Five Stars for IKEA Joe!

By Carl Governale

Believe me when I tell you, I never hire off craigslist, but I took a chance on IKEA Joe and cannot oversell how helpful he was. I not only recommend his services, but I must add that my time spent with this handyman was a life-changing experience!

Now I will say that he was late and, like a total boomer, he knocked on my door when he arrived. The first thing I noticed was his beard which was voluminous — think Chris Stapleton with flowing ringlets of black, grey, and sun-bleached blonde — and smelled like Herbal Essence. Truly something to behold.

Next was his attire: He wore a chamois poncho that was so threadbare that I would’ve sworn it was designer, but his knockoff Birkenstocks hinted otherwise. 

His face and hands were brown, but brown in a racially ambiguous way, like maybe he's Persian? Then again, he could also just be a bronzed surfer bum. But probably Mexican. I figured Mexican, so I started by saying: Hi IKEA Joe, welcome to my casa and come on in. Do you prefer English o Español? Podemos hablar Español sí quieras—

English works, he replied. And then he stepped inside and looked around. Like a heatseeking missile he zeroed in on the pressboard mess on my floor. So am I here to build a Billy Bookcase?

Yes, I replied, you’ve done one before?

I used to be a carpenter, he said. But things happen. It is what it is. A side-hustle becomes your main gig… Reckon I’ve probably put a thousand Billy Bookcases together. 

Which was exactly what I wanted to hear! When people warned me about how IKEA’s instruction manuals are devoid of words, I thought that meant that the assembly would be easy. Then I saw the goofy-ass pictograms that belong in the Highlights Magazines at my kid’s dentist and my supposition was reinforced: this must be so elementary that it doesn’t even need words. Then four hours trying to make heads or tails of anything and failed miserably. Hence my call to IKEA Joe. 

Anyway, with my hands on my hips I watched IKEA Joe pad around the room with an old ass tool bag swinging in his hand. He circled my mess in assessment before looking back up at me to ask, Where’s the Allen key?

Sorry, I don’t speak Swedish.

To which he nodded and said, No worries, I have an extra. IKEA Joe then plopped down crosslegged and placed the tool bag  in his lap. From the little bag — which was smaller than my wife’s Gucci clutch — he withdrew three tools: A dented wooden mallet, a screwdriver that appeared to be hewn from bone, and an L-shaped hüsker dü which — I later googled — was an Allen key.

That’s not a whole lot of tools, I said.

Sometimes less is more, he assured me.

Right, I said. And then — to give voice to my anxiety before it overtook me — I asked: Do you mind if I sit down and help you? I get so uncomfortable when other men are laboring in my house. Makes me feel like a complete shlep.  Plus, I’d really like it if we could get this thing assembled before my wife gets back with the kids. I’d really like to spin this as something I did myself. Like a win, you know? So… is it okay if I sit down with you and help?

Knock yourself out. 

And that’s how we got started building the Billy Bookcase together. 

If I’m being honest, IKEA Joe did most of the screwing and assembly, I just handed him things and held boards upright while he married the joints. Other than the occasional direction, the endeavor was ghostly silent which some people might like, but all that quiet made me uncomfortable.

Don’t ask me why, but after what seemed like two thousand years of solitude and self-loathing, I blurted out: I’m ashamed by how easy you’re  making this look, Joe. Like, what kind of Dad am I that I couldn’t just put this together? I’m not the father my kids deserve which disappoints my wife and I have no idea how to get better at any of this shit. Maybe I wasn’t ready for kids, you know?

Tilting his head around the bookcase, IKEA Joe scowled at me. His dark brow was  bushy with blonde piping which illuminated his already startling expressiveness: Nobody ever is.

And that floored me. Just that aperitif of wisdom was enough to splash technicolor across my rainbow. But the reply also got me thinking. Who was this guy building a bookcase in my foyer? So, I asked: How many kids you got, Joe?

One good one. And if you knew how not ready I was when that miracle was born…. shoot! The kid was born in a pigpen.

Oh yeah? I wasn’t sure how to respond. Was that an exaggeration? Or a confession? Either way, I could tell that IKEA Joe was opening up to me, so I did too. I said, I just feel like everyday I fail, Joe. Every single day that I’m alive is just another opportunity for me to fail at Fatherhood. If I pack the lunch, I forget which kid prefers goldfish. If I thaw the meatballs, I burn the sauce. If we play outside, they stain their clothes. So I do the laundry, and the shit shrinks. Then I help the oldest with his homework, and the little parrot repeats fractions are fucking worthless the next day in class! Like, how do I managed to fuck a job up that SO many people in the world — even the most uneducated people or whatever — seem to get right without even trying!? Everyday. I fuck fatherhood up every goddamn day…

Despite all my yammering, IKEA Joe made quick work of the Billy Bookcase and, at this point in the conversation, he was already lining up the little silver things to get the shelves level. 

He tapped each one in with that wooden mallet as he said: When our boy was twelve, he walked off from a tour group and got left in a temple…. IKEA Joe paused with an arched brow for effect. For four days! I lost that boy for four days!  

Then he let out a breathy laugh that gave me permission to laugh with him. 

Given his mirth, I thought it appropriate to add a joke of my own: well, at least it was a temple and not Vegas.  

IKEA Joe smiled at the joke. No, not Vegas, he said, it was actually in Jerusalem.

Which shut me right-the-hell-up. 

Now according to Luke, prefaced IKEA Joe, Mary and I didn’t notice the kid was missing until we were back in Nazareth. But that’s according to Luke. Let me tell you, we quickly noticed that the boy was missing, but the logistics of going back to Jerusalem were a touch more involved than ol’ Luke ever let on. Still are, frankly. Anyway, the kid seemed as happy as a clam when we finally got back to him. Just chatting it up with rabbinical stewards and teachers. Comfy as can be and unafraid. He was fine. And that’s the gospel truth.

Dubious, I asked: But what did you say to your son when you finally returned to Jerusalem and found him there!?

Oh, you better believe I yelled at the boy, replied IKEA Joe. I was like, Jesus Christ Jesus Christ!

You repeatedly took the Lord’s name in vein? I asked. 

Well no, IKEA Joe corrected, I was mad. Like any Dad, I was just screaming the boy’s name in anger.

Oh, I said, You’re HIS dad.

The point of that little parable, explained IKEA Joe, is to show you that even Mary and I—Jesus Christ’s human parents—made mistakes. All the time! The least of which was losing the kid for four freakin’ days! But he still ended up becoming the Messiah. 

And then, as IKEA Joe adjusted the hinges adjoining the glass doors to the bookcase frame, the man blew my mind: Your kids, like mine, are destined for great things. All kids are. They’re all miracles. And you, like me, will screw some crap up during their childhood. More than once. More than twice. Damn near every day. But none of that will throw them off course so long as you get your main gig right which, as their Dad, is to ensure they feel SAFE and LOVED. Everything else is just inconsequential side-hustle. Okay? And remember: You need to treat yourself the way you’d want them to treat themselves. With grace. Grant yourself the grace to fail sometimes, alright? Or often. Maybe every day. And let them see that. Let them see you fail and still have the grace to carry-on. The side-hustle chicken-shit of parenting isn’t do or die. So long as those kids feel safe and loved, you’re doing your job well. And that’s all that really matters. Safe and loved. Then they’ll grow up to be the miracles they’re meant to be.

After a moment of disembodiment, I looked up at a fully assembled Billy Bookcase. His work was done. I pulled a folded, one hundred dollar bill from my butt-pocket and handed it to the man. I mumbled an underwhelming Thank you and walked Saint Joseph out through my front door and watched him shuffle down the sidewalk in knockoff Birkenstocks.

Five stars for IKEA Joe! I highly recommend him for all things IKEA and Parenthood! 

****

Carl Governale is an MFA candidate at Stony Brook University and a retired Navy SEAL who writes in pursuit of his own redemption and/or reckoning. Whichever comes first.