A Clarification of the Events that Transpired on Sunday, 19th August 2007

I have been called a liar before, though without the understanding that this cursed gift of mine is pathological, biological and not-so-chlorophyll-laden environmental.

My mate H loves records. I personally want to smash them over smooth pates as I scream that I shall have another platinum hit one of these days; but he loves listening to them.

The most natural thing in the world it was for him to buy a book case to put them in. More so to call me over to assemble it.

It was a solid piece of furniture - pressed wood that was relatively sturdy and made to be put together easily.

With the parts lying on the floor, I was about to pick up the leaflet of instruction when I saw something that chilled me to the bone.

Please allow me to brake the flow of this linear narrative for some background information. My mate H is a planner - a black Protestant intellectual who despises labels almost as much as I. He is a thinker, an architect of sorts. We work well as a team because I am a ruthless gorilla, who is so far outside the box that I am either in a tower with a gun or underneath the streets with a bomb strapped to my chest.

There H sat on the floor, a side of pressed wood in each of his hands, his gaze shifting from one to another and then back. For a moment he pondered the edge on one of the boards; and then he looked at the other.

I had seen that gaze before. It was H's over-thinking gaze, a sure indication that he was going to measure each plank three times at leas before we even started.

Panicked that this endeavor would last longer than the time taken to build the pyramids, I reached for the closest plank. Grabbing a wooden stake, I started to bang the thing into a plank that looked like the one one in the leaflet instruction.

"Are you sure that goes there?"

The question irked me because we were working from a bloody leaflet - a two-sided instructions thingy that was not exactly that complicated.

"Of course."

"Umm...no. I think it goes here."

By this time both stakes had been pounded well into the plank, so when H showed me on the instructions where it said otherwise, I was momentarily infuriated.

"Hrrnh." It was a tiny whimper; a sigh that meant that he was concerned. I had heard that sigh before too. It meant that he was trying to think of a way to save this project.

It occurred to me that I had never seen him ever not think up an idea in such situations. What would happene if he could not find a way? Would he lose his hyper-organized mind?

I decided not to wait. Looking at him right in the eyes to force him to stop the now-burning gears in his mind, I told him to get me some pliers. We had both by this time tried the pull the stakes out to no avail.

As he ran to get the pliers, I attempted to get the damn things out with my teeth, but failed.

Pliers now in hand, I got one of the stakes out, though it got warped as I did so.

The other one broke off in the hole it had been put in.

As I thought about creating more space within the now-shut hole, I became acutely aware that H was staring at the plank as if I were holding his dearest closest friend who had died in my arms.

Would he actually lose his mind? This project was to take 30 minutes. I would now have to tell him it would take longer, and that would set his carefully-planned schedule in disarray. He may decide to terminate the project, and me with it. I had experienced the deep psychosis of an absessive-compulsive before, and knew it could be scary. Luckily, I believed the experience had taught me well.

"Mate, relax. We're going to Home Depot. We'll get more stakes, OK? And I'll just hammer a nail into the blocked hole and open it up."

"OK." He was not breathing heavily - a good sign.

Our trip to Home Depot was uneventful until I addressed his panic. I laughed about it uneasily, until he joined in, whereupon I was more candid about the matter.

I told him about what had made me pick up the hammer, and recommended that he not over-think or at least read into my own thoughts which tend to panic at the sight of his over-thought.

"So you want me to over-think your over-thinking?"

"Yes."

It seemed pretty plain to me.

He almost crashed his car into another one as we parked. I thank God he did not, for I would have had to take the brunt of the blame for that unnecessary trip.

Perhaps I am confusing H with my father in that.

A gay Home Depot worker, a cute girl, and an absentee windows and doors specialist later, we had the stakes.

The stakes fit, but the hole remained a gross problem.

"You're a typical man, trying to force wood into any tight hole you can find."

I ignored the quip, and concentrated all my might on creating a hole through the blocked one, and was soon successful. The screw went in, but stuck out a little.

I knew H would never let me forget that 1/2 inch jutt.

Just as they didn't when they arrested Dutt.