Dad's Midas Touch

I walk into the entryway when I spy something glittering at the top of the wire rack. I'm fourteen and old enough to know better, but young enough that the canister tempts me. Dad always kept me away from it. He had a specific section in his outbuilding just for that sacred stuff. Even the WD-40 cans were intentionally placed out of my reach just in case. I was to go nowhere near it without permission or without command. I understood his concern.

I drew on the walls from a very young age. Oh, did I say walls? I meant everything. I found and used crayons, pencils, markers, chalk, and anything I could get my hands on that would make art. Spray paints were highly desirable, and I could not ignore them. Dad took precautions, especially because he deemed the items expensive in the quantities he often required them in. Mother, on the other hand, made some fatal thoughtless miscalculations.

Despite Dad's best efforts, Mother had purchased the canister and placed it within my sight lines. It was likely a sale or clearance item. I carefully considered that she may have an idea on what she would use it for, and thought better of utilizing it at the time I saw it. This was not a lack of impulse control situation. Instead, I simply took a mental note of its location and verified daily that it remained in its present location.

"If it sits untouched for over a year, it's mine!" I thought.

I had rules for myself you know. Rules that also meant staying out of significant trouble and ensuring the said object wouldn't be missed.

"Whatever purpose Mom has for it, if it isn't used in a year she isn't going to use it." I justified.

A year passed, and I finally climbed the step ladder to reach my newly acquired possession.

"Gold! Just as I thought!" I smiled broadly before continuing, "Rust-Oleum...for use on metal."

In all of that year of waiting, I hadn't touched the can of spray paint. I couldn't see the back label that explained what type of materials it would adhere to, but there was only one place I could think that had tons of metal: Dad's work building and outside radius.

I carefully went to Dad's work table and bench vice. Everything was made of metal, and badly rusted from sitting outside. On top of his work table was a rusted hammer, one of his favorite hammers.

Ever the student of mythology, I began to think of Thor's hammer, Mjölnir. I let out a chuckle before mixing my mythologies.

"I'll give my dad's hammer the Midas touch. If he asks me anything about it, that is what I will tell him. It'll be funny." I smiled a smirk that would have made Loki proud.

I didn't stop at spray-painting the hammer, but I didn't think I had to with the rationale I provided myself.

"Those items were rusty, and Rust-Oleum is for rusty things right? He shouldn't have kept his tools out in the rain." I shrug with an additional smirk.

I empty the contents of the entire can, and feel quite proud of myself. No one notices I was gone. I return to my room inside without anyone noticing the missing spray paint. I play some video games and await Dad's arrival. I knew he would notice. I peer through the blinds in my room, and see my dad's usual foot traffic derail from its typical path. Now comes the moment of truth and triumph. He picks up the hammer, lets out a combination of a huff and a chuckle before shaking his head and placing it back down on the table.

My dad could occasionally be a harsh man. I do not know why the thought of retribution or trouble did not cross my mind, but it didn't. Still, I remained in my room. I overhear conversation in the kitchen and living area with my mother.

"I told you to put that out of her reach. If anything like that is in sight, I told you she will get it. Now look, do you see this hammer? This is one of my favorite hammers." he says to my mother.

He must have been pointing toward the work table outside because I knew he had already set the hammer back down.

I hear Mother sigh and nonchalantly respond, "Oh well."

Hearing this just confirms that she obviously had no idea what she was going to use it for when she purchased it.

"What I can't figure out is why she chose to paint MY stuff with it instead of yours." I hear him continue.

I wait for my opportunity, but my opportunity doesn't come. Dad sighs and plops down on his recliner with snacks in hand.

"Hey, squirt." he addresses me, and the evening proceeds as if nothing has happened.

"Are you kidding me? I get no notoriety for this? No opportunity to tell him I've given him the Midas touch!" I spend the evening unimpressed that his reaction was so minimal.

Tomorrow evening arrives, and I see my dad wielding multiple cans of spray paint. My eyes light up! He hands them to my brother and me. I'm delighted.

"You see that tractor over there? You're going to spray paint it-all of it! If you miss a spot, I'm going to let you know and give you hell for it."

"You" he says pointing at my brother, "When you don't want to paint anymore or get too tired, your work is done. In fact, if you don't want to help out at all you don't have to. I'm just handing you the can in case you think it is fun too."

"I know whose handy work this was" he says, looking straight at me with a smile, "And I'm going to put it to good use. You're not done until the tractor is done. Since you like to spray paint, you're going to spray paint from now on."

I smile and grab the spray paint Dad offered me. About halfway through my third can of spray paint, my fingers ached and were getting sore. Dad wasn't joking about giving me hell if I missed a spot, and I knew it. I would finish the job. I took turns using every single finger to press on the nozzle. My fingertips and hands looked Americana with blue and white paint muddled with bright red blisters. When Dad finally approved of the completed job he said, "Still like to spray paint, Squirt?"

I look up at him with renewed energy twinkling in my eyes, "I sure do. It's just a shame you didn't like your Midas touch." I grin ear to ear before continuing, "Sorry, I've been dying to use that line! I'm more upset that you made me wait so late to use it, and that it wasn't in the context I planned. That was punishment enough!"

Dad laughs and shakes his head at his stubborn, hardheaded daughter. All of the spray painting jobs from that moment after were obviously mine for the keeping.