CHAPTER SIX SAWYER #2
When I reach the hardware store, I push through the door and run right into a very tall, very burly man. He’s covered in tattoos, and his long, flowy white hair and white mustache are so perfectly combed that I wonder if the man even eats.
Compared to my six-foot-two stature, he still has a couple inches on me, so when I stumble backward, he steadies me at the shoulders.
“You okay there, son?” he asks in the deepest voice I’ve ever heard. I mean, this man gives James Earl Jones a run for his money.
“Yeah, sorry, didn’t see you there.”
“Hard to miss me.” He holds his hand out. “I’m Tank.”
Yes, yes he is.
“Sawyer,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”
“New around here?” he asks.
I gesture my thumb behind me. “Staying at the cabins for a few weeks. Thought I’d stop in for some tools to fix a bench.”
Tank slowly nods. “A bench, you say?”
“Yeah.” I scratch the top of my head. “Ran into, uh, Sully, back there.” Tank nods in understanding. “He was upset about a bench being broken. Figured I’d alleviate that pain for him.”
“He used to sit there with Joan every morning and enjoy a cup of coffee while they spoke about the upcoming day. I know the exact bench you’re talking about.”
“He was upset that it was broken. I, uh, I saw the sign in the lobby.” Tank nods again. “I thought since I’m not doing much, I could fix the bench. You know, so he’s not upset when he sees it.”
“Thoughtful of you,” Tank says in his burly voice. “Do you know how to fix a bench, son?”
“I do,” I answer. “I have quite a few years of construction under my belt, especially woodwork.”
“Well then, let me lead the way to what you’ll need.”
We spend the next ten minutes going over the different tools I want to work with, opting out of the electric tools and going with the simple things.
They’re less expensive, and there’s something gratifying about skipping out on power tools and putting your own muscle and grit behind a saw that you have to work yourself.
We also pick out some wood that will last through the heat of the summers up in the high altitude, along with a stain that will work nicely with the other benches around the lake.
Tank doesn’t say much while he helps me shop, just offers suggestions while guiding me around his hardware store.
I observe him the entire time, taking in the tender way he picks up his tools, the way his weathered and cracked fingers drag over the wood as he speaks about it.
From his exterior, he’s intimidating, a personality I’d use in a screenplay as a bruiser, someone to get the job done.
But this man’s anything but that. He’s patient, quiet, speaks when he wants to make a point—and he’s gentle.
A positive light to show there’s still moxie in this small town.
My supplies now in hand, Tank drives me back to the cabins in his truck and helps me unload the supplies near the shed. When everything’s unloaded, he turns toward me and places his large hand on my shoulder.
“What you’re doing is awfully kind. I appreciate it.” His timeworn green eyes offer a softness to his rough appearance.
“You’re, uh... you’re welcome,” I say awkwardly, not sure I need the praise. If anything, it gives me something to do, something to keep my mind off the nightmare of Annalisa and Simon.
Once Tank takes off, I go back to the dilapidated bench and start taking some measurements.
Time to get to work.
I lift the hem of my shirt to my brow and dab at my forehead before taking another look at the bench. Damn, it’s hot out.
It took me a few tries to remember what the hell I was doing, but once I got the dimensions correct in my head, I went to work, never once stopping.
I measured, I sawed, I sanded, I nailed.
I did this on repeat until the bench was completely fixed.
I was even able to preserve some of the original wood to keep the memory for Sully and Joan.
Now it’s time to sit on it and make sure it’s sturdy before I stain it.
Knowing this is a big moment, I turn and take a seat, hoping I don’t fall through and right onto the grass. As I lower myself, I hold my breath. When my butt hits the wood and holds firmly, I lower all my weight on it and crack a smile—my first in what feels like a lifetime.
I’ve still got it.
I drape my hands along the back of the bench, pleased with myself.
Would you look at that—a bench. Pride swells through me.
The simple task of rebuilding a bench is making me burst into a smile as I drum my fingers over the wood.
Sometimes, when I’m immersed in writing a story, attending endless editing sessions, and going through my demanding work schedule, I forget about the simple pleasures in life, like building something with my own two hands.
Up until now, I didn’t realize just how much I needed this.
“I’ve been watching you all morning,” a familiar gruff voice says behind me.
I turn to find Sully wearing a scowl, though the creasing in his face feels gentler. Not as harsh as this morning, when he was reprimanding me for breaking his bench. God, he’s the perfect secondary character—the type of grumpy guy everyone secretly roots for and cheers for in the end.
“You did that all wrong.” Sully points at the bench.
I glance down at it. “How so?”
He walks up to me and presses his hand to the back of the bench and gives it a shake. It doesn’t move. Solid, ha! He then moves to the front and kicks one of the legs—once again, unmoving.
Sorry to say, Sully, but this softened screenwriter still has it.
He grumbles something and then moves to the front of the bench and takes a seat.
“It’s uncomfortable,” he finally says, crossing his arms and resting them on his small belly.
“Do you want a pillow?” I ask.
“Do I look like a man who sits on a bench pillow?” Insult laces his voice, and I hold back my chuckle.
“No, sir, you don’t.”
“It’s uncomfortable because your craftsmanship is subpar.”
Uh-huh, sure. I don’t believe a word of it, but for his sake, I agree with him.
“Very subpar,” I say. “It’s shocking that two grown men are able to sit on the bench together and it doesn’t fall apart.”
Sully turns and looks me up and down, his perusal a tad frightening.
Even though I can characterize him in a second as a teddy bear inside, I still wither under his glower.
The man has life experience; he receives a degree of respect from this town—you can see that just talking with Tank—and from our few interactions, I can tell that he’s not someone you want to mess with.
But I don’t falter under his stare. I don’t look away.
He seems like a man who’d respect that. And when he then turns back to the lake, I can tell I’ve made the right decision.
“I like your snark. Keep it coming.” Then, with a groan, he stands from the bench and motions to it.
“Don’t leave an unfinished product—be sure to stain it and then follow up with my granddaughter, Fallon, in the lobby.
She’ll be able to pay you for your time. ”
Sully takes off, and I smile to myself, keeping my eyes fixed on the lake.
Did I just make my first friend in Canoodle?
I think I did.