The next morning I parked my Oldsmobile Omega in the employee lot outside of the bulk plant. I readied myself for the morning routine just inside the main entrance of the building. Already gathered on benches in the alcove of the building were the workers. All drank coffee and nearly all smoked cigarettes. Fuel truck drivers, sheet metal workers, pipe fitters, dispatchers, HVAC specialists, and other journeymen. This ritual gathering of coffee and smokes and mocking your co-workers seemed to get everyone geared-up to tackle the day. I, as the newcomer, was particularly vulnerable to the attacks. I swung the door open and headed for the time clock to punch in for the day.

"How's the college boy today?" one of the truckers asked. The truckers held post on one exclusive bench. They seemed to be the masters of derision.

"I'm doing pretty good today fellas."

I pulled my card out and pushed it into the clock. It punched it at 7:33. Late again. But that didn't seem to matter much. The boss was sitting on an elevated platform in the dispatch area. He cared not that his employees were late, he just wanted to see this daily battle of words.

"Late!" the truckers continued. They had yet to hook me. "Up too late drinking last night with all your college pals?"

Whether or not I was out late last night didn't matter to them. What they wanted was an attack. The mockery would continue until I let them have it.

"Listen boys, I'd really like to waste the whole day chatting with you. But you have a big day ahead of you. You still need to learn how to drive before you get into your rigs."

Evidently that was good enough. The place howled as though I had just sent the sword home. The crowd was sipping coffee and dragging from their cigarettes, shaking their heads. Before the laughter died down a guy stepped towards me, smiling with arm outstretched.

"Hello Peter, I'm Bob. You can just call me Whitewash."

We shook hands. There was Whitewash before me. Prepared for the day in his uniform of jeans rolled-up about two inches above his boots and held around his waist by means of the doubly-protective belt and suspenders. He kept his unfiltered smokes in his faded, blue pocket t-shirt.

I followed him out of the plant to his truck.

"We have to start painting the boss's horse stables out at the farm. So first thing we have to do today is pick up the paint."

He got in the truck and somehow I managed to squeeze into a spot in the passenger area. It was crammed full of junk and trash. Eventually, over the next couple days, I cleared a spot for myself by pitching things in the trash or secretly tossing things into the back of the truck.

We sped off as unlikely companions to the paint store. I walked behind Whitewash through these foreign aisles of latex, alkyd, strippers, varnishes, brushes, and solvents. He told the salesman what color paint he needed who in turn asked Bob if he needed anything else. It was then that Whitewash started looking around, glassy-eyed. He mumbled something about new brushes and walked off. I followed him. On a wall before us hung a couple hundred paint brushes.

"If we are going to do this job right, we need some good brushes."

It was then that I received my first lesson on the quality of brushes. He pointed to various brands and makes, telling me the strengths and weaknesses of each one.

"Now since we're using latex you have to use this type of bristle. And always buy REAL bristle. If you don't, you'll be sorry. It'll cause the job to streak too much. The bigger the job, the bigger the brush. That's pretty basic. And always buy a trim brush with angled bristle. One day, if you get good enough, you won't have to use tape when you're doing windows or other trim."

Whitewash handed me a bunch of brushes. The way he talked about my becoming good enough' made me suddenly think about my future. Though I had recently graduated from college, I found my self painting barns. Whitewash seemed to think I could make a career of it, but I wasn't so sure. Something else had to happen. I carried the brushes up to the counter and the salesman rang them through. He wrote up a company invoice and Bob signed it.

I learned something about Whitewash when we went to load everything in the truck. Seemed he had a weakness for brushes because he took all those new brushes and put them into a box that held a bunch of brushes that were in perfectly good shape. Every time the salesmen asked "Do you need anything else" he was powerless to say no. After all, it was a company invoice.

Whitewash was a beautiful soul. Kind. He showed me all the twists in painting that he knew and he knew alot. But painting really isn't that hard and before too long I think I was better than him. That still didn't end his endless stories of his days at some big unidentified company as a painting troubleshooter'. I was awed of his past endeavors as he talked my ear off when we broke for lunch. I pulled out sandwiches and a jug of kool-aid. Bob always had cold, but previously cooked hot dogs. He claimed they were the perfect lunch. I think all those preservatives were getting to him. Because after the stories of painting glory days came the even more unbelievable tales of Vietnam. Now I didn't know Whitewash from any other stranger in the street, so how was I to know what was true? But he went on and on about being a Green Beret special force agent in the Marines. He worked through some of the most intricate stories of horror and heroism that I had ever heard. Especially unbelievable was the time he was walking through the jungle and stumbled into a booby trap. After tripping a wire with his leg, a sharpened bamboo shaft sailed right through him. I was amazed and instinctively asked to see the scar. That was when he informed me that the shaft was so sharp, and it passed through him so quickly, that it didn't leave a scar. I took a couple of swigs from my kool-aid jug and looked at him doubtfully. The stories were great for enhancing the passing of time, but someone told me later that Whitewash never went to war.