LESSONS

Not specific to either Tinker’s Rules nor Tinker’s Revenge, this bonus chapter offers a lighthearted glimpse behind the scenes of Jake’s life on a more personal level, where not everything in business is about making money.

Having received a 911 call from a panicked customer, I dropped everything and rushed to the scene of the disaster. It was just one of the many reasons why my insanely-rich Palm Canyon clients paid me such outrageous sums to build and maintain their mansions. Whatever the need, whatever the emergency, I was always there. In short, I took care of them.

However, not everything in business is about fixing the problem a customer thinks they have. Sometimes, what they really need, without actually knowing it, is to be taught a lesson, which just so happens to be my stock in trade. I’m an excellent teacher. It’s not something I want to do; rather, I feel compelled to do it as a charitable endeavor. It’s like pulling a thorn out of the side of all of humanity, the thorn being assholes who just can’t seem to play well with others. Despite having everything going for them; fame, fortune, and all of the extravagances that go with it, they’re lacking one thing … a good attitude. That’s where I come in. I’m a pro at providing attitude adjustments to those in need, whether they want it or not.

That’s why at 4:15 p.m., on a sunny Saturday afternoon, when I should have been soaking up rays at the beach, I was instead at the home of a one Edward Cantrell, a miserable asshole if ever there was one. However, I believe everyone is redeemable; it just takes a bit of effort.

Climbing out of my truck, I grabbed a special toolbox I keep for this particular job, and headed for the entrance. To give credit where credit is due, Cantrell designed this place, and it’s nothing short of a work of art, an anomaly coming from a man with such garish habits.

Always two steps ahead of me, Juanita opened the door dressed in the ridiculous maids outfit she’s forced to wear. “Hi, Meester Tinker.”

“Hola, Juanita,” I said, stepping inside. “Como está usted?”

“I been better,” she said, rolling her eyes at the sound of Cantrell’s cursing. “We all surbibe aroun here by prayin dat one day Meester C will trop dead.”

“Where’s Jake!” Cantrell yelled, still out of sight. “Has he called yet? Why do I have to do everything around here myself?”

Joining Juanita in the marble entryway, I leaned in close. “The only way you’ll ever get rid of him is to drive a wooden stake through his heart,” I said, then winked, lest she take me seriously.

Like a cat with a mouth full of canary, she just smiled. Maybe she thought that one day soon her prayers were going to be answered. Maybe she had a wooden stake.

Stepping past her, I headed for the grand staircase.

“You’re here!” Ed bellowed, bursting into the foyer and cutting me off at the base of the stairs. “It’s about fucking time!”

If you held a gun to my head and forced me to say something nice about Cantrell, I’d groan, then say, shoot me. In addition to being seriously deficient in the manners department, I would describe him as vertically challenged, horizontally gifted, and follicly impaired. He was already dressed for his wife’s shindig, an expensive gray pinstripe suit that did nothing for his rotund figure. His beady brown eyes glared at me from his puffy round face, and his fat, snarling lips were currently wrapped around a disgusting foot-long cigar. It took a monumental effort to resist the urge to yank it from his mouth and jam it into one of his eyes. But, I digress.

Looking over his shoulder, I watched as Juanita retreated, out of the line of fire. “I’ll do my best to get the problem fixed,” I said, all warm and fuzzy like, “but there are no guarantees. What time will the guests be arriving?”

He glanced at his watch. “They’ll be here in forty-five minutes,” he said, using the cigar to jab the air in front of my face, “so you’ve got forty-four minutes to fix the fucking problem and get your ass out of here!”

Cantrell was a real ball buster, but fortunately, mine were made of brass. Without another word, I headed upstairs, pausing to admire the small Van Gogh painting, obviously hung here for that very purpose.

“Stop gazing at the fucking painting,” he shouted, on the verge of losing it, “and go fix the electricity!”

I smiled. Raising his blood pressure was as easy as driving nails with a nail gun. Without answering, I turned right and followed the long carpeted hallway to the alcove at the end.  From there, I opened a recessed door, disguised as a statuary niche, then flipped on the light switch and climbed up into the attic. With a mountain of boxes, trunks and other assorted junk scattered about, it was all coated with a fine layer of dust, and while the useable space was quite large, there was an access door at the opposite end to reach the nether regions.

Retrieving a flashlight from the toolbox, I made my way to the south end of the cavernous room and through the door into the dark no-man’s land. I was here for a recurrent electrical problem, so I knew exactly where to look, an area where I don’t even think the rat exterminator ventured.

With the limited amount of lighting the flashlight provided, I carefully crab walked on the ceiling joists for about seventy feet to the corner of the west wing. After a quick left and forty-feet later, I crawled through several small openings in the framing and finally reached the area I needed. I really was getting too old for this juvenile behavior, but some things a guy just has to do. After all, it’s charity work.

Entering a more open space, I stood up, switched on a light, then surveyed this remote area of the attic, two floors above the kitchen. It had taken some work, but I’d made it my comfy home away from home.

Walking over to a spot adjacent to the exterior wall, I knelt down, my eyes going right to the familiar yellow mark on the wall, strategically placed above a small board that looked just like part of the framing. Digging around in my toolbox, I pulled out a cordless screwdriver and removed the four recessed screws holding a small block of wood. Inspecting the junction box underneath, I found exactly what I had expected. The underpowered twenty-amp circuit breaker I’d placed there on my last visit had tripped itself off.

Glancing at my watch, I had thirty-eight minutes until Cantrell’s guests started arriving. Seeing as how there was no rush, I pulled a lightweight hammock out of the toolbox, then strung it between the two eyehooks I had placed in the rafters for that very purpose. A minute later, I was quite comfortable in my perch, eating a banana and swigging a chilled bottled of water.

While relaxing, I pulled out a copy of The Catcher In The Rye and started reading where I’d left off the last time. All of the nut cases seem to read it and find true meaning in it, so perhaps J.D. Salinger’s novel would speak to me. Perhaps it would explain why when I was wiring the house’s main breaker box I felt compelled to install an additional feature up here. Perhaps it would even justify the voodoo I do with the thirty-amp circuit that powers all of the plugs and lights in the kitchen. Then again, perhaps not.

To clarify the situation, at the times when this attic breaker box is equipped with an overpowered fifty-amp breaker, Cantrell never has electrical problems. But on those visits when Ed is being particularly nasty, I take a run up here and install a wimpy twenty-amp breaker. Then on the next occasion when the kitchen is in heavy use, such as preparing for a party, this circuit breaker trips, and bingo … no mas power in la cocina. 

Yeah, I know it’s a terrible thing to do, and I loathe myself for it. That’s why as penance, I fix the problem for free, each and every time. I find that the financial loss on my part tends to soothe my conscious, assuming I have one when it comes to assholes.

Actually, I’m amazed that Cantrell hasn’t put two and two together and figured out that he has more problems than his friends. After more than a year of this, I’ve finally come to the conclusion that either he can’t add or he doesn’t have any friends. I’m guessing it’s the later.

With just seven minutes before the guests were due to arrive, I popped in the fifty-amp breaker to forestall any future problems, screwed the board back in place, then grabbed my toolbox and all of my belongings. As I was about to depart, I heard a soft noise, like a muffled sneeze.

Jerking my head in the direction of the sound, I was startled to see Raoul, the Cantrell’s chauffeur, staring at me from the opening. From this angle, only his head was visible, accentuating his gleaming white teeth. “What are you doing here?” I asked, signaling for him to come closer.

“Watchin chu,” he said, moving into the clearing.

“Why?”

“Because dis is someteen like the ten time dees has happen, and it only happen when we getteen ready for a beeg party.”

“So?” I asked, uncertain just how much he had seen.

“I saw chu,” he said, triumphant. “Chu doin someteen with the lectricity to screw dhat old basturd.”

Glaring at him, I calculated my next move. “What do you mean?” I asked, preparing to strike.

Now standing just several paces away, his small frame was a whole head shorter than mine, but if he was aware that I could snap him like a twig and hang him from the rafters to cure, he didn’t show it. In fact, it was the expression on his face, one of pure admiration, that let me know my fears of exposure were probably unjustified. “Chu lyin in da hammock, and”-he pointed in the general direction of the breaker-“chu doin someteen over dhere.”

Placing a hand on his shoulder, I debated whether or not to wrap him in the hammock and suspend him from the rafters like a salami. “So now that you know,” I asked, tightening my grip on his shoulder, “what are you going to do?”

“Are chu keeddeen,” he said, suddenly grasping the seriousness of the predicament he’d placed himself in, “I hate the son of beech. Chu don have to worry about me”-he hurriedly crossed himself-“I take dees to my grave.”

Relaxing my grip a bit, I kept my eyes locked on his.

Sensing an opening, he went for it. “Don worry, Meester Tinker. On my mother’s grave, I swear my leeps are sealed.” As he said this, he used his right hand to zeep his leeps. “I tell chu though,” he added conspiratorially, “the old fart is reelly peessed dhis time, and he starteen to get suspeeceeous. Juanita tell me chee hear him say the next time dees happen, he goin call someone else to find out whadda problem is, dhen he goin send chu the beel.”

I smiled, finally satisfied that Raoul could be trusted. “That’s why this was the last time,” I said, preparing to pass the torch. “I knew he was at the end of his rope. The problem is, I don’t think he’s learned his lesson, but from now on, it’s going to be up to someone else to finish teaching it to him.” Studying his face, the gleam in his eyes told me he understood.

Having created a special bond between us, we made our way back to the stairs then went our separate ways. While waiting for him to get out of sight, I reflected that having built this masterpiece, it was like one of my children, but it was time to set it free. In a couple of weeks, after things calmed down, I would remove the attic breaker box and submit my resignation.

Heading out the front door, my spirit soared, buoyed by the prospect of Cantrell getting a new teacher. “Take dhis yob and chuv it,” I sang, my heart filled with joy, “I ain workeen here no mas.”