# 3

A parable on the long tailed Tit occupies parts of my mind on the drive to Farmington, IL It's dome shaped Titular work of, some say, art - is feather lined and woven together in part with spider silk.

The Tit nest is the most sophisticated & symmetrical birds nest to be discovered, although, there's something to be said for the post-prehistoric minimalism of the Piping Plover or the Red -Cockaded Woodpecker's simplistic pine bore nest that doubles at it's exterior as an unfortunate insects (or even small snakes) sap-trap for Red-Cockaded dining.

Tits, Woodpeckers (Cockadeded or not) it is hardly insightful to suggest or guess which of the genders has been out alone in the woods naming birds.

I am seated sideways in a bucket seat directly behind the driver's seat of the company work van. We are en route to sand a hardwood floor. The driver, also the company owner, curses and spits and throws the phone down - he is not angry, this is his default demeanor. It's my third day on the job and I've taken to calling him Mussolini (privately).

There are dozens of cans & jugs of paint thinner, floor sealer and wood stain (Provincial Oak,Mahogany,Early American Colonial, etc.) loosely arrayed in the cargo area all of them partially used and streaked down the sides. 
I stare down at them like bombs although one I am using as a foot stool. The floor of the van is a veritable super-fund site - also there are two garbage bags tossed in the back, unsealed, filled with sanding dust (think, ultra-fine powdery saw dust) and it crosses my mind that I wouldn't want to park anywhere near a federal building.

The amount of authoritative knowledge I can impart insofaras chemical hazards or fire science could easily trickle out of the anus of a Round Worm. But to say that I am riding around in an extreme fire hazard/IEV(Improvised Explosive Vehicle) would probably not fall under the category of hyperbole or hysterics.

I'm a recovering R.J. Reynolds addict turned phrenetic chewing gum smasher - my jaw muscles are 'ripped', my mouth is raw like eating too many slices of pineapple and food has become almost like bland various textures with a hint of spearmint.

The thought of death by immolation makes my testicles quiver and kills my appetite - so much so, this hair-bag quivering, I think of the possibility that I've just conjured a fire fate for myself and then I think that it's obvious I should be medicated or if I had it my way - A team of neuro scientists/surgeons would monitor by MRI as I have these thoughts and then after pin pointing the exact locations zap the damn things responsible for these hypnopompic terrors of irrationality which I often gently prefer to assign them as "Highly eccentric and/or creative thinking ideas" - ZAP.


Mussolini instructs me to fill any nail holes in the wood floor we are about to strip and sand by applying the wood filler putty with a well worn infrequently cleaned putty knife and to make sure I "really pack it in there" he then hesitates and asks me if I'm a religious man to which I say, no- not really and then he says I should fill the gap like "I'm finger-fucking my first girlfriend on Friday night."
He continues through out the day to make these sorts of 'analogies' e.g., "The floor should be as smooth as the inside of her thigh - unless she's got cellulous[sic]." - and -"My brush should glide along as slick as a moist..." -you get the idea.

Anyway, break time is over.