Then he moves in all conspiratorially. “Hey, your cousin tells me you make books. Funny, we got something in common. I make book, too. What’s your taste of the vig?”
When the bell rings, the dogs come dashing to the door with me to meet the next candidate. I open the door to a gentleman who, from the looks of him, is neither stoner, nor greenhorn, nor smalltime mobster. I swear, if this guy can swing a hammer in the general direction of a nail, he’s hired.
“Hi,” I say, grabbing hold of the dogs’ collars. “Please give me a minute. I’ve got to put these guys out back and then we can chat.”
He bends down to the dogs’ level. “Hey, is that a pit bull?”
“Yes, her name is Daisy. Isn’t she beautiful? Say hello, Daisy!” She doesn’t speak but instead chooses to wag her whole body in response while Duckie paws and licks at the air beside her.
The contractor leans against the doorway. “You ever fight her?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Dogfights — you ever put her in the ring and see what she can do?”
“Are you serious?”
“Between us, you can make a lot of money fighting dogs. If you want, I’ve got a place—”
I don’t hear the rest because I’ve slammed the door.
“Oh, my God, I can’t believe I’m here! I can’t believe I’m sitting at your table! Is this where you write? Is this where you come up with your stories?”
So, the good news is that I have fans who aren’t thirteen-year-old girls. Did not know that. Apparently I’m beloved not only by young ladies who’ve yet to graduate from training bras, but also by at least one forty-six-year-old male builder.
He gushes on: “I see so much of myself in Mose and Amos. They’re both hardworking and dedicated and they’re drawn to women who want to eat them.”
Mac kicks me under the table. I ignore him.
My fan/possible contractor/probable eventual restraining-order recipient continues. “I mean, not literally. No, that’d be weird and gross. Spiritually. All the women I date are spiritual vampires.”
“Listen, Nick, we don’t really use the v-word around here,” Mac tells him, making air quotes when he says “v-word.”
The contractor turns ashen. “OH, NO, I’M SO SORRY! PLEASE DON’T BE MAD AT ME! I’D DIE!”
“No, Nick, he’s kidding.” I shoot Mac an angry look. “Tell him that was a joke.”
“Sorry, man.”
The contractor gives me the kind of adoring gaze that’s supersweet coming from a tween, but something entirely different from an adult. “Seriously, can I, like, touch your beautiful brain? Not in a weird way — I just want to see if your energy transports into me.”
“Is it okay if we don’t?” I always try to be as kind as possible to my fans; they’re the reason I have a career. But come on, creepy is creepy. When his face falls at my response, I add,“I just got my hair done.”
“Yeah, yeah, of course. That was really inappropriate of me. I’m sorry.”
Mac tries to break his reverie by asking, “What else do you need to know to bid out this project?”
“What do I need?” He rests his chin in his palms and stares into the distance. “Um, I guess what I really need is to find out if Amish and zombie teenagers in love ever find a way to live between their two worlds. I need to know if it does indeed get better. I need confirmation that their love will conquer anything.”
Nick looks down at his wide, capable hands. I wonder whether, when he reads descriptions of how small and delicate Miriam’s tiny zombie fingers look resting in Amos’s broad, wide palm, he pictures his own calluses and scarred knuckles.
I wonder whether, when I talk about the pain and melodrama associated with coming of age, he sees his own teen years, and if he can find peace with the decisions he made long ago. And I’m curious whether somehow these stories help him make sense of his own life. Knowing that my words have an impact on an entirely unintended audience really touches me and I can’t help but smile.
Nick is apparently emboldened by my encouraging grin. “Also, I need to find out if Amos and Miriam ever get it on, and if so, will you please be describing their union in graphic detail with anatomically correct terms?”
As it stands, I can live in a squalid house or I can hire someone completely repugnant to fix it.
Talk about your Sophie’s choice.
Chapter Fourteen. EAT, PRAY, SHOVE
“Hi, Chronic. It’s Mia MacNamara!. .Yes, the lady with the sugar cubes. .You’re welcome. I’m glad you liked them. . The grocery store, I guess. .Yes, probably any grocer will have them. . I can’t really say; I’ve never checked for them at the 7-Eleven. Anyway, I’m calling because we’d like to hire you to do our renovations. . Oh, no, really?. . Well, I guess that’s great for you guys. . Shoot. Okay, if anything changes and the band breaks up again, please let us know.”
“Hi, this is Mia MacNamara; may I speak with Lucky?. . No, I didn’t realize. . Do you know how long he’ll be gone?. . Yeah, our renovations probably can’t wait eight years. . No, not even with good behavior. . I agree, racketeering is a bitch. Thanks, anyway.”
“Hi, this is Mia MacNamara. . Right, right, the nosy woman with all the questions. Listen, I’m calling to find out about your availability. . You’re kidding. Booked solid? All summer?. . Okay, then good luck with your new business, and please let us know if your schedule opens up.”
“I don’t know, Mac. I don’t understand why, either.”
Between the two of us, Mac and I have called every general contractor/builder/carpenter/handyman/plumber/electrician in a hundred-mile radius, and we can’t even get anyone to give us an estimate, let alone commit to taking on our project. I wonder whether the folks who write newscasts and newspapers have talked to builders in our area, because it sounds like the housing boom is back.
“What are we going to do? I can’t keep living like this,” I say, surveying the wreckage of my kitchen, which is adjacent to the dining room with the crumbled wall, across from the library with all the ceiling holes, across from the living room with the aggressively ugly monkey wallpaper. Plumbing issues have crippled two more bathrooms and we’re down to one functioning toilet and shower. We’ve yet to get the smell of rotting carpenter ants out of the master, the mustiness emanating from the covered hot tub is almost unbearable, and there’s something alive and well in the wall of my writing room.
“We have no choice,” Mac says in a determined tone.
“You realize I’ll go to jail if the dogfighter steps into this house,” I remind him. People who are cruel to animals bring out my inner Swayze. I’ll show him exactly how not nice I can be, and I’ll probably still be more humane than those barbarians are with sweet, innocent doggies.
“That’s not who I meant.”
That’s when I feel my heart drop into my stomach.
“Mac, noooo! Nick was way too creepy! I seriously don’t want to be alone in the house all day with my number one fan!” I plead.
“I have plenty more vacation time,” Mac reasons. “I can take it now so you won’t be alone with him initially.”
“I can’t.” I curl into myself just imagining having that weirdo in my house.
Mac is firm. “You can.”
“I won’t.”
Mac stares me down. “You won’t what? Imagine how nice it might be to have the capacity to wash dishes? Use a toilet other than in the basement? Breathe in air that’s not full of drywall dust? Walk across a floor without shoes or with the confidence that it won’t give way at any time?”