THE SCOT
For those who missed Tale #1, there’s a charming, loyal, witty but frugal 6 foot, 4 ½ inch Scot living in the basement. He calls it his man cave.
Awhile back I was up in my light and airy cave banging away on the computer tracking down pirated copies of my books when The Scot came in and placed a lovely green apple martini on my desk. Grinning, he said, “I heard you cursing up here and thought you could use this right about now.” How lovely was that?!
At dinner he says, “I have to tell you something but first you have to promise not to get mad.”
Hmm. First he brings me a martini and now he has something to tell me? Knowing he’ll remain mute until I promise, I lie. “I promise.”
“You know your broken vacuum cleaner?”
He’s referring to the supposedly indestructible, half-ton Rikar I paid a small fortune for 5 years ago, which could once suck paint off walls, but was now held together with duct tape and refused to even turn on.
“Yes, what about it?” I’m worried he’s done me a favor and brought the monster to the repair shop again. Not good, since I quietly gave myself a new Dyson for Christmas, (Woot!) my 20th such device in our marriage, but my perchance for destroying vacuum cleaners is another story…
“Well,” he says, “I saw that old guy sitting outside his apartment tinkering again and thought he might be able to fix it.”
Oh crap. Now you have to understand…the Scot is an accountant. He’s hell on wheel when it comes to numbers but will break a light bulb off in the socket if he tries to change it. Subsequently, he’s fascinated by men who work with their hands, be they woodworkers, plumbers, mechanics…or in this case, a tinker. And the Scot is nothing if not frugal.
Fearing the worst, I wait. He says, “So I walked the vacuum over to him and told him he can have it.” He gives me a narrow-eyed look across the table. “I saw the bill for the Dyson.”
Oops! Did I mention I have a perchance for breaking vacuum cleaners?
“Anyway,” he continues as I turn scarlet, “I told him the Rikar’s a solid, expensive machine but has a broken switch, thinking he could fix it and make some money off it.”
Ah, reprieve! “Aww, how sweet of you. It’s worth a good few dollars…if he can get it working again.” The old man was forever under the hood of a battered pickup held together with wire and duct tape.
The Scot nodded. “Precisely what I was thinking after I learned how much the salesman said he’d give you as a trade-in toward a new Rikar.” (Which we both now knew was never going to happen in this lifetime.) “Anyway,” he continues, “an hour later I happen to drive by the old guy’s place and he had the vacuum in parts all over the yard.”
“So? He was fixing it.”
“No, he was reducing it to its smallest parts…to sell as scrap. That’s apparently what he does. He didn’t understand its intrinsic value. That if he’d fixed the switch---or whatever--he could have sold it for hundreds. All he saw when I gave it to him was the value of its steel and copper wire.” Scott shook his head and sighed. “Now he’ll only make a couple of dollars from it…and I’ve learned some people only know what they know. That some don’t see potential…can’t see beyond their experience.”
“I’m sorry, honey.”
Looking sad, he muttered, “Me, too.”
The Scot…one in a million.
HER CAVE:
To celebrate the June 5th print release of my 1285 Scotland-set historical, The King’s Mistress, I held a special contest and gave away EIGHT really great prizes. For this month's contest details and prize click on http://www.sandyblair.net/contest.shtm
I hope you enjoy my new Highlander tale based on actual events.
So do any of you tend to break stuff?
