2 June 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 2

One-Upmanship

by THOMAS GADA

My wife's sister called a few days ago to set up a get-together for this weekend. They only live an hour away, so I don't mind.

"Brian said to wear work clothes, Jim," Gerry tells me shortly after getting off the phone.

"Work clothes?" I reply. My first thought is to wear khakis and a button-down shirt. Then, I think of Brian and his blue-collar roots and I quickly realize what he had meant. Brian has never asked something like this of me before. I can't imagine the two of us working together on anything.

When Saturday arrives, we drive over to Brian and Jackie's house. It's early spring, so I'm wearing jeans and my old college sweatshirt.

Before we get out of the car, I see Brian come up from around back of his house. It's a nice place. Bigger than you'd expect for a guy who works at a machine shop. It's a cape-style house, right on the lake.

Brian's wearing Dickies overalls and boots up to his knees. He's covered in mud up to his mid-thighs.

"Christ," I mutter to myself. "Would you look at him, Ger?"

"Be nice," she tells me and kisses my cheek. "Brian's a big bear."

"He's a big something," I say, looking at the house once more. It's easily as big as my place, maybe bigger. "What do they pay a machinist these days?" I ask her. She doesn't answer. She gets out and greets her brother-in-law, pointing and laughing at the thick mud that is caked on him.

"So what's the plan, Brian?" I ask as we round the back of the house. At that moment, I see something that shocks me: the sprawling and once-beautiful lake is no more. In its place is a giant chocolate-brown mud hole. A pond-size body of water in the center is all the liquid that remains.

"What the hell is this?" I ask motioning toward the former lake.

"They drained the lake," Brian answers, laughing at my reaction to the sight. "Rebuilding the damn."

"Why?"

"They'd been talking about it for years," he answers and shrugs. "Didn't think they'd ever get to it," he says rubbing his bearded chin with the back of a gloved hand. "It's supposed to be done by midsummer."

As we close in on the lake I see some tools and wood lying about near the shoreline. That's when the incredible smell of long-dead fish and stagnant water hits me, making me want to turn around and head back to my car.

There is a figure standing knee-deep in the muck, examining two posts of wood protruding from the brownness.

"So, what are we doing?" I ask Brian, hiding my discomfort toward the smell.

"Roj and I have been planning on building a dock for a while now."

Roj is his long-time friend, Rodger, who lives across the lake. It would take about three minutes for Rodger to get in his truck and drive over to Brian's, but he always uses his boat to cross the lake—a process that eats up approximately 15 minutes.

"Hey Jim," Rodger says from ten feet out in the muck. He begins making his way back to shore. His tall, thin frame helps him take the necessary giant, exaggerated steps through the thick mud. He is wearing hunting clothes even though he's not hunting. "I didn't know you were gonna be helping."

"Let's get started," Brian says.

The stench is unbelievable, but I begin to get used to it.

"See those?" Brian says pointing at two beams sticking out of the dark muck.

I nod.

"Roj and I did that last weekend. We dug a few feet down, inserted the foundation with the concrete and all, and left it to dry. We inspected it today," he motions toward his mud-covered clothing. "Seemed good and sturdy."

I nod again.

"Normally, the foundation alone would be a huge job, but with the lake drained and all, we had a golden opportunity to get this work done quickly. Now all we have to do is throw the frame on there, and we're all set."

"Once the dock is done," Rodger adds, "I'll have someplace to park when I come over," he says laughing and pointing toward the green grass of Brian's lawn where he usually pulls his boat ashore.

"We'll get started framing—that's really a two-man job," Brian tells me. "Once we finish that up, you can help us hammer the boards on."

"What should I do in the meantime," I ask. "Just stand around and watch?"

"Could you go grab us a couple more beers from the basement?" Brian asks. "The downstairs door is unlocked."

I feel like I should say something, object in some way. I am certainly capable of helping. But perhaps it really is only a two-person job. A third person might get in the way—any third person, not just me.

"Grab one for yourself, too, Jim," Brian says as I'm walking back up the hill toward the house.

"Thanks."

A while later, when the frame is finally in place, Brian hands a hammer to me. "Don't hurt your fingers," he says, chuckling, pulling it away at the last second before relinquishing it. Rodger has a laugh, too. My first reaction is to throw the hammer as far into the brown muck of the lake as I can. Picturing it landing head down, with the handle sticking straight up in the air, is satisfying.

"I precut the boards this morn