“Weatherboards” (A Short Story)

by Martin Anton Smith

My name is Bert Matinski. Everyone calls me Matinski – but not my wife, she calls me Bert. I really hate the name Bert. Growing up the name Bert caused me much strife in the schoolyard. It wasn’t a solid name Terry or a Billy or a Tom. Of course there was the Sesame St character called Bert. So as a kid – I took the heat. The most common taunt was “Where’s Ernie Bert?” Followed by loud guffaws.

The schoolyard jibes made me hate my name for life. Call me Bert now & I cringe. My wife knows this & plays on it. So, I cringe around my wife a lot – but not just because of that, she’s also as nutty as a fruitcake or a fruity as a nutbar – take your pick. Plato was a wise man to never get married. I’m not as smart as him.

I’m middle aged, mostly poor & jaded, but I get along in life. I get along because I read a lot, & I can also be sensible & practical. If you can be sensible & practical, & you can get out of bed – you have a good chance of surviving life.

Sure, it won’t necessarily be pretty, but you’ll survive. But holding this skill doesn’t mean people don’t make life annoying as heck. All people are annoying, it’s just a matter of degree. Life is defined by suffering. My wife makes my life harder – but at heart she’s only the garden variety screwed mid-level crazy neurotic drunk – I’ve learnt to survive her.

What’s that? My wife’s name? it’s Samantha. I call her Sam for short, like everyone else does. On this stock standard day, Sam was shouting at me at huge volumes. The spit was flying out of her mouth, & her breath stank. She was looking dishevelled. I kept telling her she needed to brush her teeth at least once a day, but she clung to her hippy carefree past & her melancholic ways.

I kept telling her that no one likes an aging smelly clueless hippie – especially a female one. The weird thing about my wife was she wasn’t actually chilled out like hippies were supposed to be. She’d henpeck me just like all other the other non-hippie westerner women have been brainwashed to do. But I knew it was just what they psyc’s call projection. The classic projector flings their shit onto others & then criticises them for being dirty.

let me tell ya – it’s not very nice seeing your troubled aging hippie wife scream at you day after days for the latest imagined drama – I can attest to that. It’s doubly worse when she smokes pot & drinks wine at the same time. The haranguing intensifies. Men don’t ever think they’ll end up henpecked – but they all do. This is why there are these smart creatures called lifelong bachelors. These types see the world for what it is & don’t allow themselves to be scammed.

Like clockwork Sam peppered me with her loud volleys of domestic flak attack. These usually were a laundry list of my personal failures & tasks not done.

“Bert you haven’t fucking cleaned the gutters yet” My wife screamed.

She takes a slug of her overpriced wine – straight from the bottle.

“Bert – why don’t we have that cute fucking Pekinese dog I’ve been wanting since 1991”

Then she takes a big toke of her spliff, simply reloading her bow with the next arrow.

“Bert you’re fucking lazy! We should have a better house than this dilapidated junk pit, for fucks sake Bert!”.

My general strategy was to ignore. I had even stopped the “yes dears” a decade ago. Of course some complaints hit the mark – stuff I’d procrastinated for years on.

“Bert you gotta go collect those fucking weatherboards – that fucking corner of the house is rotting to shit, has been for years! Man you’re an asshole Bert!”

She was right – I’d been a asshole on the Weatherboards. The rotten weatherboards. I had been working like a mule for decades in construction & had always been bad at doing up the house. They say the cobbler’s kids have the worst shoes – it’s the same kind of thing in the carpentry game. That’s my excuse & i think it sounds good.

Carpenters are usually great human beings who usually work too hard & put themselves & their dwellings last on the list. Hell, there was a reason Christ himself chose to be a Carpenter among all the other professions – Carpentry by its nature keeps you honest & real. I should mention Christ was also wise enough not to get married. Yep he could handle a lot – but probably not that.

Unfortunately like most men in the now feminised western world – Carpenters take the heat from their crabby out of control media indoctrinated ladies. Don’t get me wrong, there are some great Western women around, it’s just hard to find the ones smart enough to know that feminism was a scam.

A scam to make the households occupied with both sexes in them less happy, more pill popping, more drunken, more willing to kill themselves working, get into more debt, & generally consume a tonne of badly made shit that’s now made off shore. Intelligent western women know this is true. Less with it ones like my wife don’t. These of course are just the simple facts.

This Saturday & I’d just finished a big week, but Sam’s words hit the mark this time for some mysterious reason. I’d force myself to get the weatherboards & then quick-smart fix the corner of the house. I looked at my drunk pot hazed old brainwashed feminist hag of a wife with a broad smile. It was time to be sensible & practical. I gave her the good news.

“I’ll do it honey – I’ll fix those fucking weatherboards.” I said in a false sarcastic cheer. Sam was like an American – never understood sarcasm & so never saw or reacted to it.

She blew away the spliff generated smoke cloud & took a giant slug of her wine. She looked at me with great suspicious doubt, but then she shrieked with pleasure & a big smile broke out over her face. Her smile was what hooked me in all those years ago – it was now the one & only impressive thing about her. The b she snapped back into her habitual negativity.

“About fucking time Ber-Bert-Bert!” she howled. One Bert was never enough. She had to rub it in. But then she snapped back to a genuine glimmer of sunshine.

“Thank you, Bert honey! I knew you’d come good! Fuck this is why I married you ain’t it! You tend to come good in the end ….eventually“.

So, with the misunderstandings out of the way – I went about the task. I thought to myself Let’s get those fucking weatherboards & fix the fucking house a little. If I do that the nagging will reduce perhaps by seventeen to twenty one percent.

Why so precise you ask? Having been married to a predictable western feminist for thirty plus years, meant I had become a domestic version of what the share market analyst guys call a ‘quant’ – the point of difference is my quant was about the nature of feminists instead of the Dow Jones.

At heart it was the same skill set at play: I expertly knew how long a feminist inspired harangue would last, when it was overdue, when there had been a boom cycle in her nutty-ness & when this would suddenly turn into a ‘bear market’ cycle of low feminist-inspired hen-pecking activity. Like a day-trader, I knew what things relieved or worsened the ‘daily nag cycle’ & exactly by how much.

Using this “quant” knowledge I could use ‘timing the market’ to make sure the harangues were reduced & the happy times were amplified. I knew for example not to do good things at the ‘Bull Market’ harangue period – because she would be so irrationally negative, you’d never get any credit you were due.

The smart move was to do the good things on a ‘Bear Market’ for the feminist harangues – her anger was reducing every day towards a minimum, so they’d be those perfect few days where you’d get maximum credit for what you’d done, so each day it made sense to do a little more to make her happy.

This week was just like that. She was mothing off, but unlike a ‘Bull Run’ she wasn’t throwing plates at my head or not coming home for 3 days straight on a bender, or hanging out with old boyfriends at the pool parlour, or threatening divorce while holding a hatchet.

Sam’s divorce threats were always just idle threats – she knew without my sensibility & practicality she’d be in real trouble – then she’d have to face the real world. And we all know extreme feminism doesn’t do well in the real world – it’s parasitic. Deep down they all know this brute fact.

I shut the door quietly & left her to happily booze & smoke her spliff & listen to her weird Yoko-Ono ‘screaming only’ music, & then without fail she’d read page 1 of ‘The female eunuch by Germaine Greer for the billionth time before flaking out with her head in the book & hand still firmly gripping a half-drunk wine bottle.

I was now done with that crap & was on the sensible & practical job – “Project Weatherboards”. I hooked up the trailer, looked at a map of the seller’s address & high-tailed out of the joint. The half hour drive was full of greens & country views, with many fruit trees & the odd grass chewing cow by the roadside.

I arrived to the rendezvous point first – It was one of those fringe Christian churches – those weird batshit crazy offshoots of Christianity. The kind that preaches ninety-nine percent correctly but the remaining one percent is stuff like “Jesus came from the Pleiades & was an Alien being who didn’t like monogamy…that being said now give me all your wives”. Like all good scams they smuggle their deception among piles of professed truth & decency.

My rule for any organised body, including organised religion is this: If they are ultra secretive at the top & run a system where they ever can’t be audited – you know they are more likely to be doing the Devil’s work than God’s. There really are no exceptions. Whoever said ‘Power corrupts & absolute power corrupts absolutely’ was dead right.

No where was I? Oh yes, the weatherboards deal was going down. I had just left my one one-horse-town & was now going to a 0.1-horse-town. After the sweet country drive, I rolled my car into the rendezvous point – the front gravel carpark of the church. Seller Ben was nowhere to be seen. I could see that the goods were stacked there nicely. Beautiful long weatherboards.

I looked over the merchandise. It was mostly pretty good, but had some surface mould on some planks.

Great! I thought! The goods are imperfect – I can offer a lower price. I’ll just amplify the problems during the negotiation & then take a large but fair slice off the price. This is simply ‘wheeler & dealer 101’ tactics.

I semi-rehearsed my soon-to-be-said buyer to seller lines.

Then the other half of the deal arrived – Ben – he roared into the front yard & stopped like a hooligan, with a gravel scattering skid.

He sprung out of the car in a way that belied his old man exterior. He looked like a down-under Jack 1970’s Nicholson – meaning he was scruffier, less confidant & shiftier looking, & totally devoid of charm. Come to think of it – he was less like Jack Nicholson & more like Captain Mainwaring from ‘Dad’s Army’ – full of Bluster & no substance. At least, he had that air about him.

I got straight to the point, which when a deal is going down is a wise idea. Only a fool gets too pal-ie with the other side of a negotiation.

“Look Ben, there’s mould on the surface, so I’ll offer you $200 for all the Weatherboards”. To that he looked non-plussed & was stony faced. A man of his advanced years doesn’t take kindly to a younger man putting him on the back foot. Ben hadn’t come down in the last shower, that’s for sure.

“Hey we’re a non-profit” he bellowed speaking with his hands outstretched in sermon like fashion.

“All this money will go to charity”, he said cooly again. I had seen this low bellied trick before – I retorted with ease.

“Look fella, don’t pull that one – this is strictly a business deal, & besides I do charity in my spare time too!”.

Ben was again stoney faced. Feeling the pressure a little, I added another line.

“Look I do a lotta Carpentry, I gotta put an hour or two in to fix this stuff, alls I’m doing is accounting for that”.

Still Ben was stoney faced. I couldn’t help but sweat a little – after all if he called my bluff, I’d have wasted time & energy for nothing. Ben started his reply

“Hey Matinski…I do a lot of Carpentry too…look at the Church’s new weatherboards. He pointed at the Church. I’d looked great. “Hey look, it’s a good deal whatever the case, Matinski”.

He was right of course it was a good deal. We both knew that.

“It is a good deal Ben, but if I don’t spend an hour’s labour on all these weatherboards – that mould could get into the frames – I gotta take something off for the labour I gotta put in – so take it or leave it”.

I could see the old fella was a little taken aback at my assertiveness. I started to fear he’d call my bluff. I really wanted the merchandise, & obviously I didn’t want to show it. I waited for his response. The seconds again felt like minutes. This time the pause seemed almost Einsteinian.

Trading man to man like this is as old as humanity itself. There’s something ancient & beautiful about it. During a tough trade negotiation, you can feel the ancient-ness of it all. The cut & thrust of it is quite exhilarating.

Ben was a wily operator – he knew how to use silence in a negotiation. After about 30 seconds of it, it was far to annoying to bear, I pulled the cash out & waved it in front of him.

“Ok Ben, just take the money – I’m only shaving a little more off, & let’s be honest – who else will offer you good cash for these few leftovers!”.

Ben’s wily silence started again. But it was shorter than before & stuffed my cash in his wallet. The testiness of the intense dealmaking immediately dissipated. Still there was some residual testosterone in the air. I felt the need to extend a symbolic olive leaf. I looked at the frontage of his Church, it was a real picture with his well painted weatherboards on the front.

“Those weatherboards came up real nice” I said peacefully – “it’s looks WAY better than before, it looks great!”.

Then I realised that sounded like a ‘barbed compliment’. But my genuine smile, timed well helped avoid that impression. A smile goes a long way in life, that’s no lie. Everyone should learn to smile genuinely.

“Yeah, it did!” Ben said heartily. “It came up real well!”

Ben’s grifting gnarled old face beamed. I breathed a big sigh of relief – the deal was done & dusted. We were both happy enough. Ben sold his spare materials that were now doing nothing, & I wouldn’t be crawling back to a drunken & stoned Sam emptyhanded. You might call it a warm neutral feeling.

Ben jumped in his flash Cheverolet & split just like a 80’s Hollywood getaway. Wheels squealing, gravel flying & gas guzzler engine roaring.

I cut the weatherboards on site & put them in the trailer. An old lady next door looked through her curtains with disdain at the loud electric saw noise. I finished cutting. I left the greyish sawdust on the ground – I’d forgotten to bring a sweeper. I piled the weatherboards in the back of my trailer.

As I drove away in my old beaten up but reliable workman’s wagon. I looked back at the little piles of sawdust. It looked like little two piles of ash on the ground. I couldn’t help but think of crematoriums, given I was at a church – where hundreds of funerals would have been celebrated, or commiserated as the case may be. And let’s be honest – In this world there are plenty of people celebrating when someone they don’t like finally karks it.

That thought dissipated & I got the hell outa there. like Ben I roared off with my much cheaper wheels spinning & my less powerful engine growling.

On the drive home I had the following thoughts:

Man that all kinda felt pre-programmed, pre destined….

One day real soon I’ll use those weatherboards to stop the rain getting in.….

Man! I can’t believe I’ve put this job off for a decade…what the hell is wrong with me?……

I drove home uneventfully. I parked up & stacked the Weatherboards in the shed. I opened the door to tell the ol’ pain & strife – my wife Sam – that the deal went well for us.

I looked over at her natural habitat, the heavily life experienced old couch. She was lying face down passed out from boozing & spliffing too much. She was also lying in her own vomit. That was one of her calling cards. But the most important thing was that she was breathing, well, snoring.

I wasn’t worried, I’d seen it all before. She’s be fine. Besides, the times I tried to help her up just turned in her screaming, becoming a dead weight & refusing to move.

I left her in her happy pukey smokey dream state & went to the front porch & cracked open a beer. All in all It had been a good day – I had survived, hadn’t I? Yep, half of life’s battle is just surviving the day. The other half is resisting the urge to be a total bitch or bastard. Do both & you’re a genuine winner in my book.

That old German philosopher Schopenhauer was correct – life isn’t about being ‘happy’ – it’s about being content. And ‘contentedness’ he said was simply the absence of too many bad things you have to deal with. It’s a pragmatic & sensible definition of ‘happiness’. Unfortunately, Hitler also liked Schopenhauer but all that proves is that a broken watch is right twice a day. At minimum his happiness theory works a treat.

Some seven years later, I finally started to replace those old leaky weatherboards – all good things take time. This is the kind of crap all morbid procrastinators tell themselves. They say those who procrastinate do it because of a neurosis formed through childhood trauma.

Procrastination they say it happens to adults who as kids were heavily criticised by their parents no matter whether or not they doing good or bad. The result is the kid then the adult has a subconscious rule that says “don’t do anything – it’s the only way to survive”.

Some of us are or have been a lot like old neglected weatherboards. I know I am. That’s how I became sometimes sensible & practical. Socrates was right when he said Know Thyself . I can attest. I’d be either long gone dead, or else be fifty & still waking up in a pool of my own puke if I didn’t….and there’s no way in hell I could ever be around that kinda shit.

Sure, I put up with all of that crap for my screwy aging hippie wife – but don’t we all have to do some community service in life? Surely each sensible & practical person can carry at least one extra weatherboard in need? It’s a scary place when we don’t.

Only a bastard or a bitch doesn’t carry at least one.

The End.