Percival Everett: Damned If I Do

“He never leaves the shop,” Sheila complained. She was sitting in the passenger seat while Douglas drove them to the movie theater.

“That’s where he lives,” Douglas said. “All the food he needs is right there. I’m hardly paying him anything.”

“You pay him plenty. He doesn’t have to pay rent and he doesn’t have to buy food.”

“I don’t see what the trouble is,” he said. “After all, he’s fixed your massage thingamajig. And he fixed your curling iron and your VCR and your watch and he even got the squeak out of your shoes.”

“I know. I know.” Sheila sighed. “Still, just what do we know about this man?”

“He’s honest, I know that. He never even glances at the till. I’ve never seen anyone who cares less about money.” Douglas turned right onto Connecticut.

“That’s exactly how a crook wants to come across.”

“Well, Sherman’s no crook. Why, I’d trust the man with my life. There are very few people I can say that about.”

Sheila laughed softly and disbelievingly. “Well, don’t you sound melodramatic.”

Douglas really couldn’t argue with her. Everything she had said was correct and he was at a loss to explain his tenacious defense of a man who was, after all, a relative stranger. He pulled the car into a parallel space and killed the engine.

“The car didn’t do that thing,” Sheila said. She was referring to the way the car usually refused to shut off, the stubborn engine firing a couple of extra times.

Douglas glanced over at her.

“Sherman,” she said.

“This morning. He opened the hood, grabbed this and jiggled that and then slammed it shut.”

The fact of the matter was finally that Sherman hadn’t stolen anything and hadn’t come across in any way threatening and so Douglas kept his fears and suspicions in check and counted his savings. No more electricians. No more plumbers. No more repairmen of any kind. Sherman’s handiness, however, did not remain a secret, in spite of Douglas’s best efforts.

It began when Sherman offered and then repaired a small radio-controlled automobile owned by a fat boy.

The fat boy, who wore his hair in braids, came into the shop with two of his skinny friends. They sat at the counter and ordered a large soda to split.

“This thing is a piece of crap,” the fat boy said. His name was Loomis Rump.

“I told you not to spend your money on that thing,” one of the skinny kids said.

“Shut up,” said Loomis.

“Timmy’s right, Loomis,” the third boy said. He sucked the last of the soda through the straw. “That’s a cheap one. The good remote controls aren’t made of that thin plastic.”

“What do you know?” Loomis said. Loomis pushed his toy another few inches away from him across the counter, toward Sherman. Sherman looked at it, then picked it up.

Douglas was watching from the register. He observed as Sherman held the car up to the light and seemed to smile.

“Just stopped working, eh?” Sherman said to the boys.

“It’s a piece of crap,” Loomis said.

“Would you like me to fix it?” Sherman asked.

Douglas stepped closer, thinking this time he might see how the repair was done. Loomis handed the remote to Sherman. Douglas stared intently at the man’s hands. Sherman took out his pocketknife and used the small blade to undo the Phillips-head screws in order to remove the back panel from the remote control. Then it was all a blur. Douglas saw nothing and then Sherman was replacing the panel.

“There you go,” Sherman said and gave the car and controller back to Loomis.

Loomis Rump laughed. “You didn’t even do nothing,” he said.

“Anything,” Sherman corrected him.

Loomis put the car on the floor and switched on the remote. The car rolled away, nearly tripping a postal worker, and crashed to a stop at the door. It capsized, but its wheels kept spinning.

“Hey, hey,” the skinny boys shouted.

“Thanks, mister,” Loomis said.

The boys left.

Fat Loomis Rump and his skinny pals told their friends and they brought in their broken toys. Sherman fixed them. The fat boy’s friends told their parents and Douglas found his shop increasingly crowded with customers and their small appliances.

“The Rump boy told me that you fixed his toy car and the Johnson woman told me that you repaired her radio,” the short man who wore the waterworks uniform said.

Sherman was wiping down the counter.

“Is that true?”

Sherman nodded.

“Well, you see these cuts on my face?”

Douglas could see the cuts under the man’s three-day growth of stubble from the door to the kitchen. Sherman leaned forward and studied the wounds.

“They seem to be healing nicely,” Sherman said.

“It’s this damn razor,” the man said and he pulled the small unit from his trousers pocket. “It cuts me bad every time I try to shave.”

“You’d like me to fix your razor?”

“If you wouldn’t mind. But I don’t have any money.”

“That’s okay.” Sherman took the razor and began taking it apart. Douglas, as always, moved closer and tried to see. He smiled at the waterworks man who smiled back. Other people gathered around and watched Sherman’s hands. Then they watched him hand the reassembled little machine back to the waterworks man. The man turned on the shaver and put it to his face.

“Hey,” he said. “This is wonderful. It works just like it did when it was new. This is wonderful. Thank you. Can I bring you some money tomorrow?”

“Not necessary,” Sherman said.

“This is wonderful.”

Everyone in the restaurant oohed and aahed.

“Look,” the waterworks man said. “I’m not bleeding.”

Sherman sat quietly at the end of the counter and fixed whatever was put in front of him. He repaired hair dryers and calculators and watches and cellular phones and carburetors. And while people waited for the repairs, they ate sandwiches and this appealed to Sherman, though he didn’t like his handyman’s time so consumed. But the fact of the matter was that there was little more to fix in the shop.

One day a woman who believed her husband was having an affair came in and complained over a turkey and provolone on wheat. Sherman sat next to her at the counter and listened as she finished, “… and then he comes home hours after he’s gotten off from work, smelling of beer and perfume and he doesn’t want to talk or anything and says he has a sinus headache and I’m wondering if I ought to follow him or check the mileage on his car before he leaves in the morning. What should I do?”

“Tell him it’s his turn to cook and that you’ll be late and don’t tell him where you’re going,” Sherman said.

Everyone in the shop nodded, more in shared confusion than in agreement.

“Where should I go?” the woman asked.

“Go to the library and read about the praying mantis,” Sherman said.

Douglas came up to Sherman after the woman had left and asked, “Do you think that was a good idea?”

Sherman shrugged.

The woman came in the next week, her face full with a smile and announced that her home life was now perfect.

“Everything at home is perfect now,” she said. “Thanks to Sherman.”

Customers slapped Sherman on the back.

So began a new dimension of fixing in the shop as people came in, along with their electric pencil sharpeners, pacemakers, and microwaves, their relationship woes, and their tax problems. Sherman saved the man who owned the automotive-supply business across the street twelve thousand dollars and got him some fifty-seven dollars in refund.

One night after the shop was closed, Douglas and Sherman sat at the counter and ate the stale leftover doughnuts and drank coffee. Douglas looked at his handyman and shook his head. “That was really something the way you straightened the Rhinehart boy’s teeth.”