Strokes of Luck

It is time to leave poker behind and get a life. With 10 credits in hand and a renewed teaching certificate, its north to Alaska. Three days later I rill into Anchorage, sleep challenged but with two live head lights peeking through a mobile mudpack. After a shower, a long winter’s nap and absolutely the best breakfast I’ve ever eaten, I pack off to the district office of education.

“What do you teach?” the bland clerk asks.

“Language Arts. K-12. Minor in math,” I recite.

“Follow me,” she directs and disappears left, out of the door behind the desks, down the hallway and disappears. Were it not for my advanced tracking skills, I never would have located her. Except for her straight cropped bangs and languid gray eyes, she is well nigh invisible behind a mountainous stack of applications. “We have one, perhaps one and a half openings. For next fall.” She informs. “Yours goes right here, top of the pile.”

“Hmm. She has a discerning nature after all.” I smile and carefully place my application on top. Squaring it neatly with those underneath. “When do I …”

“We start from the bottom up,” she drolly informs. “Have you any more questions?”

“Tickling my limited file of appropriate Shakespearean quotations and concluding that she could not discern “dropsies” from poppies, I respond, “No, but thank you,” and hasten in the direction of Mt. McKinley and the echo of plan a. On to plan B. A friend of a friend of my sister’s sister-in-law is a painter. Of houses. And as fortune would have it, his calendar is filled with projects and he is fending off a client desperate to get his newly constructed home painted before his wife returns from wintering in California.

“Would I be interested in a small project such as this?” he offers.

“I could be,” I dither, trying to appear calm, competent and otherwise not a vanilla tippler of serious repute.

“All right, then, hop in. You can check it out, decide for yourself.” A short drive to uphill, forested, suburban Anchorage finds us in the presence of a lofty, three-story structure. Another dropsy riddled epithet delivered aside and I spout, “Piece of cake. When do I start?”

“As soon as you like,” he encourages. “I’ll locate a ladder or two and introduce you to the folks at the paint store.”

I hang around the paint store until it is mixed and ready. Then I transport it to the ‘shack’ as I christened the hotel.

Most domestic construction in this area is of wood exterior and requires a special concoction of shellac, tar and tint. You have to move right along as it is heavier than regular paint and tends to get tacky, especially on a windy day. Today is a windy day. A 40-foot extension ladder is no picnic to extend and position. This is not the kind of balance I am seeking in my new life. And did I mention that heights and incontinence are a package deal in my case? So here is the scenario: paint brush in back pocket, bucket of stain goo with a hanger and an irrepressible case of the tremors.

Step. Gather. Move bucket up a rung. Step. Gather. Move bucket up a rung. Repeat thirty-four times until eyeball to eyeball with the soffit and trim.

I reach for the brush, load up and deliver. Or I should say, the wind delivers. What doesn’t drip, finds the trim. What drips is blown against the side of the house somewhere within a four to five foot pattern.

The first glance downward restarts the tremors, that quickly become uncontrollable and seriously threaten to shake free my hold on the ladder. In frustration, I heave the brush over my shoulder. Then after the longest 10 minutes of my existence, I begin to navigate down the ladder damning the wind, the goo and my judgment in this matter all the way to terra firma.

When my legs once again agree to support my body, I set about to find the brush. With less than $50 in the coffers, I have no choice. After a brief search, I locate the necessary prop. With all of the pine needles clinging to its gooey exterior, it looks like a creature I should consider twice before approaching. But I do.

At this point in history, the market has driven the price of silver up to 23 plus dollars an ounce. I don’t know exactly how many ounces or parts thereof are contained in one silver dollar, but I am suddenly quite curious to find out, as directly underneath the brush lies a glimmering silver likeness of Lady Liberty, dated 1923. True story.