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Flannel Jarod
“Does everyone know what time it is?” The overly perky Tool-girl Heidi proudly announced the
beginning of another broadcast day at the Binford set.
“It’s TOOL TIME!” the enthusiastic crowd greeted her, and her impressive breasts, equally.
“Binford Tools is proud to present Tim ‘The Tool-man’ TAYLOR!”
The crowd erupted in applause as the jazzy theme music began to spill out over the studio
speakers. Heidi made a special point to clap high in the air, presumably to entice the crowd to
greater levels of noise. Honestly, it worked because it gave a great view of her better features.
As the applause reached its short crescendo, the host of Tool Time strode out onto the set. Tim
Taylor was, as usual, adorned in a wool blazer, a tasteful linen shirt, khaki pants and a daring tie.
He looked more like a successful car salesman than the host of a tool show. Walking two steps
behind him, as always, was his stout, bearded companion. His assistant moved with more of a
bob than a real walk. As Heidi exited the set past him, she traded his tool belt for his jacket. Tim
donned the tool belt expertly.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Tim ‘The Tool-man’ Taylor and you all know my
assistant Al ‘The Flannel Animal’ Boreland!” Despite the routine jests that Tim poked at Al, the
flannel-clad carpenter never ceased looking both amazed and hurt.
“Thank you, Tim.” His facial expressions showed that he was neither pleased, nor thankful for the
introduction.
Tim continued, oblivious to anything but the camera. “We have a great show for you today, folks.
Today, we’re going to do a Tool Time Salute,” the two hosts stepped together and raised their
hands in a mock salute, “to laundry. Heidi, please bring me my washer and dryer.”
Testosterone levels elevated across Michigan as the top rated Tool-girl on the fourth highest rated
cable tool show pushed a washing machine and a dryer across the set. The men in the audience
were strangely silent as they pondered the mysteries of Heidi’s laundry.
“Here you go, Tim.”
“Thank you, Heidi. Now, I know a lot of you are saying ‘Tim, that’s woman’s work! I don’t do
laundry.’ Well, since I agree with that, I brought a woman along to help go over this. Al?” He
motioned to his assistant as if he was this woman. The audience laughed at the obvious joke.
“I don’t think so, Tim. I’d like to introduce our favorite Mrs. Tool-man, Jill Taylor!” The audience
politely applauded, still pondering the mysteries of Heidi’s laundry.
“Thank you, Al. Tim.” Mrs. Taylor looked slightly nervous under the glare of the stage lights.
Tim moved in for the kill. “So, since you do the laundry for the Tool-man, you must have some
great tips for getting out tough grease and oil stains.”
Turning slyly to the camera, Al added, “Not to mention blood, glass, and soot.”
Besides a dirty look, Tim basically ignored Al. “So, what can you do to help all the women out
there clean up after their men.”
Jill, who had simply been watching the whole exchange, shook her head. “Well, I could get them
the phone number of a good divorce attorney.” The crowd broke into genuine laughter.
Tim gave her an exasperated look.
“Okay, okay. One of the best things for getting out grease and oils is dishwashing liquid. You can
put in about a teaspoon of dishwashing liquid into a normal sized washer and it will help break up
the grease and get it out. Heidi, please bring me the dirty clothes.”
Heidi again distracted the entire male population of Michigan by wheeling out a wheelbarrow full
of flannel shirts. “Here you go, Jill.”
“Thank you, Heidi. Now. . .”
Tim stepped out between his wife and the camera. “Thank you, honey, but I think the audience
wants a real demonstration here. Heidi, my grease gun.”
Amazingly, Heidi returned with what looked like a flame-thrower. “Here you go, Tim.”
“Thank you, Heidi.” Tim strapped the two tanks of grease on his back and pointed the nozzle at
the wheelbarrow. Jill and Al scattered as a thick stream of grease blew flannel everywhere.
“Tim!” Jill cried from her spot of heavy cover behind the tool bench. “What are you doing! You’ll
never get those clothes clean!”
“Never fear, Jill. Your normal washing machine might not get it done, but this is no ordinary
washer. It has. . .” He turned expectantly towards the audience.
“MORE POWER!” The audience finished his sentence for him.
Tim grabbed handful after handful of greasy flannel and stuffed it into the washer. His nice linen
shirt was soiled up to his armpits and the outside of the dryer looked like a piece of modern art.
He twisted a knob at the top of the dryer and a noise, not unlike a small jet engine, began to wind
up.
“Tim,” Jill was looking quite scared now, “what are you doing? Not only did you overload the
washer, but you forgot to put the soap in or anything.”
Tim turned to the camera. “A normal washing machine has about a 1-1/2 horsepower motor.
This washing machine uses a small Pratt and Whitney gas turbine generating 400 horsepower
that spins the titanium inner shell at almost 15,000 rpm. It uses no water and no soap. Just
power! UraGH GRUH GruH!” The audience inexplicably echoed Tim’s ape-like noises.
About ten seconds after coming up to speed, the machine shut off and began to wind down.
Al looked at Jill. They both exchanged a look that said, ‘Well, it stopped. That’s a start.’
As the machine powered down, Tim was running a huge chord to the back of the dryer. He
popped open the lid to the washer and even before the machine had completely stopped he was
yanking flannel out and throwing it into the dryer.
“Ah, Tim?”
“Yes, Al. Can’t you see I’m busy here?”
“If there was no water, why exactly do you need to dry the clothes?”
“A good question, Al. Actually, I’m not drying them as much as disinfecting them. The washer is
just for the visible dirt. I replaced the heating coils in the dryer with forty-eight high intensity lamps
that will bring the temperature of the clothing up to nearly 300 degrees. Then, the dryer uses
carbon dioxide to cool the clothes back to 110 degrees. That kills all the germs and destroys the
small dirt.”
Jill and Al headed back behind cover.
Tim turned the knob on top of the dryer and quickly donned dark safety glasses. At first, nothing
seemed to be happening. Then, the lights inside the studio began to dim and in its place the
dryer began to glow. At first it was only a slight glow, but within seconds the dryer was glowing
like a cartoon Arc of the Covenant. After about ten seconds, the lights in the studio came back up
to full power and the light inside the dryer began to diminish. A whooshing noise issued forth,
along with visible clouds of white smoke from the dryer. Al and Jill remained behind cover.
Tim however, strode confidently over to the dryer and opened it up, revealing a perfectly cleaned
flannel shirt. “There you have it! Clean as a whistle and all in under a minute.” The audience
applauded loudly.
Al and Jill reluctantly left cover and began to doubt their intuition. Maybe this invention of Tim’s
actually worked.
“Al, will you try the shirt on to make sure I haven’t shrunk it.”
Al vigorously shook his head. “I don’t think so, Tim.”
Jill was curious, though. “Go on, Al.”
The audience joined in the jeering.
Sheepishly shaking his head, Al reluctantly ignored his survival instincts, again. “Okay.” He
quickly pulled his shirt off, revealing a hairy chest and back.
“Al, please take your shirt off.”
He gave Tim an exasperated, embarrassed look and put on the cleaned shirt. It fit like a glove.
“Well, Tim, I have to admit. It does fit and it is clean. I don’t believe it.”
Unbeknownst to Al, a graphic flashed across the bottom of the television monitors in the studio:
“What Al doesn’t realize is that Tim put itching powder in the CO2 dispenser.”
The crowd chuckled at the message, prompting Al to look up in curiosity. His catastrophic error
was looking at the crowd, not the monitors.
“How does that feel, Al?”
“Well, Tim. It feels good.” Al abstractly scratched the small of his back. “I mean it’s clean,” he
scratched his abdomen, “and it definitely still fits perfectly. Where did you get these shirts?”
“From your closet.”
“Tim! What if something had gone wrong?” By now, Al was actively scratching his arms and as
much of his back as he could reach.
“Relax, Al. Nothing did. Say, you need a flea collar or something?”
The audience was having a hard time containing themselves. Al was scratching himself all over
and in he in visible discomfort. “Tim, what did you do to me?” His face moved quickly from
discomfort to pain.
“Nothing Al, don’t be such a baby. It’s just a little itching powder.”
“No, Tim, it hurts! It’s burning my skin! Arhhahh! AHHH!” Al collapsed in a heap scratching and
tearing his shirt back off. Where he was successful, huge red welts and scarring were visible on
his skin.
Tim quickly looked at the camera, “We’ll be right back after a message from Binford Tools.”
* * *
Three Days Later
Jarod walked onto the Binford set already trying to assume the role of an expert carpenter. He
wasn’t sure exactly what an expert carpenter did, but he figured it couldn’t be any harder than
being a microbiologist or a thoracic surgeon. Mr. Binford greeted him with a firm handshake and
a large smile. “Welcome to Binford Tools, Mr. Villa.”
“Please,” the Pretender immediately chimed in, “call me Jarod.”
“Okay Jarod. Jarod Villa? Any relation to the great Bob Vila?”
“Bob who?”
Mr. Binford broke into a hearty laughter, making Jarod suspect that he’d just made joke. He made
a mental note to find out who Bob Vila was. “You’re going to fit in around here all right! Timmy!
Come here, I have a surprise for you.”
Jarod and Mr. Binford walked back around behind the mock-up of the shop and found Tim Taylor
sitting in his make-up chair. He turned around and cast a disapproving eye at Jarod, but he
reached out his hand in greeting anyway. “Hi, my name is Tim. . .”
“Oh, I know who you are Mr. Taylor. I’m a big fan of yours. I just want you to know what an honor
it is to work with you and fill in for Al while he recovers from his injuries.” Jarod had already
watched tapes of the show. Once he got over the stomachache the laughable techniques they
were using caused him, he formed many opinions about Tim. He could read him like a book.
Tim’s face instantly lit up. “Well, it’s good to have you on board Jarod. Say, you aren’t any
relation to Bob Vila, are you?”
Mr. Binford’s laugher exploded behind them and saved Jarod any further embarrassment. “It’s
Villa with a soft ‘i.’” Jarod often used cleverly disguised last names, and in this case he had
assumed that using the Spanish word for ‘house’ that he would be subconsciously judged as
capable of doing home repair. He really needed to find out who this Bob Vila was.
Heidi’s prompt entrance ended the conversation. “Mr. Binford, so nice to see you.” Then she saw
Jarod: “Dr. Clay?”
Mr. Binford wheeled around at the sensual voice of the current Tool-girl. “Heidi!” He gave her a
hug. “No, Heidi, this is Jarod Villa. He’ll be taking Al’s place until he comes back.”
Heidi extended her hand quickly to Jarod. “Hello, Jarod. You look just like someone I met in
California. Hmm. Well, if you need anything, be sure to ask.”
Her hand lingered far to long in Jarod’s hand for Tim’s taste. “Down, Heidi, down! Don’t you have
something to set up for the show?”
“No.”
Tim grabbed her by the shoulders and ushered her past Jarod and out to the set. “Find
something.”
Tim returned after a minute. “So, what do you want the wardrobe people to get ready for you to
wear on the show?”
“I hadn’t really thought about that,” Jarod replied. “I guess I’ll just wear what I have on.” Jarod
was dressed in his usual black jeans, black T-shirt, black leather jacket and black boots. His
black wrap-a-round sunglasses were in his jacket pocket.
Tim merely shook his head. “What ever you want.” He rolled his eyes at Mr. Binford as if to plead
for someone else.
“Jarod, will you excuse us for a minute?” Jarod knew that when Mr. Binford asked to be alone
with Tim, it was never to discuss recipes.
“Sure.” Jarod walked out to the front of the set hoping to catch up with Heidi.
“What is your problem, Timmy? We haven’t exactly had the doors broken down with people
wanting to fill in for Al. Besides, Jarod’s perfect.”
“All black? Someone needs to tell him the funeral’s over.”
“Timmy, look: without Al, the show is suffering in the ratings. You need an assistant, and with
your record. . .”
“My record! How was I supposed to know that the itching powder contained micro-organisms that
when heated to 300 degrees in an oxygen free environment would turn into the Flesh Eating
Virus?”
“It’s not just that Tim. It’s everything. Some of the other folks around here sympathize. They say
we should cancel the show to prevent you from killing yourself or more importantly someone
else.”
“Okay, I made a mistake. Do we have to use him?”
“Yes, Timmy. My decision has been made.”
Tim resigned himself to defeat and Mr. Binford saw that he understood. Mr. Binford walked off the
set and left Tim to welcome Jarod.
Tim walked out onto the set just in time to see Heidi giving Jarod her phone number. “Heidi?”
Tim tried to take on his best fatherly tone to voice his disapproval. She simply glanced over at
him and walked back around the set to get ready for the studio audience. Tim couldn’t help notice
the exaggerated hip sway she put on for Jarod’s benefit.
“Alright, Tim. Should we get started? I haven’t seen a script for today’s show. Where can I get
one.”
“Well, Jarod,” Tim’s voice and facial expressions took on a condescending look, “around here, we
just go with the flow.”
“So there’s no script?”
“Scripts, we don’ need no stinkin’ scripts.” Neither his fake Spanish accent nor this phrase
caused any reaction out of Jarod. Tim, however, was practically doubled over with laughter. “Get
it?”
“No. Was that a joke?”
Tim straightened and shook his head. “Great, another one of the humor impaired.”
* * *
“So, next week we’ll be out at the project house, doing our salute,” Jarod fortunately recognized
this cue and stepped in behind Tim for the traditional salute, “to roofs.” Suddenly, the sound of
dogs barking issued forth from the speakers in the studio. The audience, like they had been for
the last hour, was laughing at the eclectic, yet predictable humor. This time, Jarod joined them.
“Good bye!”
The producer snapped his board and yelled, “We’re out!” to indicate that the show was over.
Jarod went to the back to wash the remnants of hot glue from both of his arms and the better half
of his face.
Tim quickly came up behind him. “Sorry about the Binford 2100 Glue gun. I figured it could
handle another 500 psi of boost air.”
Jarod just glared at him. “It’s made out of 6 gauge aluminum.”
“So?”
Jarod continued walking. Heidi was quick on the scene with a turpentine-covered cloth. As she
quickly started rubbing Jarod’s arms with the cloth, Tim could see that Jarod would work out
nicely on the show: he was already grinning from ear to ear.
“Listen, Jarod, why don’t we go grab a beer after work.”
“Ah, well, I don’t know. . .”
“Heidi, you want to come too?”
“Sure!” Heidi agreed much too quickly for Tim’s liking. Of course, once Jarod had removed his
heavy leather jacket, Tim had seen quickly that unlike Al’s body by braughtworst, Jarod had a
body by Schwartzenegger. Heidi was in lust. That much he was sure of.
“Jarod?”
“Okay.”
* * *
Tim carried the tray of beer back over to the pool table where Jarod was running his third
consecutive table. Tim hated showoffs, especially ones that played stupid. Two hours ago, when
Tim was kicking Jarod all around the pool table, Jarod claimed he'd never played pool before.
Now, he was unstoppable.
“Okay, three brewski’s.”
Jarod looked up just as his English shot spun around the eight, knocked in the two and left a
perfect eight-ball shot on the back corner pocket. “I was drinking a Virgin Mary.”
“I know, Boy Scout, but they’re all out of tomato juice. You get to drink beer.”
Jarod walked around the table, sank the eight ball and continued to the table where Tim was
sitting with the beers. Tim and Heidi both had started on their beers. Jarod picked up the beer
and began to examine it. He brought the glass up to his nose, smelled the head and then he took
a tentative sip.
“What is wrong with you? Haven’t you ever had a beer before?”
“Actually, no.”
Tim and Heidi both laughed. Heidi, though, laughed a little too loud and she almost brought her
last sip back up. Great, Tim thought. She’s drunk.
Convinced that it wouldn’t kill him, Jarod took a larger gulp. “Hey, this is good!” He tipped his
glass and poured the rest of his beer down his throat.
Heidi’s eyes went wide. Tim just laughed.
Jarod motioned to the waitress to bring him another.
* * *
Four beers later
“Okay, big guy, that’s about enough for you.” Tim waved off the waitress who was heading back
to the table with Jarod’s next round.
Jarod’s voice was slurred. “But I like that. I wannanudder.”
Tim had convinced Heidi to leave a few minutes earlier by convincing her that Jarod was going to
be no good to anybody tonight. He was right. “Listen, Jarod. We’ve got to go.” Tim grabbed
Jarod by the arms and hoisted him up. “Let’s go!”
* * *
“Hi honey, I’m home!” Tim loudly announced his presence then under his breath he added to the
barely standing Jarod, “Just act calm and let me handle this.”
“Tim?”
“Yes, Jill. Where are you?”
In response, she came around from the kitchen area and started up the landing to where her
husband was coming in four hours later than usual. “Where have you been and who was that on
your – oh! You didn’t tell me we’d be having company.” Jill began to frantically adjust her hair and
clothing despite the late hour. She never liked the way Tim just brought people home
unannounced, but when they as good looking as this one was, she didn’t mind so much. She
couldn’t help but feel very self-conscious, though. She didn’t think it was possible, but this Jarod
guy was better looking in person than he was on TV.
“Jill, this is Jarod Villa. Jarod, this is my wife Jill.”
Jarod straightened and extended his hand to Mrs. Taylor. Tim marveled his recovery. Either he
had one hell of a metabolism or he was faking it earlier. Either way, Tim was impressed. “Nice to
meet you, Mrs. Taylor. And please, just call me Jarod.”
“Okay, Jarod, but please, call me Jill. Tim, can I talk to you for a minute?”
Jarod, who noticed that everyone wanted to talk to Tim alone, headed into the kitchen area and
straight for the refrigerator. Just as he hoped, Tim had more of this beer stuff in the refrigerator.
“Tim! What are you doing bringing him here? Why didn’t you call?”
“Look, Jill. He’s staying at the Starlite Hotel until he can find a place. . .”
“That little sleazy place on the hill?”
“Yes,” Tim’s exasperated expression and tone of voice was a well-practiced act. He was the
master of manipulation when it came to his wife. At least, that’s what she let him believe. “I
couldn’t have a vital member of Tool Time staying in such a dump. I figured that he could stay
here for a couple of days, at least until he got on his feet.”
“Where?”
“I figure he can stay in the garage. It’s not cold this time of year and I can set up the old cot in the
attic for him.”
“Just for a couple of days?”
“I promise.”
* * *
Two Weeks Later
Tim came down to find the sink full of dirty bowls. Four of the bowls had the remnants of ice
cream – it looked like it was a Rocky Road night last night – a couple more bowls had the remains
of Corn Flakes. That normally signified that Jarod had downed a few bowls of Corn Flakes and
beer. The rest of the bowls probably belonged to the boys since they recently decided that if
Jarod didn’t have to do dishes, then neither did they.
“Maaaark! BRAD! RANDY! Front and center!”
The three boys came screaming in from the four corners of the house. They formed a neat
inspection line in front of their father and wondered which of their misadventures he had
discovered.
“What is wrong with the sink?”
“Why, did you work on it again?” Randy, the wise-cracker of the group chimed in with his usual
barb.
“No, but I’ll work on you if you don’t watch it! Why is it full of dishes? Clean that up before your
mother gets down.”
“But Dad, most of them are Jarod’s.” Brad was the whiner.
“I don’t care whose they are. Clean them all up, NOW!”
The boys scrambled around the counter and began to attack the pile of dirty dishes with their
usual enthusiasm.
Tim strode out to the backyard to get some air. He would really hear it from Jill today. She was
fed up with Jarod, but Tim sort of liked him. As he strode out into the fresh air, his sense of smell
was suddenly assaulted by the most repulsive odor he could imagine. “Wilson! Is that you over
there?”
A gas-mask-clad face suddenly appeared over the fence. “Hi-de-ho, neighbor!”
“Shouldn’t you be lighting a match or something over there? Pheeewww!”
“Oh no, no, no Tim. I’m merely extracting the scent sac from my new pet skunk.”
“Jill’s going to extract my sac if I don’t do something about Jarod.”
“Trouble, Tim?”
“It’s our new guy on Tool Time. It’s not that he’s a bad guy, but he’s really weird. He’s got every
spare blanket in the house strung around the garage like it’s some pre-school kid’s fort and he
never washes anything. He’s eating us out of house and home and I think he’s up to drinking a
case of beer a day. I mean, he’s always awake and when he’s not typing away on his computer
or making me look bad on Tool Time he’s working out or doing something else strange.”
“How does Jill feel about it?”
“She likes him, but she wants our life back to normal. He’s just too, too strange!”
“Is he getting along with the boys?”
“Oh, sure, he’s a regular dad of the year to them. They’re out playing catch until after dark and
then he helps them with their homework. You should see the gene-splicing kit he set up for
Mark’s Science Fair: something about splicing the DNA of an elephant and a pig. They love him.”
“Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh. Tim, it sounds just like the Roman Emperor Hedonis.”
“He done what?”
“No, no, no Tim. Hedonis was one of the last great Roman Emperors. His court became so
luxurious and so enthralled in the physical pleasures. . .”
“Ohrrah yeah yuh, physical pleasures.”
“of being the ruling empire that they became weak and were overtaken by barbarians. It sounds
like you and Jill are worried about being overrun by Jarod’s primitive and barbaric behavior, when
in truth he is simply exemplifying the Jungian perfect youth.”
“So what you’re saying is that he’s dangerous and I should kick him out?”
“No, Tim. What I’m saying is that Jarod is no barbarian. Whether or not you need him to leave is
your own decision.”
“Thanks, Wilson. Say, have you met Jarod?”
“Oh yes, in fact, he’s over here right now.”
A second gas-mask-clad face rose above the fence. This one belonged to Jarod.
* * *
Tim walked back into the house wondering if he could ever regain some of his dignity.
“Tim!”
He involuntarily jumped at the sound of his wife’s traditional greeting. He was in trouble again.
“In here.”
“Tim, I thought you said he’d be out of here in a couple of days. It’s been two weeks and last
night he ate that pie I baked for the luncheon today. You’ve got to do something.”
“Look honey, I understand what’s wrong now.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, it’s just like that Roman Emperor -- Headlight. We are afraid that we’re being overrun by
the young but really, we’re just barbarians.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know, we’re too wrapped up in our physical pleasures to see the problem.”
“No Tim, I see the problem. You need to get that problem out of my house.”
“Okay.”
* * *
“Welcome back to Tool Time on location.” Tim looked directly at the camera. He was standing on
the front porch of the project house. “Now it’s time to check on how the back deck is coming.
Let’s go!”
Tim turned and walked back through the entryway, down the main hallway, out through French
doors, and onto the huge pine deck. As he walked outside, Jarod crossed in front of him carrying
two twelve foot two-by-sixes on his shoulder. As was the custom in these warmer days of spring,
Jarod wasn’t wearing a shirt.
The entire female population of Michigan, Wisconsin, Ohio and Indiana (where the reception
faded in and out) moved closer to their television sets.
“As you can see, Jarod is laying the last row of two-by-six supports for our lower landing.”
Jarod set the two-by-sixes down smoothly and the from the camera’s position right behind him,
Tool Time took on a whole new meaning. Jarod turned to face the camera and it was readily
apparent that he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. Just off camera, Heidi steadied herself
against a deck railing.
“Yes, Tim. You use the two-by-sixes for the main supports. They connect to the concrete
foundation blocks using brackets like this.” Jarod bent over and picked up one two-by-six and set
it in the bracket on the concrete block.
Tool Time normally received four letters a day. Now, they were receiving thousands. Over ninety
percent of the letters vehemently chastised the show for panning in to do a close-up of the actual
fit-up. Apparently, the viewers of Tool Time were much more interested in the ‘big picture’ and
most importantly, the body position that a person would safely use to make such a fitting. Never
one to disappoint the fans, Marv, the cameraman, stayed in a wide pan that showed Jarod’s
impressive back and right arm straining to place the beam properly. He thought briefly about
panning in on the bead of sweat running down his arm, but thought better. They still had some
men watching after all.
“Once you get a snug fit,” Jarod continued, glancing back at the camera, “then you can nail the
beam in place and start running the two-by-four deck boards.”
“That sure looks like a snug fit.” Tim bantered.
Unfortunately, Jarod missed the reference to the fit of his jeans. “It is, Tim. That’s the way you’re
supposed to do it.”
“I’ll bet it is.”
* * *
The large shape under the starched white hospital sheet was only recognizable from the neck up.
Al Boreland was a shadow of his former self: he’d lost nearly fifty pounds and what was left of his
skin was a mass of scar tissue and ointment. When Tim begrudgingly walked into the room, he
felt an incredible pity for his partner.
“Tim!” Al’s face lit up like Christmas morning. Ilene, who had been dozing in the chair next to Al
looked up and smiled.
“Hey, Al. How’s it going.”
“I’m doing better, Tim. I should be out in another week. I’m sorry I let the show down.”
“Jeez, Al! It’s not your fault. I should be the one apologizing to you. Look, buddy, I am really
sorry about what happened.”
“It’s okay, Tim. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”
“Yeah, and if I did try to hurt you, I probably would have helped, huh?”
Al didn’t seem to get the poor, self-depreciating humor.
Skip, the producer of Tool Time, broke into the hospital room with a bang. Instantly, the somber
mood of the room was broken. “Tim, Al, I have some great news!”
“Skip, try and keep it down, this is a hospital.”
“Okay, Tim, but wait until you hear this: you just broke the top five.”
“Oh, whoopee-do Skip. We’ve been the fourth highest rated cable show in Michigan for months
now.”
“No Tim, I mean the TOP FIVE.”
“Not THE top five.”
“Yes, Tim! You got a nine point three rating for this week’s show. Corrected for your broadcast
area, you got an eighty share.”
Tim and Al both cried out in unison, “AN EIGHTY SHARE?”
“YES! CBS and NBC are both coming down next week to talk to us. We can’t keep Binford tools
on the shelf!”
Al was beaming. “What show did you re-run this week Tim?”
“Re-run?”
“Skip. . .” Tim could already see exactly where this was heading. He had meant to tell Al about
Jarod, but he just hadn’t had the opportunity. Al’s assumption that they had just been doing re-
runs was understandable, but wrong.
“Tim? Aren’t we showing re-runs?”
“Al. . .”
“You mean he doesn’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Skip, Al, I can explain this. . .”
“Explain what, Tim.”
“Yeah, Tim, I gotta hear you explain this to Al. I can’t believe you didn’t tell him.”
“Tell me what?”
“Al, we hired a temporary replacement to fill in for you.”
“A WHAT!”
“Temporary, Al! A temporary replacement for you, just until you get better. We had to finish out
the season.”
“Who is it?”
“His name is Jarod Villa.”
“That’s funny Al, isn’t your doctor named Jarod also?” Ilene broke her long silence but typically,
no one paid any attention to her.
“Look Al, no one is replacing you on the show. When you get better, you can come back. I
promise.”
“Ah, Tim, can I speak to you outside please.”
Al knew that this wasn’t good. The two men walked out side of the room. Dr. Jarod turned the
corner, saw Tim and Skip coming out of the room and ducked into an open room where a woman
was delivering.
“Tim, you don’t seem to understand. Jarod is the reason for these ratings. We have a 100 share
with women from 5 to 105. If he takes his shirt off, we sell tools. That’s the fact. We won’t shoot
another Tool Time indoors until we absolutely have to.”
“That’s ridiculous! Tool Time isn’t a show about beefcake. I mean, just because we have Heidi
we never had an eighty share. The show is finally taking off. This is just a fluke.”
“It’s no fluke, Tim. Today we have four thousand fan letters for Jarod. That’s more than you and
Al get for an entire year! That’s one day for Jarod. Face it, Tim. Jarod sells. Al can come back
and assist, but Jarod stays.”
* * *
Jarod and Tim saluted the camera in unison to signal the ending of another show of Tool Time.
Tim couldn’t help notice the large crowd gathered around the project house. Jarod was wearing a
flannel shirt, but if it had any buttons he chose not to use them. The shirt was open to his waist
and every muscle on his body gleamed bright in the afternoon sun. It made Tim sick to look at
him.
As he watched Jarod’s clothes come off, he had to admit that he’d seen his ratings go through the
roof. Next week Skip would have Jarod in a thong if he could. What the hell kind of tool show
was this anyway? Tim had a plan to set things right again, though. Now it was time to implement
it.
“Jarod, we need to talk about our next special feature.”
“Okay, what do you want to do? I was thinking about a tribute to CAD based structural design for
environmentally safe buildings.”
Tim put his finger to his chin in a mock look of thought, “Hmm, ah, hmm, well? Yup, this still is my
show. No, that’s boring. I was thinking about doing another of our Man’s Place projects – you
know, like the Man’s Bathroom, the Man’s Gymnasium, the Man’s Kitchen.”
“Okay.” Having never seen any of these, Jarod was still quite confused.
“I was thinking about the Man’s Game Room.”
“I love games!”
“That’s what I was counting on.”
* * *
“For those of you regular viewers of Tool Time, you may have noticed that we haven’t had any
special projects in the last few weeks.”
“That’s right, Tim. That’s why we’ve specially prepared one for you this week. Ladies and
Gentlemen, let’s take a walk, shall we, into the Binford 6100 Man’s Game Room!”
The two of them walked into the posh room. Four video games and two pinball machines stood
across from the entrance, there was a wet bar on the back wall a leather sectional sofa facing a
big-screen television along the wall closest to the door. Right in the center of the room was a
regulation pool table. The crowd went crazy.
“So, Jarod, we’re coming home from a tough day at the job site and all you want to do is relax.”
Jarod catapulted over the sectional and landed in a reclined position. “Yes, Tim. But I can’t find
the remote.”
“Not a problem there.” Tim walked around the sectional and pulled up one of the end arms
revealing a full function remote permanently fixed to the couch. “Just use the built-in one.”
“But what if I want a beer?”
“Simple again, my friend.” Tim reached over to the low coffee table in front of the sectional and
lifted the lid revealing a refrigerated compartment full of beer. “Go ahead, have one!”
“Don’t mind if I do, Tim.” Jarod cracked open a beer and drank half of it. His face instantly turned
to a sour expression and the beer promptly exited his body at twice the speed it entered.
“PHEeeeWW! That tasted horrible!”
“Oh, guess I should have checked the expiration date on that stuff.”
Jarod frantically wiped at his mouth as Tim handed him a throw pillow. “Don’t worry, Jarod,
everything in the Man’s Game Room was scotch guarded.” Jarod wiped his mouth on the pillow
and got a mouth full of scotch guard. “Five minutes ago.” Jarod began to spit and claw at his
mouth frantically.
“So, Jarod. You ever play video games?”
Jarod finally regained some of his composure. “Sure, Tim. I designed a few in my day. You
might say that I’m somewhat of an expert on them.”
“Oh really, I’ll bet I can beat you.”
“I don’t think so, Tim.”
Tim marched over to the Centipede machine and quickly killed the first centipede. The second
one killed him in no time. “Well, now it’s your turn.”
Jarod stepped up to the machine and to his credit, he almost killed the first centipede. The fact
that Tim had put the machine on Ultra-death Mode after his game and he had reversed all the
controls didn’t help either. Still, just before Jarod killed the first centipede and equaled Tim’s
score, the descending electronic tone told the studio audience that Tim had won.
“Man, that’s hard!”
“Only if you’re an ‘expert.’” The studio audience was laughing so hard that they were in tears.
Jarod was growing increasingly angry.
“How about a game of pool for double or nothing, Jarod.”
Jarod glared at Tim but he was powerless to resist. “Sure.”
Tim set the balls on the table as Jarod selected a pool stick. “In the Man’s Game Room, you
never have to rack your own table.” He reached down and hit a button on the top of the pool table
causing the eighteen balls on the table to instantly form a perfect triangle in the perfect place.
The crowd applauded appreciatively.
Even Jarod was impressed. “Magnets?”
“No, magic. Of course it’s magnets. Now are you going to break or not?”
Jarod pulled back to break and suddenly all the balls spread out over the table. Tim flashed a
small remote control to the camera and the audience. He had the remote palmed in his hand.
The cue ball had never moved. Jarod looked up in amazement. Tim hit another button and all
the balls formed back up.
Jarod again set to make the break and just as he reared back, the balls spread. Again, he looked
up and the balls formed back up.
After two more rounds of set-break, look-form Tim finally started laughing and placed the remote
on the table. Jarod broke the rack very poorly.
“Ooh, tough break, Jarod. Stand aside and let me show you how it’s done.” Tim made a big
production over waltzing around to the cue ball. He then hit the number two ball at a strange
angle and it shot like a rocket into the back pocket.
“That’s impossible!” Jarod was aghast.
“Not for an ‘expert.’” Tim continued his ballet around the table. Each shot he made was more
outrageous than the first. The four bounced off the eleven, but the eleven didn’t move an inch.
The one ball went halfway down the table, turned ninety degrees and then went into the side
pocket. The seven made a round tour of every pocket before it settled on the back corner.
Somehow, Tim missed the eight ball by inches.
Jarod stepped back up to the table with a very runable layout. He pulled back for his first shot
and the cue ball stopped dead one inch in front of the ball he was trying to hit. The crowd went
crazy.
“Jarod, you have to put a little muscle into it.” Tim did a rather pathetic looking full muscular pose
for the camera. “Try that again.”
Jarod pulled back, this time with some real power and knocked the cue ball across the room. The
crowd was falling out of their seats.
“Is that a scratch?” Tim walked over to the table and made a production out of examining the
gash Jarod had just put in it. “Yup, that’s a scratch all right.”
Tim went across the room and picked up the cue. He set it down and perfectly drilled the eight
ball into the back pocket. Jarod was fuming.
“Okay, Jarod. One last thing about the Man’s Game Room is that you can buy me a drink and no
one has to know you lost – except the millions of people watching out there in TV-land.”
They walked back to the wet bar and instead of going behind the bar to make a drink, Tim began
to wildly pound on the counter. “Hey! Can we get some service here!” He turned to Jarod and
added. “You know, it’s so hard to get good help these days. You know what I mean?”
Just then Al walked out from behind a curtain behind the bar. The crowd went crazy, whistling
and cheering for Al. He stepped up to the counter, picked up a mixing glass and a towel. He had
gained most of his weight back and the flannel shirt he was wearing covered all of the scar tissue.
He looked perfect. “What can I get you folks?”
Tim again put his hand to his chin in a mocking thought. “Let’s see. I’ll take a beer and my friend
here will take a Virgin Mary. Is that right?”
Jarod nodded, still absolutely fuming over the humiliation he had been enduring for the last thirty
minutes.
“Oh, and why don’t you pour a cold one for yourself, bartender.”
“I think I will, Tim.” The crowd went crazy. Even Tim laughed.
Al handed Tim and Jarod their drinks. Tim raised his glass to Jarod and Al. “Cheers!” They
chinked glasses and drank deeply from their cups. Jarod, still trying to get the taste of the beer
out of his mouth, downed his whole drink at once. Suddenly his face turned green.
“Al, you did grab the tomato juice and not that special salsa I was saving, didn’t you?”
“I don’t think so, Tim.”
Jarod ran across the set, knocking through one of the walls in his haste to get to a bathroom. Tim
and Al laughed and shook hands. “It’s great to have you back, Al.”
“Great to be back, Tim.”
“That’s all for now folks, but stay tuned next week for our salute,” Tim and Al’s hands both went up
in unison, “to duct tape.”
* * *
“Jarod, I’m sorry you have to leave.”
Yeah, Jarod thought, I’ll bet you are. “Well, I have to go.”
“Really, why don’t you stay for a while. You can even stay on the show and help us out.”
“Look, you guys are crazy! I’m out of here!” Jarod turned and stormed out of the studio.
Just as Jarod stormed off, Skip came around the corner. “Jarod! Jarod! Wait! Tim, we are going
to talk about this. Wait, Jarod!” He ran off after Jarod.
Al sat down in his makeup chair. “So, Tim, are you sorry to see him go? I mean, he could have
taken your show to the next level. You could have been the next Bob Vila.”
“Al, you are as much a part of this show as I am. I’m not going to take this show anywhere
without you. Besides, I just didn’t like the idea of anyone better looking than me on the show.”
Al looked at Tim and they both laughed. It was over, for now.
“Does everyone know what time it is?” The overly perky Tool-girl Heidi proudly announced the
beginning of another broadcast day at the Binford set.
“It’s TOOL TIME!” the enthusiastic crowd greeted her, and her impressive breasts, equally.
“Binford Tools is proud to present Tim ‘The Tool-man’ TAYLOR!”
The crowd erupted in applause as the jazzy theme music began to spill out over the studio
speakers. Heidi made a special point to clap high in the air, presumably to entice the crowd to
greater levels of noise. Honestly, it worked because it gave a great view of her better features.
As the applause reached its short crescendo, the host of Tool Time strode out onto the set. Tim
Taylor was, as usual, adorned in a wool blazer, a tasteful linen shirt, khaki pants and a daring tie.
He looked more like a successful car salesman than the host of a tool show. Walking two steps
behind him, as always, was his stout, bearded companion. His assistant moved with more of a
bob than a real walk. As Heidi exited the set past him, she traded his tool belt for his jacket. Tim
donned the tool belt expertly.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Tim ‘The Tool-man’ Taylor and you all know my
assistant Al ‘The Flannel Animal’ Boreland!” Despite the routine jests that Tim poked at Al, the
flannel-clad carpenter never ceased looking both amazed and hurt.
“Thank you, Tim.” His facial expressions showed that he was neither pleased, nor thankful for the
introduction.
Tim continued, oblivious to anything but the camera. “We have a great show for you today, folks.
Today, we’re going to do a Tool Time Salute,” the two hosts stepped together and raised their
hands in a mock salute, “to laundry. Heidi, please bring me my washer and dryer.”
Testosterone levels elevated across Michigan as the top rated Tool-girl on the fourth highest rated
cable tool show pushed a washing machine and a dryer across the set. The men in the audience
were strangely silent as they pondered the mysteries of Heidi’s laundry.
“Here you go, Tim.”
“Thank you, Heidi. Now, I know a lot of you are saying ‘Tim, that’s woman’s work! I don’t do
laundry.’ Well, since I agree with that, I brought a woman along to help go over this. Al?” He
motioned to his assistant as if he was this woman. The audience laughed at the obvious joke.
“I don’t think so, Tim. I’d like to introduce our favorite Mrs. Tool-man, Jill Taylor!” The audience
politely applauded, still pondering the mysteries of Heidi’s laundry.
“Thank you, Al. Tim.” Mrs. Taylor looked slightly nervous under the glare of the stage lights.
Tim moved in for the kill. “So, since you do the laundry for the Tool-man, you must have some
great tips for getting out tough grease and oil stains.”
Turning slyly to the camera, Al added, “Not to mention blood, glass, and soot.”
Besides a dirty look, Tim basically ignored Al. “So, what can you do to help all the women out
there clean up after their men.”
Jill, who had simply been watching the whole exchange, shook her head. “Well, I could get them
the phone number of a good divorce attorney.” The crowd broke into genuine laughter.
Tim gave her an exasperated look.
“Okay, okay. One of the best things for getting out grease and oils is dishwashing liquid. You can
put in about a teaspoon of dishwashing liquid into a normal sized washer and it will help break up
the grease and get it out. Heidi, please bring me the dirty clothes.”
Heidi again distracted the entire male population of Michigan by wheeling out a wheelbarrow full
of flannel shirts. “Here you go, Jill.”
“Thank you, Heidi. Now. . .”
Tim stepped out between his wife and the camera. “Thank you, honey, but I think the audience
wants a real demonstration here. Heidi, my grease gun.”
Amazingly, Heidi returned with what looked like a flame-thrower. “Here you go, Tim.”
“Thank you, Heidi.” Tim strapped the two tanks of grease on his back and pointed the nozzle at
the wheelbarrow. Jill and Al scattered as a thick stream of grease blew flannel everywhere.
“Tim!” Jill cried from her spot of heavy cover behind the tool bench. “What are you doing! You’ll
never get those clothes clean!”
“Never fear, Jill. Your normal washing machine might not get it done, but this is no ordinary
washer. It has. . .” He turned expectantly towards the audience.
“MORE POWER!” The audience finished his sentence for him.
Tim grabbed handful after handful of greasy flannel and stuffed it into the washer. His nice linen
shirt was soiled up to his armpits and the outside of the dryer looked like a piece of modern art.
He twisted a knob at the top of the dryer and a noise, not unlike a small jet engine, began to wind
up.
“Tim,” Jill was looking quite scared now, “what are you doing? Not only did you overload the
washer, but you forgot to put the soap in or anything.”
Tim turned to the camera. “A normal washing machine has about a 1-1/2 horsepower motor.
This washing machine uses a small Pratt and Whitney gas turbine generating 400 horsepower
that spins the titanium inner shell at almost 15,000 rpm. It uses no water and no soap. Just
power! UraGH GRUH GruH!” The audience inexplicably echoed Tim’s ape-like noises.
About ten seconds after coming up to speed, the machine shut off and began to wind down.
Al looked at Jill. They both exchanged a look that said, ‘Well, it stopped. That’s a start.’
As the machine powered down, Tim was running a huge chord to the back of the dryer. He
popped open the lid to the washer and even before the machine had completely stopped he was
yanking flannel out and throwing it into the dryer.
“Ah, Tim?”
“Yes, Al. Can’t you see I’m busy here?”
“If there was no water, why exactly do you need to dry the clothes?”
“A good question, Al. Actually, I’m not drying them as much as disinfecting them. The washer is
just for the visible dirt. I replaced the heating coils in the dryer with forty-eight high intensity lamps
that will bring the temperature of the clothing up to nearly 300 degrees. Then, the dryer uses
carbon dioxide to cool the clothes back to 110 degrees. That kills all the germs and destroys the
small dirt.”
Jill and Al headed back behind cover.
Tim turned the knob on top of the dryer and quickly donned dark safety glasses. At first, nothing
seemed to be happening. Then, the lights inside the studio began to dim and in its place the
dryer began to glow. At first it was only a slight glow, but within seconds the dryer was glowing
like a cartoon Arc of the Covenant. After about ten seconds, the lights in the studio came back up
to full power and the light inside the dryer began to diminish. A whooshing noise issued forth,
along with visible clouds of white smoke from the dryer. Al and Jill remained behind cover.
Tim however, strode confidently over to the dryer and opened it up, revealing a perfectly cleaned
flannel shirt. “There you have it! Clean as a whistle and all in under a minute.” The audience
applauded loudly.
Al and Jill reluctantly left cover and began to doubt their intuition. Maybe this invention of Tim’s
actually worked.
“Al, will you try the shirt on to make sure I haven’t shrunk it.”
Al vigorously shook his head. “I don’t think so, Tim.”
Jill was curious, though. “Go on, Al.”
The audience joined in the jeering.
Sheepishly shaking his head, Al reluctantly ignored his survival instincts, again. “Okay.” He
quickly pulled his shirt off, revealing a hairy chest and back.
“Al, please take your shirt off.”
He gave Tim an exasperated, embarrassed look and put on the cleaned shirt. It fit like a glove.
“Well, Tim, I have to admit. It does fit and it is clean. I don’t believe it.”
Unbeknownst to Al, a graphic flashed across the bottom of the television monitors in the studio:
“What Al doesn’t realize is that Tim put itching powder in the CO2 dispenser.”
The crowd chuckled at the message, prompting Al to look up in curiosity. His catastrophic error
was looking at the crowd, not the monitors.
“How does that feel, Al?”
“Well, Tim. It feels good.” Al abstractly scratched the small of his back. “I mean it’s clean,” he
scratched his abdomen, “and it definitely still fits perfectly. Where did you get these shirts?”
“From your closet.”
“Tim! What if something had gone wrong?” By now, Al was actively scratching his arms and as
much of his back as he could reach.
“Relax, Al. Nothing did. Say, you need a flea collar or something?”
The audience was having a hard time containing themselves. Al was scratching himself all over
and in he in visible discomfort. “Tim, what did you do to me?” His face moved quickly from
discomfort to pain.
“Nothing Al, don’t be such a baby. It’s just a little itching powder.”
“No, Tim, it hurts! It’s burning my skin! Arhhahh! AHHH!” Al collapsed in a heap scratching and
tearing his shirt back off. Where he was successful, huge red welts and scarring were visible on
his skin.
Tim quickly looked at the camera, “We’ll be right back after a message from Binford Tools.”
* * *
Three Days Later
Jarod walked onto the Binford set already trying to assume the role of an expert carpenter. He
wasn’t sure exactly what an expert carpenter did, but he figured it couldn’t be any harder than
being a microbiologist or a thoracic surgeon. Mr. Binford greeted him with a firm handshake and
a large smile. “Welcome to Binford Tools, Mr. Villa.”
“Please,” the Pretender immediately chimed in, “call me Jarod.”
“Okay Jarod. Jarod Villa? Any relation to the great Bob Vila?”
“Bob who?”
Mr. Binford broke into a hearty laughter, making Jarod suspect that he’d just made joke. He made
a mental note to find out who Bob Vila was. “You’re going to fit in around here all right! Timmy!
Come here, I have a surprise for you.”
Jarod and Mr. Binford walked back around behind the mock-up of the shop and found Tim Taylor
sitting in his make-up chair. He turned around and cast a disapproving eye at Jarod, but he
reached out his hand in greeting anyway. “Hi, my name is Tim. . .”
“Oh, I know who you are Mr. Taylor. I’m a big fan of yours. I just want you to know what an honor
it is to work with you and fill in for Al while he recovers from his injuries.” Jarod had already
watched tapes of the show. Once he got over the stomachache the laughable techniques they
were using caused him, he formed many opinions about Tim. He could read him like a book.
Tim’s face instantly lit up. “Well, it’s good to have you on board Jarod. Say, you aren’t any
relation to Bob Vila, are you?”
Mr. Binford’s laugher exploded behind them and saved Jarod any further embarrassment. “It’s
Villa with a soft ‘i.’” Jarod often used cleverly disguised last names, and in this case he had
assumed that using the Spanish word for ‘house’ that he would be subconsciously judged as
capable of doing home repair. He really needed to find out who this Bob Vila was.
Heidi’s prompt entrance ended the conversation. “Mr. Binford, so nice to see you.” Then she saw
Jarod: “Dr. Clay?”
Mr. Binford wheeled around at the sensual voice of the current Tool-girl. “Heidi!” He gave her a
hug. “No, Heidi, this is Jarod Villa. He’ll be taking Al’s place until he comes back.”
Heidi extended her hand quickly to Jarod. “Hello, Jarod. You look just like someone I met in
California. Hmm. Well, if you need anything, be sure to ask.”
Her hand lingered far to long in Jarod’s hand for Tim’s taste. “Down, Heidi, down! Don’t you have
something to set up for the show?”
“No.”
Tim grabbed her by the shoulders and ushered her past Jarod and out to the set. “Find
something.”
Tim returned after a minute. “So, what do you want the wardrobe people to get ready for you to
wear on the show?”
“I hadn’t really thought about that,” Jarod replied. “I guess I’ll just wear what I have on.” Jarod
was dressed in his usual black jeans, black T-shirt, black leather jacket and black boots. His
black wrap-a-round sunglasses were in his jacket pocket.
Tim merely shook his head. “What ever you want.” He rolled his eyes at Mr. Binford as if to plead
for someone else.
“Jarod, will you excuse us for a minute?” Jarod knew that when Mr. Binford asked to be alone
with Tim, it was never to discuss recipes.
“Sure.” Jarod walked out to the front of the set hoping to catch up with Heidi.
“What is your problem, Timmy? We haven’t exactly had the doors broken down with people
wanting to fill in for Al. Besides, Jarod’s perfect.”
“All black? Someone needs to tell him the funeral’s over.”
“Timmy, look: without Al, the show is suffering in the ratings. You need an assistant, and with
your record. . .”
“My record! How was I supposed to know that the itching powder contained micro-organisms that
when heated to 300 degrees in an oxygen free environment would turn into the Flesh Eating
Virus?”
“It’s not just that Tim. It’s everything. Some of the other folks around here sympathize. They say
we should cancel the show to prevent you from killing yourself or more importantly someone
else.”
“Okay, I made a mistake. Do we have to use him?”
“Yes, Timmy. My decision has been made.”
Tim resigned himself to defeat and Mr. Binford saw that he understood. Mr. Binford walked off the
set and left Tim to welcome Jarod.
Tim walked out onto the set just in time to see Heidi giving Jarod her phone number. “Heidi?”
Tim tried to take on his best fatherly tone to voice his disapproval. She simply glanced over at
him and walked back around the set to get ready for the studio audience. Tim couldn’t help notice
the exaggerated hip sway she put on for Jarod’s benefit.
“Alright, Tim. Should we get started? I haven’t seen a script for today’s show. Where can I get
one.”
“Well, Jarod,” Tim’s voice and facial expressions took on a condescending look, “around here, we
just go with the flow.”
“So there’s no script?”
“Scripts, we don’ need no stinkin’ scripts.” Neither his fake Spanish accent nor this phrase
caused any reaction out of Jarod. Tim, however, was practically doubled over with laughter. “Get
it?”
“No. Was that a joke?”
Tim straightened and shook his head. “Great, another one of the humor impaired.”
* * *
“So, next week we’ll be out at the project house, doing our salute,” Jarod fortunately recognized
this cue and stepped in behind Tim for the traditional salute, “to roofs.” Suddenly, the sound of
dogs barking issued forth from the speakers in the studio. The audience, like they had been for
the last hour, was laughing at the eclectic, yet predictable humor. This time, Jarod joined them.
“Good bye!”
The producer snapped his board and yelled, “We’re out!” to indicate that the show was over.
Jarod went to the back to wash the remnants of hot glue from both of his arms and the better half
of his face.
Tim quickly came up behind him. “Sorry about the Binford 2100 Glue gun. I figured it could
handle another 500 psi of boost air.”
Jarod just glared at him. “It’s made out of 6 gauge aluminum.”
“So?”
Jarod continued walking. Heidi was quick on the scene with a turpentine-covered cloth. As she
quickly started rubbing Jarod’s arms with the cloth, Tim could see that Jarod would work out
nicely on the show: he was already grinning from ear to ear.
“Listen, Jarod, why don’t we go grab a beer after work.”
“Ah, well, I don’t know. . .”
“Heidi, you want to come too?”
“Sure!” Heidi agreed much too quickly for Tim’s liking. Of course, once Jarod had removed his
heavy leather jacket, Tim had seen quickly that unlike Al’s body by braughtworst, Jarod had a
body by Schwartzenegger. Heidi was in lust. That much he was sure of.
“Jarod?”
“Okay.”
* * *
Tim carried the tray of beer back over to the pool table where Jarod was running his third
consecutive table. Tim hated showoffs, especially ones that played stupid. Two hours ago, when
Tim was kicking Jarod all around the pool table, Jarod claimed he'd never played pool before.
Now, he was unstoppable.
“Okay, three brewski’s.”
Jarod looked up just as his English shot spun around the eight, knocked in the two and left a
perfect eight-ball shot on the back corner pocket. “I was drinking a Virgin Mary.”
“I know, Boy Scout, but they’re all out of tomato juice. You get to drink beer.”
Jarod walked around the table, sank the eight ball and continued to the table where Tim was
sitting with the beers. Tim and Heidi both had started on their beers. Jarod picked up the beer
and began to examine it. He brought the glass up to his nose, smelled the head and then he took
a tentative sip.
“What is wrong with you? Haven’t you ever had a beer before?”
“Actually, no.”
Tim and Heidi both laughed. Heidi, though, laughed a little too loud and she almost brought her
last sip back up. Great, Tim thought. She’s drunk.
Convinced that it wouldn’t kill him, Jarod took a larger gulp. “Hey, this is good!” He tipped his
glass and poured the rest of his beer down his throat.
Heidi’s eyes went wide. Tim just laughed.
Jarod motioned to the waitress to bring him another.
* * *
Four beers later
“Okay, big guy, that’s about enough for you.” Tim waved off the waitress who was heading back
to the table with Jarod’s next round.
Jarod’s voice was slurred. “But I like that. I wannanudder.”
Tim had convinced Heidi to leave a few minutes earlier by convincing her that Jarod was going to
be no good to anybody tonight. He was right. “Listen, Jarod. We’ve got to go.” Tim grabbed
Jarod by the arms and hoisted him up. “Let’s go!”
* * *
“Hi honey, I’m home!” Tim loudly announced his presence then under his breath he added to the
barely standing Jarod, “Just act calm and let me handle this.”
“Tim?”
“Yes, Jill. Where are you?”
In response, she came around from the kitchen area and started up the landing to where her
husband was coming in four hours later than usual. “Where have you been and who was that on
your – oh! You didn’t tell me we’d be having company.” Jill began to frantically adjust her hair and
clothing despite the late hour. She never liked the way Tim just brought people home
unannounced, but when they as good looking as this one was, she didn’t mind so much. She
couldn’t help but feel very self-conscious, though. She didn’t think it was possible, but this Jarod
guy was better looking in person than he was on TV.
“Jill, this is Jarod Villa. Jarod, this is my wife Jill.”
Jarod straightened and extended his hand to Mrs. Taylor. Tim marveled his recovery. Either he
had one hell of a metabolism or he was faking it earlier. Either way, Tim was impressed. “Nice to
meet you, Mrs. Taylor. And please, just call me Jarod.”
“Okay, Jarod, but please, call me Jill. Tim, can I talk to you for a minute?”
Jarod, who noticed that everyone wanted to talk to Tim alone, headed into the kitchen area and
straight for the refrigerator. Just as he hoped, Tim had more of this beer stuff in the refrigerator.
“Tim! What are you doing bringing him here? Why didn’t you call?”
“Look, Jill. He’s staying at the Starlite Hotel until he can find a place. . .”
“That little sleazy place on the hill?”
“Yes,” Tim’s exasperated expression and tone of voice was a well-practiced act. He was the
master of manipulation when it came to his wife. At least, that’s what she let him believe. “I
couldn’t have a vital member of Tool Time staying in such a dump. I figured that he could stay
here for a couple of days, at least until he got on his feet.”
“Where?”
“I figure he can stay in the garage. It’s not cold this time of year and I can set up the old cot in the
attic for him.”
“Just for a couple of days?”
“I promise.”
* * *
Two Weeks Later
Tim came down to find the sink full of dirty bowls. Four of the bowls had the remnants of ice
cream – it looked like it was a Rocky Road night last night – a couple more bowls had the remains
of Corn Flakes. That normally signified that Jarod had downed a few bowls of Corn Flakes and
beer. The rest of the bowls probably belonged to the boys since they recently decided that if
Jarod didn’t have to do dishes, then neither did they.
“Maaaark! BRAD! RANDY! Front and center!”
The three boys came screaming in from the four corners of the house. They formed a neat
inspection line in front of their father and wondered which of their misadventures he had
discovered.
“What is wrong with the sink?”
“Why, did you work on it again?” Randy, the wise-cracker of the group chimed in with his usual
barb.
“No, but I’ll work on you if you don’t watch it! Why is it full of dishes? Clean that up before your
mother gets down.”
“But Dad, most of them are Jarod’s.” Brad was the whiner.
“I don’t care whose they are. Clean them all up, NOW!”
The boys scrambled around the counter and began to attack the pile of dirty dishes with their
usual enthusiasm.
Tim strode out to the backyard to get some air. He would really hear it from Jill today. She was
fed up with Jarod, but Tim sort of liked him. As he strode out into the fresh air, his sense of smell
was suddenly assaulted by the most repulsive odor he could imagine. “Wilson! Is that you over
there?”
A gas-mask-clad face suddenly appeared over the fence. “Hi-de-ho, neighbor!”
“Shouldn’t you be lighting a match or something over there? Pheeewww!”
“Oh no, no, no Tim. I’m merely extracting the scent sac from my new pet skunk.”
“Jill’s going to extract my sac if I don’t do something about Jarod.”
“Trouble, Tim?”
“It’s our new guy on Tool Time. It’s not that he’s a bad guy, but he’s really weird. He’s got every
spare blanket in the house strung around the garage like it’s some pre-school kid’s fort and he
never washes anything. He’s eating us out of house and home and I think he’s up to drinking a
case of beer a day. I mean, he’s always awake and when he’s not typing away on his computer
or making me look bad on Tool Time he’s working out or doing something else strange.”
“How does Jill feel about it?”
“She likes him, but she wants our life back to normal. He’s just too, too strange!”
“Is he getting along with the boys?”
“Oh, sure, he’s a regular dad of the year to them. They’re out playing catch until after dark and
then he helps them with their homework. You should see the gene-splicing kit he set up for
Mark’s Science Fair: something about splicing the DNA of an elephant and a pig. They love him.”
“Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh. Tim, it sounds just like the Roman Emperor Hedonis.”
“He done what?”
“No, no, no Tim. Hedonis was one of the last great Roman Emperors. His court became so
luxurious and so enthralled in the physical pleasures. . .”
“Ohrrah yeah yuh, physical pleasures.”
“of being the ruling empire that they became weak and were overtaken by barbarians. It sounds
like you and Jill are worried about being overrun by Jarod’s primitive and barbaric behavior, when
in truth he is simply exemplifying the Jungian perfect youth.”
“So what you’re saying is that he’s dangerous and I should kick him out?”
“No, Tim. What I’m saying is that Jarod is no barbarian. Whether or not you need him to leave is
your own decision.”
“Thanks, Wilson. Say, have you met Jarod?”
“Oh yes, in fact, he’s over here right now.”
A second gas-mask-clad face rose above the fence. This one belonged to Jarod.
* * *
Tim walked back into the house wondering if he could ever regain some of his dignity.
“Tim!”
He involuntarily jumped at the sound of his wife’s traditional greeting. He was in trouble again.
“In here.”
“Tim, I thought you said he’d be out of here in a couple of days. It’s been two weeks and last
night he ate that pie I baked for the luncheon today. You’ve got to do something.”
“Look honey, I understand what’s wrong now.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, it’s just like that Roman Emperor -- Headlight. We are afraid that we’re being overrun by
the young but really, we’re just barbarians.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know, we’re too wrapped up in our physical pleasures to see the problem.”
“No Tim, I see the problem. You need to get that problem out of my house.”
“Okay.”
* * *
“Welcome back to Tool Time on location.” Tim looked directly at the camera. He was standing on
the front porch of the project house. “Now it’s time to check on how the back deck is coming.
Let’s go!”
Tim turned and walked back through the entryway, down the main hallway, out through French
doors, and onto the huge pine deck. As he walked outside, Jarod crossed in front of him carrying
two twelve foot two-by-sixes on his shoulder. As was the custom in these warmer days of spring,
Jarod wasn’t wearing a shirt.
The entire female population of Michigan, Wisconsin, Ohio and Indiana (where the reception
faded in and out) moved closer to their television sets.
“As you can see, Jarod is laying the last row of two-by-six supports for our lower landing.”
Jarod set the two-by-sixes down smoothly and the from the camera’s position right behind him,
Tool Time took on a whole new meaning. Jarod turned to face the camera and it was readily
apparent that he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. Just off camera, Heidi steadied herself
against a deck railing.
“Yes, Tim. You use the two-by-sixes for the main supports. They connect to the concrete
foundation blocks using brackets like this.” Jarod bent over and picked up one two-by-six and set
it in the bracket on the concrete block.
Tool Time normally received four letters a day. Now, they were receiving thousands. Over ninety
percent of the letters vehemently chastised the show for panning in to do a close-up of the actual
fit-up. Apparently, the viewers of Tool Time were much more interested in the ‘big picture’ and
most importantly, the body position that a person would safely use to make such a fitting. Never
one to disappoint the fans, Marv, the cameraman, stayed in a wide pan that showed Jarod’s
impressive back and right arm straining to place the beam properly. He thought briefly about
panning in on the bead of sweat running down his arm, but thought better. They still had some
men watching after all.
“Once you get a snug fit,” Jarod continued, glancing back at the camera, “then you can nail the
beam in place and start running the two-by-four deck boards.”
“That sure looks like a snug fit.” Tim bantered.
Unfortunately, Jarod missed the reference to the fit of his jeans. “It is, Tim. That’s the way you’re
supposed to do it.”
“I’ll bet it is.”
* * *
The large shape under the starched white hospital sheet was only recognizable from the neck up.
Al Boreland was a shadow of his former self: he’d lost nearly fifty pounds and what was left of his
skin was a mass of scar tissue and ointment. When Tim begrudgingly walked into the room, he
felt an incredible pity for his partner.
“Tim!” Al’s face lit up like Christmas morning. Ilene, who had been dozing in the chair next to Al
looked up and smiled.
“Hey, Al. How’s it going.”
“I’m doing better, Tim. I should be out in another week. I’m sorry I let the show down.”
“Jeez, Al! It’s not your fault. I should be the one apologizing to you. Look, buddy, I am really
sorry about what happened.”
“It’s okay, Tim. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”
“Yeah, and if I did try to hurt you, I probably would have helped, huh?”
Al didn’t seem to get the poor, self-depreciating humor.
Skip, the producer of Tool Time, broke into the hospital room with a bang. Instantly, the somber
mood of the room was broken. “Tim, Al, I have some great news!”
“Skip, try and keep it down, this is a hospital.”
“Okay, Tim, but wait until you hear this: you just broke the top five.”
“Oh, whoopee-do Skip. We’ve been the fourth highest rated cable show in Michigan for months
now.”
“No Tim, I mean the TOP FIVE.”
“Not THE top five.”
“Yes, Tim! You got a nine point three rating for this week’s show. Corrected for your broadcast
area, you got an eighty share.”
Tim and Al both cried out in unison, “AN EIGHTY SHARE?”
“YES! CBS and NBC are both coming down next week to talk to us. We can’t keep Binford tools
on the shelf!”
Al was beaming. “What show did you re-run this week Tim?”
“Re-run?”
“Skip. . .” Tim could already see exactly where this was heading. He had meant to tell Al about
Jarod, but he just hadn’t had the opportunity. Al’s assumption that they had just been doing re-
runs was understandable, but wrong.
“Tim? Aren’t we showing re-runs?”
“Al. . .”
“You mean he doesn’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Skip, Al, I can explain this. . .”
“Explain what, Tim.”
“Yeah, Tim, I gotta hear you explain this to Al. I can’t believe you didn’t tell him.”
“Tell me what?”
“Al, we hired a temporary replacement to fill in for you.”
“A WHAT!”
“Temporary, Al! A temporary replacement for you, just until you get better. We had to finish out
the season.”
“Who is it?”
“His name is Jarod Villa.”
“That’s funny Al, isn’t your doctor named Jarod also?” Ilene broke her long silence but typically,
no one paid any attention to her.
“Look Al, no one is replacing you on the show. When you get better, you can come back. I
promise.”
“Ah, Tim, can I speak to you outside please.”
Al knew that this wasn’t good. The two men walked out side of the room. Dr. Jarod turned the
corner, saw Tim and Skip coming out of the room and ducked into an open room where a woman
was delivering.
“Tim, you don’t seem to understand. Jarod is the reason for these ratings. We have a 100 share
with women from 5 to 105. If he takes his shirt off, we sell tools. That’s the fact. We won’t shoot
another Tool Time indoors until we absolutely have to.”
“That’s ridiculous! Tool Time isn’t a show about beefcake. I mean, just because we have Heidi
we never had an eighty share. The show is finally taking off. This is just a fluke.”
“It’s no fluke, Tim. Today we have four thousand fan letters for Jarod. That’s more than you and
Al get for an entire year! That’s one day for Jarod. Face it, Tim. Jarod sells. Al can come back
and assist, but Jarod stays.”
* * *
Jarod and Tim saluted the camera in unison to signal the ending of another show of Tool Time.
Tim couldn’t help notice the large crowd gathered around the project house. Jarod was wearing a
flannel shirt, but if it had any buttons he chose not to use them. The shirt was open to his waist
and every muscle on his body gleamed bright in the afternoon sun. It made Tim sick to look at
him.
As he watched Jarod’s clothes come off, he had to admit that he’d seen his ratings go through the
roof. Next week Skip would have Jarod in a thong if he could. What the hell kind of tool show
was this anyway? Tim had a plan to set things right again, though. Now it was time to implement
it.
“Jarod, we need to talk about our next special feature.”
“Okay, what do you want to do? I was thinking about a tribute to CAD based structural design for
environmentally safe buildings.”
Tim put his finger to his chin in a mock look of thought, “Hmm, ah, hmm, well? Yup, this still is my
show. No, that’s boring. I was thinking about doing another of our Man’s Place projects – you
know, like the Man’s Bathroom, the Man’s Gymnasium, the Man’s Kitchen.”
“Okay.” Having never seen any of these, Jarod was still quite confused.
“I was thinking about the Man’s Game Room.”
“I love games!”
“That’s what I was counting on.”
* * *
“For those of you regular viewers of Tool Time, you may have noticed that we haven’t had any
special projects in the last few weeks.”
“That’s right, Tim. That’s why we’ve specially prepared one for you this week. Ladies and
Gentlemen, let’s take a walk, shall we, into the Binford 6100 Man’s Game Room!”
The two of them walked into the posh room. Four video games and two pinball machines stood
across from the entrance, there was a wet bar on the back wall a leather sectional sofa facing a
big-screen television along the wall closest to the door. Right in the center of the room was a
regulation pool table. The crowd went crazy.
“So, Jarod, we’re coming home from a tough day at the job site and all you want to do is relax.”
Jarod catapulted over the sectional and landed in a reclined position. “Yes, Tim. But I can’t find
the remote.”
“Not a problem there.” Tim walked around the sectional and pulled up one of the end arms
revealing a full function remote permanently fixed to the couch. “Just use the built-in one.”
“But what if I want a beer?”
“Simple again, my friend.” Tim reached over to the low coffee table in front of the sectional and
lifted the lid revealing a refrigerated compartment full of beer. “Go ahead, have one!”
“Don’t mind if I do, Tim.” Jarod cracked open a beer and drank half of it. His face instantly turned
to a sour expression and the beer promptly exited his body at twice the speed it entered.
“PHEeeeWW! That tasted horrible!”
“Oh, guess I should have checked the expiration date on that stuff.”
Jarod frantically wiped at his mouth as Tim handed him a throw pillow. “Don’t worry, Jarod,
everything in the Man’s Game Room was scotch guarded.” Jarod wiped his mouth on the pillow
and got a mouth full of scotch guard. “Five minutes ago.” Jarod began to spit and claw at his
mouth frantically.
“So, Jarod. You ever play video games?”
Jarod finally regained some of his composure. “Sure, Tim. I designed a few in my day. You
might say that I’m somewhat of an expert on them.”
“Oh really, I’ll bet I can beat you.”
“I don’t think so, Tim.”
Tim marched over to the Centipede machine and quickly killed the first centipede. The second
one killed him in no time. “Well, now it’s your turn.”
Jarod stepped up to the machine and to his credit, he almost killed the first centipede. The fact
that Tim had put the machine on Ultra-death Mode after his game and he had reversed all the
controls didn’t help either. Still, just before Jarod killed the first centipede and equaled Tim’s
score, the descending electronic tone told the studio audience that Tim had won.
“Man, that’s hard!”
“Only if you’re an ‘expert.’” The studio audience was laughing so hard that they were in tears.
Jarod was growing increasingly angry.
“How about a game of pool for double or nothing, Jarod.”
Jarod glared at Tim but he was powerless to resist. “Sure.”
Tim set the balls on the table as Jarod selected a pool stick. “In the Man’s Game Room, you
never have to rack your own table.” He reached down and hit a button on the top of the pool table
causing the eighteen balls on the table to instantly form a perfect triangle in the perfect place.
The crowd applauded appreciatively.
Even Jarod was impressed. “Magnets?”
“No, magic. Of course it’s magnets. Now are you going to break or not?”
Jarod pulled back to break and suddenly all the balls spread out over the table. Tim flashed a
small remote control to the camera and the audience. He had the remote palmed in his hand.
The cue ball had never moved. Jarod looked up in amazement. Tim hit another button and all
the balls formed back up.
Jarod again set to make the break and just as he reared back, the balls spread. Again, he looked
up and the balls formed back up.
After two more rounds of set-break, look-form Tim finally started laughing and placed the remote
on the table. Jarod broke the rack very poorly.
“Ooh, tough break, Jarod. Stand aside and let me show you how it’s done.” Tim made a big
production over waltzing around to the cue ball. He then hit the number two ball at a strange
angle and it shot like a rocket into the back pocket.
“That’s impossible!” Jarod was aghast.
“Not for an ‘expert.’” Tim continued his ballet around the table. Each shot he made was more
outrageous than the first. The four bounced off the eleven, but the eleven didn’t move an inch.
The one ball went halfway down the table, turned ninety degrees and then went into the side
pocket. The seven made a round tour of every pocket before it settled on the back corner.
Somehow, Tim missed the eight ball by inches.
Jarod stepped back up to the table with a very runable layout. He pulled back for his first shot
and the cue ball stopped dead one inch in front of the ball he was trying to hit. The crowd went
crazy.
“Jarod, you have to put a little muscle into it.” Tim did a rather pathetic looking full muscular pose
for the camera. “Try that again.”
Jarod pulled back, this time with some real power and knocked the cue ball across the room. The
crowd was falling out of their seats.
“Is that a scratch?” Tim walked over to the table and made a production out of examining the
gash Jarod had just put in it. “Yup, that’s a scratch all right.”
Tim went across the room and picked up the cue. He set it down and perfectly drilled the eight
ball into the back pocket. Jarod was fuming.
“Okay, Jarod. One last thing about the Man’s Game Room is that you can buy me a drink and no
one has to know you lost – except the millions of people watching out there in TV-land.”
They walked back to the wet bar and instead of going behind the bar to make a drink, Tim began
to wildly pound on the counter. “Hey! Can we get some service here!” He turned to Jarod and
added. “You know, it’s so hard to get good help these days. You know what I mean?”
Just then Al walked out from behind a curtain behind the bar. The crowd went crazy, whistling
and cheering for Al. He stepped up to the counter, picked up a mixing glass and a towel. He had
gained most of his weight back and the flannel shirt he was wearing covered all of the scar tissue.
He looked perfect. “What can I get you folks?”
Tim again put his hand to his chin in a mocking thought. “Let’s see. I’ll take a beer and my friend
here will take a Virgin Mary. Is that right?”
Jarod nodded, still absolutely fuming over the humiliation he had been enduring for the last thirty
minutes.
“Oh, and why don’t you pour a cold one for yourself, bartender.”
“I think I will, Tim.” The crowd went crazy. Even Tim laughed.
Al handed Tim and Jarod their drinks. Tim raised his glass to Jarod and Al. “Cheers!” They
chinked glasses and drank deeply from their cups. Jarod, still trying to get the taste of the beer
out of his mouth, downed his whole drink at once. Suddenly his face turned green.
“Al, you did grab the tomato juice and not that special salsa I was saving, didn’t you?”
“I don’t think so, Tim.”
Jarod ran across the set, knocking through one of the walls in his haste to get to a bathroom. Tim
and Al laughed and shook hands. “It’s great to have you back, Al.”
“Great to be back, Tim.”
“That’s all for now folks, but stay tuned next week for our salute,” Tim and Al’s hands both went up
in unison, “to duct tape.”
* * *
“Jarod, I’m sorry you have to leave.”
Yeah, Jarod thought, I’ll bet you are. “Well, I have to go.”
“Really, why don’t you stay for a while. You can even stay on the show and help us out.”
“Look, you guys are crazy! I’m out of here!” Jarod turned and stormed out of the studio.
Just as Jarod stormed off, Skip came around the corner. “Jarod! Jarod! Wait! Tim, we are going
to talk about this. Wait, Jarod!” He ran off after Jarod.
Al sat down in his makeup chair. “So, Tim, are you sorry to see him go? I mean, he could have
taken your show to the next level. You could have been the next Bob Vila.”
“Al, you are as much a part of this show as I am. I’m not going to take this show anywhere
without you. Besides, I just didn’t like the idea of anyone better looking than me on the show.”
Al looked at Tim and they both laughed. It was over, for now.
