He was The Master. I was the Apprentice. My hour of passage was at hand. I was 11, about to become a True Desert Rat. The Master Sergeant, the Yoda of all things Desert Rat, was going to show me The Way of the Swamp Box. “Because someday, son, you’ll have one of these rust buckets on your own roof. Ladder.”
“Check.”
“Cooler pads. Oil. Screwdriver. Pliers.”
“Got ‘em all, Dad.”
“Schlitz. Grab me one. Don’t tell your mother.” Subterfuge deepened our bond.
Lo, I returned with the “holy water.” He popped the brew, extended the ladder, fired up a Marlboro, tossed the fresh cooler pads on his mighty shoulders and hauled himself up onto the roof, rung by rung, puff by puff, sip by sip, belch by belch. I followed with the tools. On the roof, out of mom’s earshot, the old man shook the heavens with a belch like a stadium horn and launched into the benediction: “Good God, boy. It’s hot as Hell. Let’s get this done.”
“Amen, Pop.”
The Master turned off the Sacred Flowing Waters. We took off the rusty four sides and laid them in a circle around the naked cooler. And lo, the Master sniffed the old pads.“They stink. Like godawful fish.”The Master stared at me. “This ain’t ‘Bo-nanza’, boy. ”
Prying a pad out of its rusty panel, he jammed his thumb, and, hark, he profaned the Lord, condemning the cooler pads to Hell and calling various parts of the swamp box sons of female dogs. Laughing was a mistake. “How would you like it if I did that to your thumb, boy?”
“I wouldn’t like it.”
“You’re not as dumb as you look.”
“You’re not as dumb as you look” was the opening salvo in one of his favorite lectures, “You want to make yourself useful?” We’ve all enjoyed stimulating lectures, but nothing can prepare you for the experience of my old man on a roll.
Among my favorite inspirational talks were, “Did you earn your allowance?” “When I was your age we had to work!” and “Flush the toilet! Do your homework! Pick up your laundry! Is that so hard?”
Dad enjoyed lists. Consider “A million things you aren’t allowed to touch in my toolbox” or “I’ll give you five reasons.” Other topics were profoundly philosophical. “Do what I say. Not what I do.”
If the Master Sergeant were alive today, he’d have more YouTube hits than PewDiePie simply based on his oft-repeated sermonette, “Shove your self-esteem.”
I hauled the old pads to the edge of the roof for Dad’s beautiful “burial at sea” ritual. Dad spoke over the dead and calcified pads.
“Unto the landfill we commend our departed cooler pads; in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection of our glorious swamp box— just as soon as we pop her new pads into place. Amen?”
“Amen.”
And then we flung them off the roof. I’d watch them drop, like Wiley Coyote onto the canyon floor below, each spinning with a “whump” and producing a cloud of white dust.
The tightening of the motor belt inspired a reading from the old man’s homily, “Don’t screw up, jackass.”
And, verily, as he wrenched it tight I screwed up not. He showed me how to put on the new pads, how to flush out the basin and how to seal it. And lo, we burned red as lobsters as we labored under the blazing sun.
When we got down off the roof and turned on the cooler, behold! A cold, pine-scented wind blew out of the vents. Mom saw that it was good. The Master smiled as he celebrated with a Marlboro and patted me on the back. “Go clean up. Learn by doing, son, learn by doing.”
And, yea, the Master taught me discipline, empathy, the merits of Red Skelton and creative cursing. He taught me how to fix toilets, repair flat tires and tighten leaky faucets. He clothed me, fed me, taught me how to whistle and shave, take on bullies, how to tie a tie. And lo, the swamp box was made ready for summer and the boy ready for adulthood.
And verily, the boy loved the Master.That Father’s Day, in our chilly living room, I interrupted his enjoyment of Joe Frazier pounding some poor palooka on the Magnavox to hand him a hand scrawled card, “Thanks 4 everything Dad”, and a poorly gift-wrapped ninety-nine cent bottle of aftershave shaped like a Model T. And, lo, tuition paid, we were good.
