Dots

by Jonathan Marcus

The ad says industrial painting. I’ve never really painted, industrially or not. But I can hold a paintbrush as well as the next guy, right? Anybody can paint, right? The industrial part I’ll figure out. The ad says show up at the jobsite.

     The jobsite is a chain link fence. Inside the fence sits a water tower, and a guy on the hood of a Ford pickup. 

“Here for the job?”

“Yup.”

“Ever painted a water tower?”

I look up at all that metal in the sky and try to hide the fear. The thing is really big. “I know how to paint,” I lie to him.

“Where’s your last job?”

“Florida.”

This satisfies him. Then he says, “You climb a water tower?”

“Sure.” I lie again, and look at him like what idiot hasn’t climbed a water tower.

“Show me,” he says.

My head flies up to see where the top of it is, face going white, but I march right over to the monstrosity like I’m Mr. Watertower and grab the first steel rung like I own the thing. Start climbing like it’s easy. And, wow, it is easy, and I grab one rung after the next and get into the rhythm of ascending. It is easy. I can do this. Heck, I can probably do this with a paintbrush in hand. Nice day, too. I look up and the thing hides the sky like it’s a second moon aimed at my head. Shit. Scary. But I keep climbing. Then I look down. Way down. Shit. I can’t do this. I can’t keep climbing. I could die. If I slip or stumble, I will die and won’t even have enough time for life to flash before my eyes before splatting. Hands start sweating.  Harder to grab these rungs with damp hands. Am I halfway yet? I keep climbing because if I stop it will be worse. And if I do stop, what happens? Are they going to send a helicopter to rescue some chickenshit college hippie from a water tower? I keep climbing. I hate the entire water tower. Way above the treetops now. Keep climbing and glancing out there without looking down and keep climbing some more. Then, finally, a few more rungs, and I make it to the platform and, wow, it’s great up here. Amazing, actually. I love standing up here. Strolling on the platform is a luxury and gazing into the beyond is thrilling. Where’s the city? Atlanta is just a few buildings, a little midget place, lost in an endless forest. Maybe I could get a job up here . . .

But the guy never calls me back and anyway a few days later there’s an ad for welder. I figure I can weld as well as the next guy, or at least as well as the next guy who has never welded. So I call the number. And the guy says, “Can you weld?” And I let him know that if I didn’t know how to weld, why would I be calling? So he says “Come on in on Thursday at lunchtime.”

Why did I tell the guy I can weld? How did I get into a jam like this? I don’t even know a welder. All I know is it melts metal to metal and you have to wear a funny helmet with a dark slot of window in it. Then I remember, yeah, do I know a welder, an artist at Atlanta College of Art. Her name is Wendy Shulman and she’s Jewish so I figure it’s okay to call her up, as if it’s written in The Talmud that Jews must teach each other to weld.

by Jonathan Marcus