Handyman

Lovely Having a Man Around

I wish he’d let me hold his flashlight

Last Tuesday was just another Tuesday. Then I discovered I’m not a man.

I was hovering over a Christmas puzzle, listening to P!nk in my housecoat and jam-jams, when I heard a knock. “Who is it?” I called, cinched my housecoat as I moved to the front door.

“Handyman. For new air filter.” Air filter? I didn’t order an air filter. Better open the door for this stranger just in case.

What’s he going to do? Finish my puzzle?

The beast that barged in was six-foot-six. He had a thick brown beard, a tool belt around his waist, and a tuft of chest hair peaking out the top of his plaid shirt. I quickly cinched my housecoat, covering my considerably less hairy chest.

“So, where is air filter?” the behemoth asked. He had an Eastern European accent — foreign but friendly — one of those voices that makes bad grammar ‘sound gooder’.

I found myself flabbergasted. Not because of the bewitching accent but because I had no idea where my air filter was. Much like Sherlock Holmes, I had already deduced that it filtered air, which meant it had to be somewhere in my apartment that contained air. I was staring ponderously at the ceiling fan when the handyman spoke up.

“I look?” The behemoth was hip to my ignorance. As he slipped his boots off, preparing to slip a little further into my private sanctum, he introduced himself. “My name Fyodor.”

“My name Oscar,” I said. Like a fool who doesn’t know where the ‘is’ goes. Did I think Fyodor would feel more at home if I sucked at English? I felt like I do when I say ‘You too,’ after a waiter tells me to enjoy my dinner.

As I wallowed in my imbecility, Fyodor found the air vent. Turns out it’s in the ceiling. Fyodor stood on the second step of his foldout stepladder, yanking out our disgusting old air filter and screwing in a clean replacement. I stood beside him, unnecessarily holding the already stable step ladder, face to face with Fyodor’s fun hammer.

In this situation, it is customary for an 86% straight male such as myself to take a peek. Not to titillate, you understand. I’m hoping for a small bulge, something to make me feel better about my lack of height, chest hair, and knowledge of air filter geography.

I peeked. I didn’t feel better about myself.

“All done!”

All done? You just got here Fyodor. You can’t leave me alone! What if another watchamacullit breaks? Surely there’s something else you can screw?

“Say Fyodor, would you take a quick look at the kitchen faucet?”

“Faucet loose?”

“Oh yeah. Faucet very loose.”

Before I knew it, Fyodor was on his back beneath my kitchen sink, twisting my faucet with those Brobdingnagian biceps. I longed to hold his flashlight, but he waved me away with a big hairy hand.

Maybe he’s hungry. I could make him a sandwich instead? Or a glass of lemonade?

“Screwdriver?” Fyodor asked.

“It’s a bit early for vodka.”

“No, uhm . . . flathead?”

“What did you call me?”

“Please pass me flathead.”

I was so eager to get my hands in Fyodor’s toolbox that I didn’t see the utility knife until after it circumcised my thumb. I did what any man would do: hyperventilated while repeating ‘Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!’ as the blood leaked through the cracks between my fingers.

Fyodor didn’t panic. Instead he wrapped a clean rag around my thumb, applying pressure while he fetched a bandage from his toolbox.

“Is okay. No crying. You get tears in cut.”

Was I embarrassed? Sure. Was I emasculated? Deeply. Was I questioning my sexuality? Constantly. But there was something indisputably lovely about having a man in my apartment. I was still fantasizing about all the things Fyodor could fix when my girlfriend got home from work.

“Hi honey. I booked us a pedicure and aromatherapy massage for Saturday so we’ll have to . . . Oh my god! What happened to your hand?”

“This?” I scoffed at the bloodied bandage Fyodor had so skillfully applied. “Just a little scratch while I was fixing the faucet.”

“You fixed the kitchen faucet? Amazing! It’s so nice having a man around.”

It sure is. 😉

These two pieces from Aurelia Bliss and CJ Sterling haven’t gotten anywhere near the love they deserve: