Delta40
01-17-2011, 08:02 PM
Oh no, thought Bill as he passed the attachable screwdriver heads in Bunnings. ‘Here it comes again’. His tongue passed over his lips nervously as watched his wife talk to a shop assistant, while out of the other he spotted ‘Phillips head’. His heartbeat fluttered and Bill knew that they were the ones his workshop really needed. Little beauties too. He fingered the case idly, careful that Irene should not notice his interest. Mmmm blue handles. Not just any blue either – it was the shade of blue that told every man who held them “I Have Meaning.” The ones he had at home were red and did not relay that message. He checked the price and sucked in his breath. Gone up since the last set he’d bought but Irene wouldn’t know. He would come back tomorrow while she was at the social group and get them then.
Irene thanked the shop assistant and returned to Bill tin in hand. ‘He says we need a water based paint love. I thought we might. You with all your tools and know-how didn’t know much after all did you?’ She gave his arm a friendly squeeze. ‘What are you looking at?’ Bill had not been listening but suddenly jumped to attention, like a child caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. ‘Nothing, nothing at all. What did the assistant say then?’ He looked enquiringly at Irene as he steered her away from the 24-piece set toward the checkout. Irene looked behind her and saw. She held a Homebrand can up to him. Bill frowned ‘What do you want to go with that crap for? What’s wrong with good old Dulux? I tell you Irene you’ll get much better value for your money’. Irene smiled. Bill was not so much a handyman as an authority on brand names. A better word might be sucker. ‘I’ll stick with this one thanks. After all, it’s for Julie’s bathroom wall so you can sit on your high horse all you like. She’s just going to slap this on as an undercoat and doesn’t need anything special.’
Bill paid for the paint and as they drove home, Irene was wondering about the Phillips head screwdriver set. She saw the mournful look Bill had given them as they moved away. She was more than aware of his impulsive tool buying but she gave him concessions. Bill was really good to her. He collected the mail and took care of all the finances. Irene did not need to worry about a thing. She thought his little tool shed was a joke though. It was completely decked out with every tool yet strangely, Bill never produced anything from there. Odd jobs around the home often had to be fixed by paid maintenance men. 6 months ago, she called out a plumber. If Irene bought a sewing machine, she would sew something. She did not understand the logic of the tool shed. Big boys with big toys, she thought. However, it wasn’t hurting anyone so it didn’t matter.
Bill was wondering how on earth he could get hold of Irene’s credit card tomorrow. His cards were maxed out from purchases for his workshop. Any man would be proud to have it. Bill spent all his leisure hours in there. Every conceivable tool in its rightful place. He even had a bar (with matching dartboard). It was his sanctuary. Irene and her friends never understood of course but he never pretended to understand them so they were even he supposed. The past 12 months had seen him spend some $15,000 in tools and accessories. Each time he left home, he entered a hardware store. He called them his
‘toy stores’. The endless rows of gleaming nuts, bolts and screws would draw him with little encouragement. Hand tools and power tools, accessories, clothing and accoutrements all found their way onto Bill’s credit card. He preferred to shop without assistance or advice. A man like Bill did not need young whipper snappers telling him. All his power tools were Ryobi. The best.
Irene popped her bag in the pantry next to the flour where she always did when she got home. As she went to her room to remove her shoes and stockings, she called out to Bill, ‘Put the kettle on love. I could do with a nice hot cuppa.’ Bill flicked the switch and noiselessly opened the pantry door. He was deft in his movements as he slipped a hand into her bag and slid the purse out. Her visa card was in his pocket in a flash.
He made the tea and the rest of the day was uneventful. Bill spent it in his workshop, mulling over the old Phillips screwdrivers with the red handles. They had been good to him, although he could not quite remember ever using them for anything specific, but he had been fond of them nevertheless in the enjoyment they had brought him from sitting in their allotted space. Perhaps young Craig at number 27 would like them. Might get his mind off the alcohol and violence, Bill thought. Too much crime these days. A man needed honest direction and what better way than a set of screwdrivers? Bill felt a twinge of guilt as the seat of his pants suddenly burnt white hot on the barstool. Irene’s credit card was nestled there. He shifted awkwardly then, realizing a truth he had fought hard to deny. Perhaps it was too much this time. He was 58 on Wednesday and he wondered sadly just what purpose his life had. His shoulders slumped, he leaned against the bar for support. A voice cried out in his head ‘Just one more purchase, come on mate!’ Bill curled what little strength he had left into a ball and responded. “No!’ He shouted it aloud and ran inside, hoping to escape the demon voice but it pursued him all the way to the kitchen pantry, begging him to reconsider. Irene had gone to bed and remained blissfully unaware of Bills torment. Without further ado, Bill put the credit card back into her purse. Peace came over Bill as he sat on the linoleum floor of the kitchen. Suddenly a feeling of exhilaration embraced him – as if he had just carpentered the most complex wood, fixed the most trying job, hammered the hardest nail, drilled the deepest hole. Eventually Bill went to bed and slept soundly. When he woke, he felt free for the first time.
On Wednesday, he was ‘stocktaking’ his tools as usual, when Irene popped her head in. ‘Close your eyes, Birthday Boy. I’ve got something for you’. Bill put down drill bit number 15 and smiled. ‘Hold out both hands because it’s really heavy!’ Irene placed a beautiful black plastic case in Bills outstretched arms. He sensed before he opened his eyes what it contained. There was only one thing he prayed for. He clicked the case open. Yes! 24 gleaming screwdrivers, with blue handles heralded: ‘You Have Meaning!’ Bill said he would use them for years to come. Irene knew they would just stay very shiny but didn’t care.
Irene thanked the shop assistant and returned to Bill tin in hand. ‘He says we need a water based paint love. I thought we might. You with all your tools and know-how didn’t know much after all did you?’ She gave his arm a friendly squeeze. ‘What are you looking at?’ Bill had not been listening but suddenly jumped to attention, like a child caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. ‘Nothing, nothing at all. What did the assistant say then?’ He looked enquiringly at Irene as he steered her away from the 24-piece set toward the checkout. Irene looked behind her and saw. She held a Homebrand can up to him. Bill frowned ‘What do you want to go with that crap for? What’s wrong with good old Dulux? I tell you Irene you’ll get much better value for your money’. Irene smiled. Bill was not so much a handyman as an authority on brand names. A better word might be sucker. ‘I’ll stick with this one thanks. After all, it’s for Julie’s bathroom wall so you can sit on your high horse all you like. She’s just going to slap this on as an undercoat and doesn’t need anything special.’
Bill paid for the paint and as they drove home, Irene was wondering about the Phillips head screwdriver set. She saw the mournful look Bill had given them as they moved away. She was more than aware of his impulsive tool buying but she gave him concessions. Bill was really good to her. He collected the mail and took care of all the finances. Irene did not need to worry about a thing. She thought his little tool shed was a joke though. It was completely decked out with every tool yet strangely, Bill never produced anything from there. Odd jobs around the home often had to be fixed by paid maintenance men. 6 months ago, she called out a plumber. If Irene bought a sewing machine, she would sew something. She did not understand the logic of the tool shed. Big boys with big toys, she thought. However, it wasn’t hurting anyone so it didn’t matter.
Bill was wondering how on earth he could get hold of Irene’s credit card tomorrow. His cards were maxed out from purchases for his workshop. Any man would be proud to have it. Bill spent all his leisure hours in there. Every conceivable tool in its rightful place. He even had a bar (with matching dartboard). It was his sanctuary. Irene and her friends never understood of course but he never pretended to understand them so they were even he supposed. The past 12 months had seen him spend some $15,000 in tools and accessories. Each time he left home, he entered a hardware store. He called them his
‘toy stores’. The endless rows of gleaming nuts, bolts and screws would draw him with little encouragement. Hand tools and power tools, accessories, clothing and accoutrements all found their way onto Bill’s credit card. He preferred to shop without assistance or advice. A man like Bill did not need young whipper snappers telling him. All his power tools were Ryobi. The best.
Irene popped her bag in the pantry next to the flour where she always did when she got home. As she went to her room to remove her shoes and stockings, she called out to Bill, ‘Put the kettle on love. I could do with a nice hot cuppa.’ Bill flicked the switch and noiselessly opened the pantry door. He was deft in his movements as he slipped a hand into her bag and slid the purse out. Her visa card was in his pocket in a flash.
He made the tea and the rest of the day was uneventful. Bill spent it in his workshop, mulling over the old Phillips screwdrivers with the red handles. They had been good to him, although he could not quite remember ever using them for anything specific, but he had been fond of them nevertheless in the enjoyment they had brought him from sitting in their allotted space. Perhaps young Craig at number 27 would like them. Might get his mind off the alcohol and violence, Bill thought. Too much crime these days. A man needed honest direction and what better way than a set of screwdrivers? Bill felt a twinge of guilt as the seat of his pants suddenly burnt white hot on the barstool. Irene’s credit card was nestled there. He shifted awkwardly then, realizing a truth he had fought hard to deny. Perhaps it was too much this time. He was 58 on Wednesday and he wondered sadly just what purpose his life had. His shoulders slumped, he leaned against the bar for support. A voice cried out in his head ‘Just one more purchase, come on mate!’ Bill curled what little strength he had left into a ball and responded. “No!’ He shouted it aloud and ran inside, hoping to escape the demon voice but it pursued him all the way to the kitchen pantry, begging him to reconsider. Irene had gone to bed and remained blissfully unaware of Bills torment. Without further ado, Bill put the credit card back into her purse. Peace came over Bill as he sat on the linoleum floor of the kitchen. Suddenly a feeling of exhilaration embraced him – as if he had just carpentered the most complex wood, fixed the most trying job, hammered the hardest nail, drilled the deepest hole. Eventually Bill went to bed and slept soundly. When he woke, he felt free for the first time.
On Wednesday, he was ‘stocktaking’ his tools as usual, when Irene popped her head in. ‘Close your eyes, Birthday Boy. I’ve got something for you’. Bill put down drill bit number 15 and smiled. ‘Hold out both hands because it’s really heavy!’ Irene placed a beautiful black plastic case in Bills outstretched arms. He sensed before he opened his eyes what it contained. There was only one thing he prayed for. He clicked the case open. Yes! 24 gleaming screwdrivers, with blue handles heralded: ‘You Have Meaning!’ Bill said he would use them for years to come. Irene knew they would just stay very shiny but didn’t care.