AS THE BOARDS GO UP
By Thomas Jacobs
“Fine.”
João hung up, letting the phone slip from his fingers. He couldn’t even be bothered to flinch as it bounced from the soft cushions of the couch to clatter across the pale, laminate floor that tried with every ounce of its being to look like hardwood. Holding a groan behind gritted teeth, João moved to retrieve the device, wishing for all the world he’d never picked it up.
“What’s wrong?” his girlfriend asked, voice unmuffled by the sliding door that served as the only form of separation in their sorry excuse for a one-bedroom apartment. The flimsy piece of opaque glass slid open on the heels of the question, revealing girlfriend and bedroom alike.
She laughed at the sight of him.
“You look like you’ve just been sentenced to ten years in prison,” she said when he didn’t answer, following her words out into the living room. “Who was that?” Her gesture indicated the phone in João’s hand.
“My dad,” he answered, again slumping onto the couch. “And worse; a day of hard labour with my grandpa. He wants me to help him board up a place they’re tearing down in the spring.” He was helpless to stop the groan that escaped his lips behind the statement.
His girlfriend laughed again. “What’s so bad about that? It’ll be good to get out of the apartment for a while, and you’ll get to help your grandpa too!”
If only it were that simple.
“And what help could I be?” João asked in return. “The man’s done this sort of thing his whole life – I hardly know which end of the hammer is which. I’ll only slow him down.”
“Come on, João,” she said, sitting next to him, placing a hand on his. “He’s what – ninety-two? I’m sure he’ll be grateful for whatever you can do to make the job easier, even if that is only carrying the wood.”
“Great. A full day of carting wood back n’ forth – how exciting.”
“Well,” João’s girlfriend began, and he already knew what would come next, “do you have anything better to do? Besides, you might even get paid.”
João sighed. She was right, of course. He’d had nothing to do since the pandemic had taken his job, and his grandpa was sure to pay him for the work. Neither fact made the thought of a day of hard work under the old man any more appealing, unfortunately.
He nodded, shoulders sagging, well of excuses running dry. “Worksite’s in Brampton,” he said, voice low. “It’ll be an early morning – I should get to bed.” Squeezing her hand, João rose and made for the bedroom, sliding the door closed behind himself.
Her laughter chimed in the living room beyond the glass. “Don’t be so dramatic,” his girlfriend called after him. “It’s only five o’clock!”
João went to bed all the same.
Despite his early night, the following morning came all too soon. Sleep had provided little reprieve from his fears surrounding the day to come, his dreams walking him through everything that could go wrong, and João woke to an alarm ringing in his ears and a stomach begging for food. Maybe going to bed without dinner hadn’t been such a good idea.
Resisting the urge to hit snooze until the day had passed, João forced his unwilling body out of the comforter’s warm embrace, collecting his phone before slipping out of the room. Beyond the windows in the living room, he saw a barely-lit dawn creep across the flat-roofed car dealerships and tile warehouses spread out below. It looked cold, but at least the sky was clear.
With a sigh, he made for the bathroom, the trek taking him all of five steps. Squinting sleep-ridden eyes as the light flickered to life, João gazed at himself in the mirror, rubbing a hand across the scruffy patches of hair that covered his cheeks and jaw. He’d have to shave.
Grimacing, he set to, wishing he’d bought a new cartridge of blades instead of wringing every last shave from the final set in the cartridge he’d purchased over a month before. As things stood, the dull razor, combined with stubble allowed to grow far too long, made for a very unpleasant start to the day, the blades pulling the hairs from his face as much as they cut. The result was a puffy, red face and countless nicks scattered along his cheeks and jaw.
It wasn’t until João had finished that he realized he’d be wearing a mask anyway.
Dragging his feet over to a shower set as hot as it would go, João got in, the confined space offering little in the way of distraction from his worries about the day ahead.
He wished it were as simple as the fear of not being able to help he’d admitted to the night before, but the truth was, it was much more than that. Sure, he was worried about making mistakes, embarrassing himself in front of his grandpa, but his real concern was the thought of spending the whole day with the man – they’d never spent more than a couple hours together at a time throughout much of João’s adult life, and his dad and brother had been with him for those.
He was intimidated.
Washing the shampoo from his hair, João wondered what on earth they would find to talk about over so long a period. Anxiety wrapped its cold hands about his chest as he turned the squealing shower handle, stopping the warm flow. He hated awkward silence, and it wasn’t far away now. Shivering, João stepped from the tub, hurriedly grabbing a towel.
It wasn’t long before he’d run out of ways to procrastinate, and, bundled up against what was sure to be a day in the cold, João pulled on his mask, stepped into the hallway, and locked the door behind himself with a sigh.
The hallway, elevator, and parking garage were all devoid of neighbours, for which João was thankful – he didn’t think he could have managed small talk today. The roads were equally bare as he pulled onto them in his ageing sedan, address plugged into his phone. It wasn’t just the early hour. The city stayed at home these days, slumbering, hibernating in the hopes of waking to better days ahead. He missed the life, the energy that had once drawn him here.
Passing the sprawling parking lots that surrounded the equally-expansive Yorkdale Shopping Centre, João thought how strange it was to see them so barren this time of year. The holidays were almost upon them, and yet acres of empty tarmac stretched into the distance, the few cars still parked between the lines looking decidedly out of place. As he followed the curving ramp onto the highway beyond, GPS barking in his ear, João suddenly found himself feeling nostalgic for the simplicity of being dragged about the mall by his girlfriend, an activity he had dreaded before all this began.
The all-but empty lanes of the 401 greeted him, the absence of a true rush hour being perhaps the only good thing to come from the last year, and João lost himself to the monotony of highway driving. He was there before he knew it, the voice of the GPS commanding him to take the next left, insisting his destination would be on the right.
It was.
João saw his grandpa’s truck alongside a low building that looked to have once been home to several small businesses. His heart sank a little, and he realized he’d been hoping the other man wouldn’t show. Why am I like this, João thought, suppressing a twinge of guilt as he parked beside the red pickup. Pulling on fully the mask he had left hanging from an ear as he drove, he stepped out of the car.
His grandpa stepped out of the building itself.
“Hey, Gramps,” João called, voice muffled by the fabric that covered his mouth. It felt rough against skin still sensitive from the morning’s shave.
The white-haired man eyed him before responding. He wore his customary grey toque and thick, square-rimmed glasses above his worn, plaid quilted jacket. “Why this?” he asked, Portuguese accent thick, hand gesturing in front of his face to indicate the mask João wore. He looked disappointed, confused.
How to tell him I’m wearing this thing for his good even more than my own? João thought. A wave and a “Bah!” greeted his words as he tried to explain, however, and his grandpa turned, disappearing within the building once more. Not knowing what else to do, João followed.
The interior was dark despite the early-morning sunlight streaming through the front windows, windows they would soon have boarded. Beyond the entryway, they came to a large cafeteria-like room that must once have stretched behind the now-empty storefronts. Along the floor of the old cafeteria lay row upon row of thick, blue-rimmed plywood, the pieces stopping abruptly before the space João’s grandpa had claimed as his workstation.
Easy, he thought, seeing the wood. I’ll just help him pull those boards out, hold them up as he sticks some screws in them, and I’ll be headed home in an hour or two. It wasn’t going to be so bad after all – the plywood didn’t even look that heavy!
Before he could walk over to the nearest piece and get started, João suddenly found the handle of a bucket pressed into his hand, a long, wooden paint roller into the other, and a rubber tray kicked towards his feet. “Paint first,” his grandpa said, voice commanding as he waved at the rows of mottled wood with one hand and began rummaging in his pocket with the other.
“What? Why…“ the question died on João’s lips as the old man continued back the way they had come, finally pulling a tape measure free. He stared after him for a moment, perplexed and wondering if there had been some mistake. Why on earth did they have to paint these things if they were just going to pull them down with the rest of the place in a couple of months?
Abandoning the thought of going after his grandpa to clear things up, João set to the task the old man had given him. However foolish he thought it was, he was not going to look lazy.
An hour later found him rolling the chalky, yellow paint across the final board. Shoulders burning, lower back aching, and feeling dizzy from the fumes, João sighed, grateful as he straightened having painted the last strip. His grandpa had checked on him twice throughout the hour, each time looking more surprised that he hadn’t yet finished, and his anxiety about slowing the man down had seen João bent double and hurrying without breaks to get the last of the boards complete.
As if on cue, the boss appeared in the doorway.
Seeing João had finished, he nodded, then pointed to the wide piece of plywood nearest the door. “This one,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate he wanted it outside. Weary muscles complaining the whole way down, João obliged, bending to heft the flexible wood.
The thing weighed twice as much as it looked like it should.
Grimacing, he got it down the long hallway and out into the bright morning light. Cold wind nipping at his flushed cheeks and exposed hands, João eased his burden to the sidewalk. Looking around, he whistled in appreciation – in the time it had taken him to paint, his grandpa had built frames around every one of the windows, some of which were twice his height or more.
“You did all this?”
His grandpa waved it off, but João couldn’t help but be impressed. Ninety-two and still working harder than I ever have. Suddenly the realization hit João that this man who had always been able to do everything himself could not be any happier about needing help than João was spending a day doing construction. He looked at his dad’s dad as he slid the plywood over to the first window, a newfound appreciation for the short but sturdy man blossoming.
Together they placed the board over the window.
“Here,” João said, feeling anxious about messing up but wanting to show he could help. “Let me.”
The older man looked skeptical for a long moment, his foot already on the first rung of the ancient wooden stepladder. “Okay,” he said at last, accent drawing out the word slowly. He shuffled back, handing João some screws.
João climbed, grabbing the power drill already atop the ladder. He placed a screw against the corner his grandpa indicated from the ground and pulled the trigger. The drill whined loudly, driving the screw through the plywood and into the frame, the force of it nearly throwing João from the top of the ladder.
“Careful!” his grandpa said from below, first concerned and then chuckling when he saw his grandson had regained his balance. João grinned sheepishly, reminded of the days his grandpa towered over him instead of the other way around and glad the man could not see his embarrassment beneath the mask.
A few screws later, and the board was secure. João climbed down, receiving a solid pat on the back from his grandpa. It was a simple gesture, and yet João felt a previously unnoticed tension melt before the warmth it imparted.
Without speaking, they got back to work.
The next board proved more difficult, the tongue at the centre of the first sheet of plywood not wanting to slot into the groove of the newcomer. After a good deal of hauling and hammering had gotten them nowhere, João had an idea.
“Why don’t we put a screw here,” he tapped halfway down the edge of the first board, “so we can pull out the centre without trapping our fingers as we push them together?”
His grandpa slapped his forehead as if he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it already. “A screw!” he said, and João beamed back at the approval lighting up the old man’s eyes.
Before long, they had a system going, one board following the next in quick succession. They worked hard, not stopping for lunch, and though they were often silent, it never felt awkward to João. He even found he could relate to some of the old man’s stories, and when they did speak, it often ended in laughter on both sides.
As the winter sun began to set, their work only half done despite the speed, João’s grandpa emerged from the building, locking the door behind him. He was wearing a mask. “For you,” he said, winking knowingly.
For a moment, they stood in silence, admiring their work.
“Back tomorrow?” his grandpa asked.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” João said truthfully, stepping back, pulling down his mask to flash a smile.
Tomorrow, and as many days as it takes to finally know this man.