ACT ONE
Dan, forties, sitting on his sofa, in beige livingroom, addresses audience
I saw Linda, off and on—mostly off—for years before we really became acquainted. I work in the hardware store downtown, and Linda used to stop in once a month or so, to pick up sundries. Light bulbs. Picture hangers. Always at least a smile, usually with an out-loud laugh as accompaniment.
Last September, she came in to get spackle. Pictures had to be un-hung, walls had to be patched. She was divorcing, Linda said, and couldn’t afford to keep the house. Had to fix it up ASAP, could I recommend a handyman?
I could and did. Yours truly, I told her, Handy Dan-Dee, at your service. I gave her my card. The “punny” name derives—irresistibly—from my own: Dan De Luca.
I was pleased—relieved—to be getting some work. I’d been hard hit lately—three overworked appliances went on permanent strike inside of a week: fridge, washer, dryer. My disgruntled oil burner resigned forthwith In support of the traitorous trio.
So yes, I could use—needed!—the money.
There was lots to be done. Eight weeks’ worth of lots, as it turned out. I would go over to Linda’s every evening, after the store closed, for an hour or so. Sundays I’d stay the day. Painting, mostly, with assorted tweaks and tinkers for respite.
Linda would always feed me afterwards. She insisted on it, and I sure wasn’t about to decline. I hated to eat alone. Always have. Meaning both: I always ate alone and I always hated to. I’ve lived alone these last three years ever since my mother died. She’d been paralyzed fourteen years before, in the car crash that killed my Dad, and I stayed home to care for her. I’d been about to be married when this happened, but Janet backed out of it. Didn’t want to have to live in a decrepit house and help tend my mom. I didn’t—don’t—fault her. After all, she—same as me—wanted a home of our own, four kids, give or take two.
Janet has long since enjoyed such a life with her husband and three kids—plus twins pending. Ever since my mother left me a life to fill, I’d been hoping—-trying—to find a lady to “fill ‘er up.” I’d just turned thirty-five when Mom died, nowadays that’s still plenty young enough to start a family. Even better, I’d get a jump start by finding a woman who already has kids. Or has adult children with kids living nearby.
Which brings me to Linda. She’s got two grandchildren by her daughter next town over. I’ve met them a couple of times—they are delightful, with warmth and cheer of mother and grandma combined.
I wasn’t about to make a move on Linda at this point, considering she doubtless needed a big break from the ape-ish-half of the species, after her crummy marriage. Linda confided in me, told me some serious stuff, stuff which if happened to me, I’d be mortified to speak of. Not that Linda had anything to be ashamed of—far from it—just that it was so personal, so private.
I’d always stay with Linda at least an hour during our late supper—sandwich, soup, salad: two-parts/three-ways. First Law of the listener: Never give advice that isn’t asked for; Dan-Dee’s corollary: Never give advice, period. Open-and-shut case: i.e. open ears, shut mouth.
Linda would toss me a twenty or two once every week or so for supplies I’d picked up. She couldn’t be bothered checking receipts: Keep the change, she’d wave me off.
Which was nice, except, there wasn’t any change to keep. If anything, I’d usually have to pitch in a few bucks of my own. I would have felt like a tightwad, especially since she was generous enough to not quibble over the few dollars—she thought—were due her.
Yes, I’d have been embarrassed nickel-and- diming Linda—all the more so at the thought of causing her embarrassment. So I let it go: small change to pay to avoid awkwardness. Small change indeed—how about those big bucks I’d already written off? Why even quibble over pennies for parts when I’d long since resigned myself to not expecting any compensation—besides supper—for labor. I had assumed Linda would be paying me—my business card lists my hourly rate—but given that she’d treated me as a friend from the start, I didn’t have the heart to bring it up. Friendship is priceless—once this job is done, I’d make up for money elsewhere. Then I could afford to reciprocate all these suppers by taking Linda to dinner.
My work was completed in two months; the house sold at over-the-top dollar in two days. All thanks to you, Dan! Linda moved to an apartment two blocks east. After twenty-plenty years of chronic homeowner headaches—topped off by a whopper of a get-it-ready-for-market migraine, Linda was relieved to be a renter. The apartment was a turn-key triumph—nothing to do but unpack.
I helped with that. I helped with the move itself. No sense in Linda’s hiring a van. I have a pick-up truck, and her before-and-after are so close besides—two minutes round-trip, tops. Linda had given away most of the furniture, so there wasn’t much heavy lifting. Upload-download at half-an-hour per, times twelve. Took about half a day, is all. Then the other half to set her up. 7A-to-7P. Done. We sent for pizza to celebrate. Extra-extra cheese, Linda’s favorite. No such thing as too much cheese, she says. Can’t argue with that.
While Linda chomped on the pizza, she champed at the bit, her mind galloping with grandiose plans to host a huge party in her new home. Meantime, of course, she’d have me over for supper a couple of days a week, at least—no need to break that routine, just because my work is done. Yes, she assured me, soon as she got settled, she’d give me a call.
That was eight months ago. I haven’t heard from Linda since. I have seen her, briefly, when she stopped in the store, twice: once to buy light bulbs, once to buy picture hangers. Once a wide smile my way, once a wave as well. Wow. Bonus plan for good old Dan. So, double thanks from me to you, Linda, for your business.
I thought were friends. Guess I was half right about that.
ACT TWO
Linda, forties, sitting on her sofa (swap in different sofa) addresses audience.
I really should give Dan a call. It’s been eight months since he helped me move here—after having spent the prior two months patching up my house of horrors. Good riddance to home-ownership, let me tell you. What a relief to be a renter. My landlord, Jimmy, lives on the second floor, and takes care of everything ASAP. If he can’t fix it himself, he calls someone who can, no stalling, no squabbling. My ex let our place go to ruin—too lazy to lend a helping hand, too cheap to pay someone else to. If it hadn’t been for “Handy Dan-Dee” I’d have taken a huge hit on the sale. As it was, there was a six-way bidding war and I won. Megabucks. Of course, Doug-the-Dick got his half, but still.
This place was immaculate when I moved in—freshly painted, new carpet, refinished floors. Bases fully loaded—a few garnishes of my choice scored a home run. I hit the bulls-eye and all surrounding circles at Target: turquoise towels for the coral bathroom, a creamy peach goose-down duvet, aqua striped satin sheets with matching window panels, counter-to-counter kitchen accessories. You name it, I bought it.
As I said, anything goes wrong—leaky faucet, plugged drain, noisy toilet—Jimmy-the-plumber—and then some—is just a quick call away; staircase shout, no phone required.
When I moved in, Jimmy told me that if I cared to punch up the neutral walls a notch or two, it was fine with him. I’ve decided to take him up on it. Beige is a tad too bland for my taste. I’ve picked out a richer, creamier shade: it’s called “whipped marshmallow.” Can’t wait to give Dan a call.
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