Today I went out the back door of my apartment complex to take some trash to the dumpster. As I neared the dumpster, I was startled by the handyman of the building. It was like a scene in a horror movie. The wall ends and there’s a creepy stranger there.
At least I hope he was the handyman. I had never met or seen the handyman before. Either this was him or just an old man rebelling against the world by painting things that didn’t belong to him.
The Handyman had this weird look on his face. It was a combination of I hate everybody, I smell something sour, That Metamucil is not sitting well and Did I just crap my pants? He reminded me of a villain in an old Scooby-Doo cartoon the moment after they’ve been unmasked. “Zoinks! It’s old man Smithers! The cranky handyman!”
In any case, I thought I would be polite so I greeted him with a pleasant hello. A hello that fell on deaf ears because he didn’t say anything back. What a rude bastard. Although now that I think of it, the guy was so old maybe my greeting literally fell on deaf ears.
As I made my way back to my apartment, my annoyance faded and I started to feel kind of bad for the guy. He seemed like he was old enough to have been around when Bell yelled, “Watson, I need you!” so I’m sure this isn’t exactly where he saw himself in his golden years.
Instead of chilling by the pool sipping on a ice-cold glass of prune juice with a tiny umbrella floating in it, blowing through his Depends like there’s no tomorrow, he was fixing toilets and painting walls. How could I not feel bad for the old dude?
Hang in there, Cranky Handyman. From what I saw today, you’ll be experiencing the sweet release of death any day now.