firewood : scufflefoot

That's no way to live. The twang of combs with fingers running over them made me dizzy, similarly to when I tilt my head to far to the side while blow drying my hair. It's a nerve that doesn't connect. It's vertigo at its best.

I felt my whole life like I was supposed to build something with my hands and wood and nails. I'd start with a house, I thought. I'd build a house for myself and whomever else needed to live there.

As it was, I worked at a hardware store, which sort of applied to my long term goals. I'd learned a lot about tools and wood and fixtures and lighting and wiring. I'd made some friends of construction workers and contractors and architects. That's good, I thought. If I ever need advice, I have some advisors.

Henry, a regular at the store who owned his own demolition company, came in to get a hammer. His had been buried under a house the day before. He was particularly personable that day.

Hey buddy, how's it goin'?
Great, and you?
It's going. Need a hammer.
Oh? Where's yours?
Buried under a house on SpringOak Lane.
Shit, that's unfortunate.
Hey, how old are you? He asked me outright, like he'd planned it.
I'm 28. Why?
Oh, just curious. Been seeing you here for years. Are you in school?
No, I graduated three years ago.
Oh, in what?
Architecture. At this his eyes widened and he looked thoughtful in a judgemental way. I was used to it.
You gonna use it?
Yes. Eventually.
Good luck.
You're welcome. Aisle 2.
Huh?
Hammer.
Oh, right. Thanks.

I never explained why I was still working in this hardware store to anyone, and not even fully to myself. And there it was again, staring at me, shaking its head: fear, laziness, and a certain curiosity about what my life would have been like thus far if I hadn't had this enormous pressure resting itself on my head. What's it like for people who don't feel like they must do a specific thing? And what's it like for people who feel they should and find a way to do it?

The satisfaction must be overwhelming.