and bails without making eye contact with me again. Me, I'm staring at him, arms crossed, psychically daring him to wag his finger just one more time.
It was around that time some orange-clad supervisor strode in, took me aside, and listened to my case.
"This guy doesn't seem to want my business. He even said so himself."
I said that, after I got my store credit, we should go to his office and review my invoices for the past month.
"You're not the only one (customer)."
Instead of getting into how many decimal points our invoices add up to, I just said, "I guess that's why Home Depot's profit is down 15% this year. I hope you enjoy getting your lunch served to you by Lowe's when they take out Rona."
At that, I said I was tired of talking. Just wanted my credit.
Pretend-manager then spent 5 minutes crediting me for all the equipment that didn't work. I wait until he's printed it all out. Then I tell him, "I don't want the damage waiver. It's impossible to wreck a couple of fans. Take it off."
I'm pretty sure I heard his teeth grinding.