23
L
auren smiled broadly.
A mother wouldn’t lie about what her son looked like, would she?
Lauren thought.
She Googled “Bruce Springsteen at 40” and smiled some more.
Bruce Springsteen was kind of hot when he was forty. He’s still kind of hot. So my handyman looks like the Boss, has big, strong hands, goes to church often, works sixteen-hour days, and is kind and humble. He says he’s ordinary, and that makes him extraordinary. He’s a noble orphan.
I feel like an orphan sometimes. I should call Mama. The last time I did, she listened to my voice for five whole seconds before hanging up. One freaking side of one breast! She should have been proud! Instead, she said I shamed my daddy, who died when I was fifteen. He would have been proud of what he helped make.
And it was only an almost breast.
She looked at her torso.
He still thinks I have a nice body. He doesn’t see what I see in the mirror. Things have fallen. Parts have slipped. Gravity is working. What was once tight now wobbles. Parts of me look like Jell-O. Hair grows where it shouldn’t, and doesn’t grow where it used to. And yet he’s obviously interested in my body, with those honest eyes of his.
And it excites me so much!
Patrick:
I need a picture of you so I can have a visual of you when I read your letters. You’re looking at me on your TV, right? I need something to look at, too, okay? It’s only fair. I need to see you so my imagination will calm down. So far you’re Bruce Springsteen playing a guitar with Phil Esposito’s scarred hands.
It’s okay if you don’t want to share a picture of yourself. You’re my friend. It doesn’t matter to me what you look like. Your words are beautiful. That makes you beautiful. You’re a beautiful man, and it has been my privilege to get your e-mails.
And you make me feel beautiful. You said I have “the three s’s”! I don’t know if I’m shapely, smooth, and sexy or not, because I’m all alone . . . all day and all night. All this possible shapeliness, smoothness, and sexiness is going to waste. What should we do about that?
I, too, shave about once a week.
Just kidding.
But you haven’t earned that movie yet. Sorry. You didn’t go into enough detail. I asked you to be specific. The word torso is vague. I know you can do better than that. Shape is vague, too, and I know you can do better than
nice
.
Look at the time! It has to be after 2 AM in Brooklyn. I’m sure you’re tired. I should let you go. I don’t want to, but one of us has to work in the morning, while the other one lounges around in bed all day . . . and all night . . . and all day. . . .
Sweet dreams.
Lauren
PS: You’re 6-2 and 220. I’m 5-5 and 130ish. Don’t ask for the specific number. My scale and I aren’t on speaking terms. Because of our height difference, my forehead would come up to your chin. I’d be staring at your Adam’s apple.
She turned out the lights but kept her laptop open after she sent her message. In moments, Patrick replied.
Lauren:
I am tired, but not of our conversation. You’re easy to talk to. I promise to continue my description of your flawless body soon.
“See” you tomorrow.
Good night, Lauren.
Patrick
PS: Soon is
now
! Your breasts look firm and soft, your stomach looks caressable—is that a word?—and your booty looks like the finest sculpture, but my dreams would still be sweet and hot if I could only see your eyes.
“Aww,” Lauren said. “That’s so sweet.”
I like him.
She wanted to write him back, but he had already said good night.
“Good night, Patrick,” she whispered.
Caressable
isn’t a word, but it should be. He says that I’m kissable and caressable. Someone over at
Webster’s
needs to get on the job.
And he looks at my booty as if it’s fine art.
She went to the bathroom and posed.
He’s right. My booty is fine art.
Patrick has excellent eyesight.
Oh, except for that spot there.
Mmm. It’s kind of a divot.
I need to get some exercise.
But not now.
I’m on vacation....
24
B
efore Patrick brushed his teeth in the morning, he checked his e-mail and found an empty in-box.
It was late. She was tired. It’s cool.
He frowned.
Or I offended her with my description of her “torso.” I hope I didn’t. She asked for more specifics, and I gave them. Maybe I gave too many? Maybe I was too specific.
Although he had slept for only three hours, he felt more alive than he had in years because she had called him beautiful.
I have never been called beautiful before. She doesn’t even know what I look like. I might have looked like Springsteen when he was young, but I don’t look like him now. How can she say that I’m beautiful?
Wait a second.
She said my
words
were beautiful and that I must be beautiful by extension.
Or something like that.
He wrote her a quick message.
Lauren:
Rise and shine! It’s only 5 AM here in chilly (22 and cloudy) Brooklyn, so I imagine you’ll be up in about . . . ten hours.
You have my permission to be completely lazy today, not that you need my permission. Because you do everything well, I know you will do nothing well, as well.
Good morning or afternoon, as the case may be.
Patrick
PS: I hope I didn’t offend you with my description of your torso. If I did, I’m sorry. I meant it as a compliment. If I didn’t offend you, well . . . good.
He sent the message, brushed his teeth, ignored his beard, showered, and put on long johns under his coveralls. He smiled. Putting on his coveralls wasn’t as much of a chore and a bore, and tying his boots wasn’t as unfulfilling.
Because someone thinks I’m beautiful.
I mean, because someone thinks my words are beautiful.
He grabbed his tool bag and headed toward the door. He looked back at his laptop.
I could carry my laptop around with me today. Wi-Fi signals are everywhere these days, and many of my tenants have Wi-Fi, and that way I could check to see . . .
He sighed.
Whether I offended Lauren or not. Do I want to wait until this evening? Can I wait that long?
He took his laptop. Its case barely fit into his tool bag.
Because of the sudden cold snap, he started immediately for the apartment building on Baltic, hoping to get there before his phone rang.
The pipes in that building can’t handle major drops in temperature,
he thought.
They might even be frozen solid.
His phone rang.
Like clockwork.
“I’m on my way,” he said immediately when he answered.
“I haven’t told you what the problem is or where I am,” the woman said.
That sounds like one of the Dutch women.
“Mrs. Gildersleeve, right? You’re in one of the apartments on Baltic, and I’m going to guess that you have standing water in your kitchen sink.”
“I have water in my kitchen sink,” she said. “How did you know?”
“Your pipes are an inch away from the west-facing brick,” Patrick said as he started to jog, the tool bag banging against his hamstrings. “That’s the cold side of the building. This always seems to happen when the temperature drops below twenty overnight.”
“What can I do?” she asked.
“You can wait until the sun hits the bricks,” Patrick said, “if the sun even comes out today, or you can try pouring boiling water into the sink.”
“I’ll try it.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
When he arrived, he knocked on Mrs. Gildersleeve’s door, and she let him in. A woman of about fifty, Mrs. Gildersleeve could have passed for a much younger woman, her golden hair still golden, her face still smooth. She reminded Patrick of the Nordic girl in a gum commercial, only Mrs. Gildersleeve was thinner and wore sweaters nearly every day of the year.
“It didn’t work,” she said.
“I’ll have to torch it, then,” Patrick said. He set his tool bag inside the door and found his trusty hand torch. His phone buzzed, and he answered it.
“My sink is stopped up,” a woman said.
“Is this Mrs. Schoonmaker?” Patrick asked.
“Yes,” she said. “How did you know?”
“Your drainpipe is frozen,” Patrick said, “but it’ll be thawed out in a moment. I’m already upstairs with Mrs. Gildersleeve. As soon as her sink drains, your sink should drain, too.”
“Why?” Mrs. Schoonmaker asked.
“You two share the same drainpipe,” Patrick said.
“Why?” Mrs. Schoonmaker asked.
Because this was once a one-family house, and whoever turned it into an apartment house combined lines to cut costs and cause me headaches.
“Trust me, Mrs. Schoonmaker. It will be clear in a few minutes, but call me if it isn’t, okay?”
“Okay.”
Mrs. Gildersleeve blinked at him. “We share the same drain?”
“Everyone shares the same
main
drain,” Patrick said, snapping his phone shut. “You and Mrs. Schoonmaker share the same sink drainpipe. It’s not the greatest system, I know, but if I thaw yours out, hers should thaw out, too.”
In theory.
He went into the kitchen, opened the cabinet under the sink, stuck his head into the cabinet, lit the torch, and ran the flame back and forth above the coupling nut to the trap. In a few minutes, the water in the pipe was boiling, and a minute later, the water drained out in a rush. He pushed himself out and ran some water in the sink.
“That ought to do it for now,” Patrick said. His phone buzzed, and he answered quickly. “Is it gone, Mrs. Schoonmaker ?”
“No,” Mrs. Schoonmaker said. “It has grown higher. It’s threatening to overflow.”
That’s not good.
“I’ll be down in a moment,” Patrick said. He closed his phone.
“Should I let it drip overnight so this doesn’t happen again?” Mrs. Gildersleeve asked.
“The tap isn’t the problem,” he said. “It’s where the water travels through the pipe near the brick. You might try pouring a pot of boiling water down your drain first thing in the morning to loosen up any ice.”
“I shouldn’t have to do that,” she said.
“I know,” Patrick said, “but none of the pipes in this building are insulated, and we’d have to rip apart the walls to do it right. That would take weeks.” He showed her the torch. “You can always have one of these handy. They go for about fifty bucks.”
“What if the bathtub ever backs up?” she asked.
“It shouldn’t,” Patrick said. “For some reason, the bathtub and shower drainpipes in this building are wider than normal.” He noticed her cell phone on the kitchen table.
What a coincidence. She has a fancy cell phone, and I need a picture.
“Does your phone take pictures?”
“Yes,” she said. “Why?”
“Could you take my picture and send it to me?” He smiled.
That has to be the strangest request I have ever made of a tenant—or of anyone, for that matter.
“You want a picture . . . of yourself.”
“I know that sounds strange, but I promised to send a picture to a friend of mine,” Patrick said. “Salthead lets me use this cheap phone, and it doesn’t have a camera.”
“Just . . . take your picture.” She picked up her phone.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” Patrick said.
“Dressed like that,” she said.
Patrick shrugged. “She’s a good friend. She’ll understand.”
“Okay.” Mrs. Gildersleeve held up the camera. “Are you going to smile?”
“Oh, right.” Patrick smiled.
She took the picture, looked at it, and turned the phone around. “That wasn’t much of a smile.”
Patrick looked at himself in his coveralls.
I thought I was smiling. I don’t look anything like Bruce Springsteen, but Springsteen would probably never wear coveralls. I should have shaved. Geez, I’m a wrinkly clothes–wearing man.
“It’ll work.” He told her his e-mail address, and she sent it to him.
“Do you have Wi-Fi?” Patrick asked.
“Obviously.”
“Oh yeah. Right.” He dug his laptop out of the tool bag. “May I borrow your Wi-Fi for a moment? I’d like to send the picture to her as soon as I can. She’s kind of been waiting for it.”
“Mrs. Schoonmaker is waiting for you, too,” she said.
Patrick nodded. “Her water isn’t going anywhere, and I only need a minute.”
Mrs. Gildersleeve sighed. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you,” Patrick said, and he smiled.
“Now,
that
was a smile,” Mrs. Gildersleeve said.
“Is your Wi-Fi password protected?” Patrick asked.
“What?” Mrs. Gildersleeve said.
I’ll take that as a no.
“When you first get on the Internet, do you need to type in a code?”
“No,” she said. “Um, is this friend your girlfriend?”
“She’s a friend,” Patrick said.
And she’s hardly a girl. Lauren Short is a lady.
“Have you known her long?” Mrs. Gildersleeve asked.
“No,” Patrick said. “Not long.”
Patrick booted up his laptop, connected immediately to the Wi-Fi signal, and checked his e-mail. Lauren still hadn’t replied.
Oh yeah. It’s four a.m. there. She should still be asleep.
He opened the e-mail from Mrs. Gildersleeve and looked at his picture.
I’ve looked better, but this will have to do.
He saved the picture to his hard drive and attached it to a quick e-mail.
Lauren:
Here I am in all my glory. Feast your eyes on a man in uniform.
Patrick
PS: I do clean up nicely. Really. You’ll have to use your imagination.
After clicking
SEND
, he returned his laptop to the tool bag. “Thank you so much.”
“What’s your
friend’s
name?” Mrs. Gildersleeve asked.
“Lauren,” Patrick said. “Lauren Short.”
“There’s an actress by that name,” she said. “It isn’t the same one, is it?” Mrs. Gildersleeve laughed. “Oh, of course it isn’t. What am I thinking?”
Patrick hoisted his tool bag. “It is.”
Mrs. Gildersleeve blinked.
“My friend is Lauren Short, the actress,” Patrick said.
“You’re kidding,” Mrs. Gildersleeve said.
“No,” Patrick said.
Mrs. Gildersleeve squinted. “You mean I just took your picture with my phone, and that picture is on its way to Lauren Short, the Hollywood star?”
“I’m sure it’s already there,” Patrick said. “She probably won’t see it for a few hours, because she’s sleeping in. She’s on vacation.”
“You’re joking, aren’t you?” she asked.
“No.” He smiled. “She deserves a long vacation after what happened to her, don’t you think?”
Mrs. Gildersleeve didn’t answer.
“Have a good day,” Patrick said. “It’s supposed to be just as cold tomorrow. Call me if the boiling water trick doesn’t work.”
“I . . . will.”