Carpenter

My old man was a carpenter, and so was his father, my grandfather. They were young once but they were steady and hardworking and trustworthy. They had built great many houses for the common folks around the now greater Philadelphia areas, and their names were reputable among the carpenters secret association.

Grandpa had taught me how to do the handiwork when I was just six. I remembered being ugly to him whenever he pushed me to do the wood trimming and steel bending. I hated the work though I dreaded through it every time. My attention to details had him impressed and made my old man proud once, but as I grew up, they same praise never came. I would help out my dad's construction whenever I had time, not that I was that much into school nor did I had a good grade, I was never fit for the books. It was hard work that paid, my old man used to say. So during every school holiday or even just a few hours after school, I would be at whatever project, houses that he was working on. And since almost everyone at work knew me because of my father and grandfather, I never felt the isolation or being treated as a newcomer, an incompetent piece of trash. Instead I would really help out with what I can do at my age.

When I was younger, I would just help the worker with passing the base materials and maybe ran a few errand of water and foods and towels, and sometimes be a messenger to pass invitation to folks around town. I grew up to be as stocky as my grandpa, and my old man was said to be ranking the third in the family in the body build meter. His older brother was the second. And grandpa and I were the first. And as I had the power, I began to do the heavy lifting and nail banging when I was just twelve. I was not a kid to them anymore and I was being treated much harsh. My old man had high standard to his work and I compiled to his demand. But all the time I grew more and more tired of this work. I hated it, I had always hated it growing up.

At seventeen, I dropped high school and went out with a few friends to New York, and spent a year chasing our dreams and later opened a bar in a favorable location. We were lucky and I had earned quite a lot at first as one of the associated partners, and I had sent almost a third of what I earned every month to my mother, which I later found out she had saved every penny I sent in a bank account.

But every story had to had a sordid end, as with every friendship. Let's just said that our partnership faced an unsolvable problem and we had a huge fight and that broke us apart after the shop was just two years and a half. For another year I littered around the city with my remaining savings, I didn't sent money to my mother during that period. I had moved from a studio apartment from the upper east side which our partnership shared, to a tiny apartment in downtown near the Chinatown. I didn't took up a job or did anything for that matters. I just wasted it in bars and clubs and girls.