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His name is Johann, he is a handyman for hire

16 January 2007, 9.47am… Johann is 13 minutes early to fix the ageing front door of an inner-city one bedroom house. The 30-something woman opens the door with still-wet hair. She expects to see a small, middle-aged man dressed in work-gear and carrying a standard toolbox.

On this 38-degrres day, Johann has dressed his 6ft 3" frame in a surf's-up, white sleeveless t-shirt, khaki knee-length shorts and runners. His blonde hair is cropped and tousled with obvious effort. A large tattoo with a heart motif wraps around the hard-earned muscle on his upper right arm, another around his right ankle.

Outside the flywire door he shifts boyishly from foot-to-foot, then drops an odd box of assorted tools to the ground. “Hi there,” he says with the deep inflection of someone who has spent most of his life somewhere pretty in Europe. “I’m here to fix the door!”

Inside, he has the weathered face of a man a decade older than his outward demeanour would suggest. He shamelessly scans the front room, taking in the details of the woman’s life. A minute passes before Johann asks the woman what is wrong with the ageing door.

She demonstrates how the front door no longer closes, which she attributes to the recent hot and humid weather. “It’s just an old door,” he says with a shrug, blush and giggle, and then inspects the door from left to right, top to bottom. “It is falling apart.”

After an awkward pause the woman leaves Johann with the door, and heads into the bathroom to blow-dry her hair. In-between the blasts of the hairdryer she listens to Johann hum, whistle and occasionally take a short call on his mobile. “Hello? I’m working right now. I will call you later.”

Her hair dry, the woman takes a call from her mother, and moves from the kitchen to backyard when Johann starts to drill. “What’s that noise?” her mother asks.

The woman can't remember the name of the company he is from – Hubby for Hire, Handyman for Hire, Hire a Husband, Hire a Handyman, Hire a Handy Husband – but says he is here to fix the front door. The mother and daughter agree that it’s good to have a handyman around every now-and-then.

Johann stops the woman from bucketing grey water from the washing machine onto the front garden to inspect the front door. He instructs her to step inside and to open and close the door. The woman opens and closes the door, and spots an odd-placed nail protruding from the side of the latch.

'What I did was move the latch further left,” he says with a proud smile which exposes the large chunk of gold on the tip of his left tooth. “That was very creative of you,” the woman replies.

He giggles and rushes past to re-pack his odd box of assorted tools lying in the front yard. He looks up with a start, and stands quickly to his feet. “Is there anything else?” he asks with slight self-consciousness.

The tall man is led through the small house to the bathroom. He giggles at her request to see what is wrong with the toilet roll holder. He quickly kneels down beside the toilet roll holder and then rummages through his tool box. “All it needs is the right screw,” he says pointing a small hole underneath the toilet roll holder.

Humming, he tries one screw, then another, then another. “What are you humming?” the woman asks the kneeling handyman. “I don’t know,” he says through another giggle, “just pop songs”.

“There you go Honey,” he says after tightening a too-long screw, half of which hangs below the base of the holder. “Done!”

Toolbag in-hand he quickly makes his way to the front door. At the front gate Johann turns and waves a long arm towards the woman. “Goodbye!” he yells. 

The woman closes the front door, wipes the many brown finger smudges now on the wall and door, sweeps the wood shavings from the floor and gathers the extra bits of metal and nails.

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