THE FIXER

A good man is hard to find–but I found one. My Jerry loves to hate me. We argue like two robins digging for the same worm. My guy is a worker when the work is to his liking. Long, quiet hours fly by when he is writing a story, painting his memories onto his trusty big screen Gateway computer. His tales are saleable but he’ll never be an earnest Ernest Hemingway. Am I complaining? No. Our fridge is full. Our small house in Florida is cozy and we have no snow shovels, no skid chains in our garage. And if we did need those like we did in Boston, who would push that shovel all the way down our driveway so Jerry could get to his publisher on time? I would.

Over and over and over he has hammered it into my brain, ‘I’m not handy with tools. I write. You fix.’ And that is the basis of our ‘get along’ marriage.

Our children, Ira 10 and Jennifer 7, somehow scratched our refrigerator 6 unfixed months ago. Their apology did not help. I nagged Jerry, nagged him until I was sure, it was one nag too much and he would throw in his sweat towel. Finally, with my arms folded across my chest, I took a stand. ‘Jerry, shut down that ‘puter’ now or I’ll shut you down and you can sleep in the garage. Go to Davis’ Hardware. Don’t come home unless you have a large can of Johnson’s white spray-on semi-gloss paint. You are going to paint the fridge door today. Not tomorrow, today!’

Ocala rain is semi-rare but this day it hit hard. I heard Jerry drive into the garage, heard the door slam and in walked my sopping wet, sour-faced husband. ‘Wait! Wait, don’t paint yet. Jenny had a jelly sandwich while you were gone and I have to wipe her fingerprints off the fridge. Then you cover the handle with tape. Okay, ready. Hold your hand steady. Go slow. Don’t rush. I’ll be right back.’

Jerry takes a strong stance, aims at the door and screams. I hear the can fall to the floor. ‘What was that? “ I yell. My handyman comes running towards me, his face, his hair, his eyeglasses speckled white. ‘I guess I had the nozzle pointed the wrong way. Get my glasses off of me. I can barely see. He was a sad sight. I tried not to laugh but laughed loud enough for Jenny to come see her father. She joined me while Jerry told us both, ‘I told you 15 years ago, I can’t fix things, Dora. ‘ Holding the can, he starts to hand it to me, accidentally hits the ‘spray’ button ruining Jenny’s dress. ‘Give me the darn can, Klutz. I’ll paint the door.’

The incident is an inspiration. Non-stop Jerry writes for one month, hardly stopping for lunch. ‘The Painted Loser’ floats from his Gateway. I am the first to read it, which I do straight thru. His agent says it is far, far the best Jerry has ever done and gets it to Macmillan Inc. Publisher overnight express.

While we wait, I ask my fixer to take care of the clock over the kitchen sink. It has stopped. I look at the little lambs jumping over a fence dozens of times a day. Dumb but cute. ‘Jerry, come on. Any idiot can fix this clock and you are not an idiot. You just wrote a Hemingway book. We might get rich. ‘Criminy, I can’t fix a clock.’ Try. You can fix this one. Now you are a real writer, maybe you can also fix a simple clock.’ ‘OK, I’ll try but don’t expect miracles. I’ll initiate the work bench you bought me for Christmas two years ago.’ Two strangers , my husband and my clock go down the steps to our basement.

In less than five minutes Jerry hands me the clock. ‘I think I fixed it.’ ‘What is this wet stuff coming off the back?’ I exclaim. My hands feel greasy.’ ‘All it needed was oil. I put some in the two holes on the top.’‘Oiled it? My god, Man. It worked on batteries, you ruined it. My lambs have died.! ‘ I throw the clock in the trash can, get my umbrella and head to Best Buy to find another battery operated clock.

I’ll have a new clock and an old husband, and hope I never have to oil Jerry.