Visions of Johanna by Peter Sarno

Author:Peter Sarno
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: PFP Publishing
Published: 2022-10-29T00:00:00+00:00

Orlando had performed the preliminary work for my bed in a shed alongside his gas station; he'd cut several pieces of lumber—besides the plywood—in various shapes and sizes. I helped him place each "foot" while he bolted them to two-by-fours. He painstakingly showed me how to read the bubbles correctly on a level—a task I knew must've been elementary—and screwed four metal braces to what would be corners of the bed. If my inadequate skills and knowledge exasperated him—which they must have—Orlando never let on.

He would've been justified if he'd said, "Matt, you're in your twenties. How do you not know this stuff?" But admonishments never escaped his lips. As he transitioned from the Racing Form, Boston Herald and maybe a Robert Parker Spenser novel to works by Ram Dass and books with Buddha in the titles, I continued to razz him without letting up. Yet, truth be told, he'd become the most centered and reliable person I'd known; I both envied that about him and remained indebted to it.

Orlando attached a spindle-like structure to the frame's edge. About twelve inches tall, with twirls on them, they resembled the soft-serve ice cream cones we devoured as kids while sitting at Dairy Queen on Broadway in Revere. "Turned them with a lathe."

I nodded in acknowledgement—although I didn't understand what he meant.

Orlando motioned for me to pass him a socket wrench and the drill so he could attach a few more "galvanized-steel" brackets.

"They'll provide extra support."

When he pointed out why, I once again lamented the fact Dad didn't have the tolerance to teach me any aspect of the tile trade. Orlando proved a quick study while I'd never gained the focus our father demanded.

My brother apologized for the furniture's "down and dirty" nature. "It's rough. If I had time and could do more in my garage, I would've added a couple of storage drawers beneath it."

Orlando explained he would have "finished this" or "mitered that." I couldn't retain much of it though—the lexicon still foreign to me.

"It's fine. It works. I'm thrilled and I'm sure Johanna will be ecstatic. She's grown weary of sleeping on the floor."

We spread old newspapers onto the vinyl tiles. Orlando handed me a paintbrush, pried the lid off a can, and we covered the wood with a light stain.

Before long, I opened as many apartment windows as I could to allow fresh air to circulate.

"That's potent," I said.

"Sorry. This is another thing I would've done before I came here. And could have—if you weren't hoping to have things ready by the weekend."

The night ended over some Miller beers from a six-pack he'd brought. During our conversation, Orlando asked me at least three times if I was "alright" between his prodding for me to share "the scoop on the new babe."

My face lit up, I'm certain, when I described Johanna's talent.

"Yeah, but what does she look like?" A smirk fled the right side of his mouth.

I said something about Jo's button nose, Wisconsin accent, and the locks of hair constantly falling in front of her left eye that she refused to cut.

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