The
Death of the Young Roofer Man
Prologue
This is the
sad story of Wade, a young man
who did
honest work as best he could,
and his
love Deena, his biggest fan,
who gave
him work at the dollar store
and who
told him what he needed
to know as
best she could, and more.
Wade, a smart young man, needed
money.
Everyone sleeps under a roof;
roofs go bad.
He’d be a roofer man, the best;
he’d be rich.
He fixed a roof, then put on
whole roofs,
then he had business cards and
then a truck.
People liked him. He was an
honest sort.
Work went well for the young
roofer man,
he was handsome and tan and
very strong;
he’d lift his ladder and
shoulder 90 lbs roofing rolls.
He tarred and flashed, fastened
and nailed,
noble work no more than simple
play,
a roof no more than a wall
faced up.
High on the roof, free in
sunlight,
he watched the sky and clouds
roll by,
he argued with no one on the
road below.
His own man, he took on
challenges,
his red bandana cavalier to
cool his neck,
his silhouetted motions
confident, efficient.
Money was his. Pleased people
wrote checks,
referred him on and work
abounded.
One day he met Deena at the
dollar store.
“Oh, Wade,” Deena pointed. “Our
roof leaks.
Look, see the stains and
dripping spots?
Our birthday cards get ruined
when it rains.”
Wade had come to buy shirts and
pants.
His sweat thinned and the sun
faded cotton.
Quality tar and caulk doesn’t
wash off.
Wade said he wanted to fix
Deena.
He said he meant he wanted to
bid Deena.
He mumbled, he stuttered, he
stared.
“Well, Wade?” Deena said. “You
know how?”
“How what?” “Fix the roof.” “Of
course I do.”
“And wear this shirt after work
on Saturday.”
“Why this shirt?” Wade raised
the folded shirt,
the weight like paper to his
muscular arms.
He spoke to hear Deena’s kind
voice.
“So I recognize you Saturday,
Wade.”
The register girl spoke to the
roofer man
and the roofer man listened to
the register girl.
The dollar store roof was the
metal kind,
sloped for run-off and
convenient for repair.
Wade’s ladder rattled, he was
on the job.
The seams were shot and twenty
tubes
of silver caulk filled the gaps
by
His tousled hair and sweaty
chest came down.
Wade and Deena held hands and
kissed
but storms, as in
thunderstorms, came in.
Knowledge is nothing to a drop
of water.
“The roof still leaks,” said
Deena, her voice
mellifluous, as she covered
cards with plastic.
She knew that men are often
half pride.
Wade slumped, surprised, at a
loss.
Above, the high steel beams
held quiet,
the bolts and screws kept
silent.
The next dry day, back on the
roof,
Wade caulked and tarred a low
valley.
He screwed down a seam, checked
the gutters,
and on hands and knees looked
for pinholes,
felt around eaves and pushed
the peak,