My First Job: An Interior Decorating Disaster



Posted: Saturday, November 26, 2011

by John Waddey
firstcenturychristian

My mother’s father was a painting contractor. He painted homes and offices for a living. His sons worked with him and occasionally other members of the family were employed. It was natural that as a child I aspired to be a painter.

My first job away from home was in my twelfth year. A Mr. Beckham operated a small grocery store in our neighborhood. Three of us boys were employed. Since Mr. Beckham was almost blind, it fell to us to stock the shelves, sweep the floors and wait on the customers. He spent most of his time reclining in the back room, resting on his sofa and listening to his radio.

One day the owner came in with a gallon of army surplus paint. It was oil-based paint and the color was aluminum. He had a small room in the back of the store where he could rest and listen to his radio. He wanted that room painted. When he mentioned the word paint, I eagerly volunteered. After all I knew a lot about painting, my grandfather was a painter. Of course I had no personal experience in that field but I knew anyone could use a brush to spread paint!. The proprietor accepted my offer to do the job. He furnished me with the paint and a brush and an admonition not to make a mess of it.

I eagerly set to work; first to stir, then to apply the shiny substance. I had a few sheets of newspaper that I placed on the floor beneath my application. I was careful not to let drops of paint get on his floor. All went well. It did not take me too many hours to paint all around the room as high as I could reach. My challenged was to apply the paint above that which I could reach from the floor. Since their was no ladder, I found an old metal folding chair on which to stand. There with the bucket in one hand and the brush in the other I diligently applied the silvery paint. Again I circled the room, but still there was about six inches I could not quite reach.

Not to be defeated I search and found a metal case in which bottles of milk were delivered to the store. I carefully placed it on top of the metal folding chair. The challenge was to get on top of my box with my paint and brush in my hands. I found that by standing on the arm of the couch I could mount my riser and complete my job. At first all went well, little by little the old dark walls were covered with the bright aluminum paint. Then, all of a sudden, Murphy’s Law took over. In case you are not familiar with this law, it says, "If it can happen, It will happen." Just as I reached to paint a stretch, the milk case slipped on the metal chair. Feeling the movement, I tried to shift my weight and then disaster struck. The chair flipped, I fell, the paint brush went one way the half empty gallon of paint the other. The brush made a bright impression on Mr. Beckham’s cabinet radio. The bucket first landed on his couch. After dumping a goodly portion of its contents there, the rest was deposited on his floor. On closer examination I found that my arm and the leg of my jeans were also painted a bright silver color.

There were only two old rags to take care of drops of paint that might fall from my brush. Fortunately the store had a kerosene pump stationed near the front entrance. In those days, many families burned kerosene for cooking fuel. I wiped up all the gooey paint I could and then headed to the front to get kerosene. Mr. Beckham was standing at the cash register. Like a cat, I quietly walked along the opposite wall till I could slip our the door and reach the kerosene pump. I had no container to carry a supply back, so I wet my two rags and sought to wash the paint our of them. I tried to wipe the paint from my arm and discovered that kerosene will blister exposed skin. My pants could not be helped. The oily mess had already soaked through the cloth. Another rinse of the rags and I once more made my way to the site of the disaster. The old gentleman must have sensed something in my strange behavior so he asked, "Johnny, How is the painting coming along." " Fine, I replied, I am just cleaning up a bit."

Back at the scene of the accident, I first tried to wipe the paint from his radio. It was already beginning to set. As I rubbed the kerosene soaked rag over the spill, to my horror, I saw the dark finish of the radio coming off with the paint. That meant his radio, which was a dark walnut color, now had a light yellow patch on part of the top and side. Worse still, the paint had already soaked into his couch. Vainly I tried to wash it out with the kerosene soaked rags. I only succeeded in soaking his favorite resting place with the strong odor of kerosene. It took another trip to the pump before I could start on the floor. Mr. Beckham surely could smell the strong odor of kerosene, but he stayed at his post. At the end of the day I reported that I had used up all of the paint. And lacked just a little near the ceiling.

I dreaded going back the next day, but the good old fellow didn’t say a word. For some reason I never went back into the back room where Mr. Beckham took his rest. Nor did he ever ask me to paint for him again.

This was the first of my three major painting disasters. Fortunately the others occurred outside rather than inside.
First Job
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