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PrintUp the ladder to the roof
Vanity Wars: HIM
Illustration by Josh Flanigan.
I have a 32-foot aluminum extension ladder. It is an unusual sort of accessory for someone like me. I daresay that there are many who would guess that I own a pair of ostrich skin cowboy boots, but not many who would suspect that there is a ladder in my basement. A 32-foot extension ladder is a big ladder. Have you ever seen the clip of Bob Beamon’s world record long jump at the 1968 Olympics in Mexico City? Beamon hit his mark, then took off, sailing through the air, remaining aloft for so long that, watching it, you become aware that you are actually holding your breath. His jump was twenty-nine-feet, two-and-a-half-inches, which is just about where your feet are if you climb to the top of my ladder. How I came into possession of such a serious piece of equipment is a long story that is notorious in some circles. I won’t go into it, but I will tell you that on its side there is a small, ominous sticker that says, “Exhibit B.”
Owning a 32-foot extension ladder is like owning a pickup truck. Possession of either is the equivalent of declaring to your social set that you are available to assist with a wide array of unpleasant, difficult jobs. If you’ve got a pickup, you are the go-to guy when there are old refrigerators or sofa beds to move. Owning a ladder means gutters, or chipping and painting. Oddly enough, if you own both a truck and a ladder, then this is not true, because owning both means that you are a contractor who expects to be paid. Owning just one means an afternoon of work you’d rather not be doing with—at best—the prospect of a beer or two at dusk. Resignation to one’s lot in life is part of what the Buddha tells us we need to acquire on the path to enlightenment, and so it was that recently I once again found myself considering the wardrobe choices available to me as I embarked on a weekend’s worth of life at twenty-seven-feet above a cold, hard driveway.
Much to my distress I found that I had a drawer full of options. Somehow I have accumulated a large collection of t-shirts from 5K races that I could have run better and tourist destinations where I have never been, jeans with broken belt loops, and sweatshirts that not even a homeless person would wear to change the oil in the car he used to own. I must have been saving this stuff for something, but could it have been this? Why don’t I have this sort of rich selection available when I am looking for a cummerbund? And speaking of belts, why don’t I own a tool belt?
When you are standing at the bottom of a 32-foot extension ladder, you think about how much you hate climbing up; when you are standing at the top of a 32-foot extension ladder, you think about how unpleasant it is to climb down, like a cat waiting for the fire department. Under these conditions, minimizing the number of trips up and down becomes a priority. You don’t want to make an extra trip because you suddenly realize that a screwdriver will help pry away the surprise hornets’ nest, but as you are holding on for dear life, there is a decided limit to the number of things you can carry.
A tool belt would solve this problem, but I don’t own one. Part of why I don’t is that they are not flattering. When you are standing on a ladder, you are already in one of the top three most unattractive positions in the world, and a tool belt would certainly compound the problem. The other reason is that I have no idea what I would put in one. Although I own a 32-foot extension ladder, the remainder of my tool selection is reflected in my home repair credo: If you can’t fix it with a hammer, it’s broke for good. A tool belt that came with a guy who owns a pickup and a ladder would be a good thing, but one of those hasn’t shown up in the “As seen on TV!” aisle at Walgreens. I have no illusion of rocking the tool belt look like the male equivalent of Pamela Anderson during her Home Improvement days, but it would be nice to know what tools she used. I could try Googling “Pamela Anderson’s tool belt” for insight, but it might also get me fired. Or divorced.
I guess I could put gloves in there, if I owned any. Given the bench strength of the rest of my unpleasant-jobs wardrobe, you’d think that I would have a wide selection of work gloves. After all, I do own ostrich skin cowboy boots and I have hands that are as soft and white as a monsignor’s. Sadly, the three little kittens who lost their mittens have nothing on me. Just as in kindergarten, reverse polarity seems to rule; gloves fly off my hands and are lost forever. I can sometimes locate a single bulky ski glove with a torn lining, but this is not really any help with the death grip with which I cling to the rungs of my 32-foot extension ladder. As a result, when someone calls to ask if they can use my ladder, I know that my weekend will be filled with acrophobic terror, paper cut-like abrasions on my hands, and fingernails stained the color of my friend’s house. The effect can be quite Goth.
Then there is the cell phone. Where else would you be when you get a call from that one family member you feel awkward not sparing a moment for except on the top rungs of a 32-foot extension ladder? But then again, maybe someone would call with enough of an emergency to give me the guts to say, “Sorry. Gotta go.” So, let’s see, gloves I don’t own, a communication device that requires me to take one had off a rail, a screwdriver for bugs, and a hammer.
The one bright spot in all of this sartorial chaos is that house painting affords me just about the only acceptable opportunity to sport a selection from my extensive baseball cap holdings. Unless you are Paul Simon, the only other times when it is appropriate to wear baseball caps are when your name is announced at the draft of a major league sport, when you are holding a clipboard on the sideline of a football game, or when you are actually playing baseball. Even though it has been a while since I last turned a double play, I have baseball caps like the Hall of Fame does. Hey, sometimes the right hat is all you need to complete the look, especially if the look you are going for is “I slept under a bridge."
“Ambrose” is painting that house, not breaking into it.
