to fix a leaky wall

Since election day, when I last worked on the tiny house, rainwater found its way under the port side wall and seeped into the house. Water that gets inside a structure makes for dismal things to come if left unchecked. Moisture begets mold growth which when inhaled causes illness. Eventually, the materials of the house degrade, and the house, given enough time, collapses. One might liken a water leak to a salesman who gets elected President. There was a hole in the system. I could curse the hole, or I could deal with the water that seeped through it.

I did what any builder depressed by the state of the world would do. I ignored it and instead focused on framing the roof. I’d never framed a roof before, and the geometry involved made my head spin. I had to look up the Pythagorean Theorem, which I learned in grade seven and swiftly forgot, to find that I didn’t have 2x4s long enough to span the width of the house. It took me an hour to pass the short exam online that I thought would help my confidence enough to make the cuts based on my own math.

Later, as I stood warily on a three-and-a-half inch beam thirteen feet off the gravel, my angle cut turned out too shallow, the new joist cut too short. I threw my measuring tape on the deck and hurled the beam out of the roofless house and into the driveway. I hoped that the crash landing killed the spider that had been trekking across the joist.

Rarely does expressing anger accomplish anything for me. The Nineties taught me that my anger punctured bedroom doors and broke CDs and that sadness and regret did not put them back together again. Other people got scared or mad and lashed back at me, or left. I decided way back then that expressing anger was not useful. So I repressed it.

I fetched the piece of lumber, put it away, and returned to the loft to reflect on my progress. I had built the downstairs walls too high, which meant there would be scarce ceiling height in the loft to do anything more interesting than reading a book. The DOT (or somesuch agency) requires that tiny homes on wheels be limited to thirteen and a half feet in height—understandable, in that roofs shouldn’t collide with the underside of a bridge at fifty-five mph, but my wife wanted more height in the loft. Her opinion on matters of the bed is important.

Could have waited to install the top plates, too. Top plates are 2x4s that connect wall segments together to improve the stability of the structure. Why not use the bottom plates of the loft wall frames for that and save an inch and a half of height?

Could have made a better decision months ago. But I had to have it my way, take the more difficult route, be different from the rest.

Efficiency in hindsight.

I didn’t blueprint this house, drew nothing to scale, spent seven thousand dollars on what looked to me like the boxy doghouse I built in seventh grade for my Rottweiler, Hans.

My mistakes revealed themselves hourly, as fast as I learned to detect them. To increase the time interval between finding yet another blunder, I practiced snare drum rudiments on the window sills and juggled hammers and snacked on banana macaroons.

I got down on myself today when Ryan, a builder whose work I admire, came by to see how things were going. He poked his head into one of my crookedly sawzall’d window holes and looked around. I imagined him, the master builder of mcmansions, eyeing each of my mistakes and silently judging me as an amateur, a charlatan not even good enough to build a tiny house.

“If I knew what the fuck I was doing, things would be going great,” I told him. It came out harsh, even brash. Ryan seemed to ignore it. To change the subject, I asked him how he learned to build.

But I couldn’t shake the question in my head, why did I say that?

Because he is better at what I am doing than I am. Because I want to be good at everything I do. Because I fear that I’m not enough, or will ever be.

No one is holding me accountable for this build. No one is paying me. No one was around to see me throw a 2×4 at the ground. Maybe that just needed to come out of me. Maybe all the frustration and anger I feel about the election needs to come out so I can look at the water leak in the wall and not take it personally, or conclude that there was thus a hole in me, and mold would grow and cause me to get sick and die. Internalizing the mistake would help only shame, which I needed not indulge.

After Ryan left, I sat up on the beam and waited for the roof to build itself, the correct angles to be cut, and the leak to have never happened. Minutes passed. Clouds threatened rain, then continued sweeping north. The roof, the angles, the leak, they didn’t budge. My anger dissolved into sadness, then resolve. The repair work was mine to do. This build was a one-man democracy. It required participation from all parties in order to progress. Only by continuing to lift the roof joists into place could I begin to understand the weight of my actions. Removing the glued-down top plates would be costly in time I could better use learning how to work with and around them.

Perhaps the President elect has leaked into the system. That’s what he was elected to do, according to Michael Moore.

Maybe mold will form, and people will die. They already have. Maybe things will begin to crumble. Maybe the very idea of the United States of America will deteriorate to the point where he won’t need to build a wall. People won’t bother immigrating here. How would four years of zero new immigrants impact our national self-esteem?

Now is not the time to internalize our anger. That’s what got us here in the first place. Letting things fester, not saying anything when perhaps we should have—whether out of fear, disenfranchisement, lack of vocal cords, or apathy. Or shutting down and ignoring the people who were saying something important. Bernie Sanders. Black Lives Matter. Occupy Wall Street. Maybe what they were saying wasn’t relevant to us, or maybe if the public listened to them it could have negatively impacted our bottom line.

I’ve thought of quitting this build. I went to the Canadian immigration site on election night to find the crashed server couldn’t be reached. Fortunately, my wife is Canadian, I reasoned, so maybe it wouldn’t be so shameful if I just accompanied her back home. I’ve thought of cutting my losses instead of lumber and of selling this doghouse to some Portlandite bent on breaking free. But I won’t do that.

I’m not going to quit. I’m not going to run away from poor judgments, from shame for not having gained more experience before starting a mad project, shame for being privileged enough to begin building a tiny home and to consider quitting. I need simply to dry out the moisture under the wall, and seal the hole.

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