Pat Brogan Is To Blame.

We once again find ourselves at a bit of a lull. As the kitchen nears completion (left to do: countertop, tile backsplash, wine cork backsplash, glue down cork flooring, baseboards, paint, new appliances), we must shift our attention to the officette.

Before I launch into that portion of theproject, allow me to place the blame for my split personality (carpenter/thespian) squarely on the shoulders of a ne’er-do-well high school classmate.

You see, it was Pat that first came up to me in the hall at a time when next semester's classes were being discussed. Students had some latitude with the selection of electives, and there was always a spirited discussion as to which class would tax one the least. Pat had long black hair and a peach fuzz mustache. He leaned against the radiator, reeking of cigarette. “What are you taking for seventh period?” “Don’t know” I replied. “Check out Eyman’s class. It’s called Tech Theatre.” I guess my expression was quizzical because he quickly added, “Look, all you have to do is build the sets for the musicals and plays and stuff. The rest of the time we play ping-pong!” What could be better? An easy last period class that allows a little recreation to boot. Pat and I had already built things--bigger things than sets. He had some contractor friend that we would occasionally work for. It was on one of those jobs--a dance studio on Mercer Island--that I dropped a hammer on Brogan’s head.

We were framing in twelve-foot walls. I was up on a ladder nailing through the top plate into some last remaining studs, and Brogan was crouched down by where the bottom of the stud met the foot plate, toe-nailing it into place from there. My hammer came down cock-eyed on a sixteen-penny nylon-coated framing nail and twisted out of my hand. There were many trajectories the hammer could have followed while obeying gravity that did not involve Brogan’s head, but neither of us were that lucky. After the 22-ounce tool bounced off Pat’s noggin, he sort of grunted, rubbed the spot and picked up the nail that he had let drop, as if to start working again. Even from the top of the ladder, twelve feet up, I could see his black hair start to mat. With the help of a couple of other guys we guided Pat to the middle of the plywood floor and laid him down on some black plastic tarp. It is amazing how red the blood is from a head wound and how arresting it looks pooling on black plastic. I felt pretty bad. Not as bad as he did I’m sure, but bad nonetheless. He recovered nicely, with no visible scar (because of his thick hair), but I always felt I owed him one, so when he suggested I take Tech Theatre, I did. And so began, in seventh period of my junior year at Newport High, my slow introduction to an animal called theatre. I arrived with a blood stained hammer, and I’ve been banging around ever since.