If You Were Here

I tacitly ignore the implication of drug usage and then I hit him with a couple of my own questions. “Who’ll be on-site managing the project every day?”

“I try to be on-site every day. But some days. . eh, you know how it is. If I’m not here, I send in Nugget. If Nugget can’t make it, I send in Cheeba. If Cheeba can’t make it, then it musta been some party the night before.” Then he laughs so hard his dreads shake.

Mac and I aren’t quite as amused. “Okay, then. How many people work for you?”

“Lemme see,” he says, having just discovered that his coffee spoon works well for all those hard-to-reach itches. “I got Stash and Loadie on full-time, Cheeba and Nugget when they’re not following Phish, and Lucy and Shaggy when needed. So that’s”—he pauses to add on his fingers again—“nine. I got nine.”

“No,” I reply, “that’s seven. Including yourself, that’s seven.”

“Whoa.”

Whoa, indeed.

In terms of hiring people with whom I might like to dine, this man ranks somewhere on my list between Mussolini and Hitler. And it’s not because of anything as superficial as his silly coiffure. Actually, during my freshman year of college I had a crush on a guy who was all into grunge and had the white-guy dreadlocks. But then he spent the summer working at a fishery in Alaska and he had to shave them off because of the bugs. He seemed way less cute after that.

Anyway, my issue is that this guy has not only blown every question we’ve asked him, but then he used the bathroom without flushing or washing or closing the door, and on top of a plethora of other blatant personal hygiene problems, he was an hour and seventeen minutes late for our meeting. Say what you will about Mussolini, but at least the trains ran on time.

“Okay, yes,” I say, pushing off from the table, “I think that about does it. We look forward to receiving your bid, Chronic.” Mac and I make a beeline to the door while Chronic ambles along behind us. When he tries to shake my hand, I cough and tuck mine into my armpits, saying, “Ooh, sorry. Cold and flu season, you know how it is.”

“Yeah, man, that’s cool,” he agrees.

And then he hugs me instead.

Mac finds this hilarious until Chronic hugs him, too.

“Do you belong to any trade associations?”

“Come again?”

“Trade associations, you know, like NARI or NAHB?”

“Knob? What’s that?”

“National Association of Home Builders.”

“Never heard of ’em. Must be new.”

“They’ve been around since 1942 and have a hundred and seventy-five thousand members. Their members are responsible for building eighty percent of all new homes. They work closely with Congress to promote a probuilder agenda. Does any of this sound familiar?”

“Not ringing any bells.”

“Do you use subs?”

“Do I sub what?”

“Subs. Subcontractors. What’s your policy on subcontractors?”

“I don’t know what those are.”

“What kind of liability insurance do you carry?”

“For what?”

“Are you bonded?”

“Listen, lady, what people do in the privacy of their own bedrooms is none of your business.”

“Do you have any references?”

“My mom thinks I’d do a great job. Does that count?”

“Is this your first job ever?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

“And finally, I like to be paid in cash. Cash up front. See, cash makes it easier to, y’know, grease the skids and the like.”

“Are there many skids to be greased?” I ask, trying desperately to sound enthusiastic. When I told my dad how much trouble we were having finding a contractor, he made some calls and got ahold of his cousin Big Joey, who referred us to his “associate” Lucky. In the past half hour, I’ve heard all about how Lucky and Co. keep their pinkie-ring-clad fingers in many businesses. . waste management, vending machines, concession trucks, cell phones, and, of course, building construction.

“Lotta skids, kid, whole lotta skids. So my associates and me, we find cash makes everything nice and easy. Cash makes workers less, y’know, likely to have an accident on the job.”

“Yes, of course,” I agree.

There’s no way I’m going to hire this cut-rate John Gotti, but if I’m not polite, it will get back to my dad’s cousin, and then my father and then I’ll never hear the end of it at Thanksgiving. “It’s good to hear you have standards,” I add.

“Plus, we got a service that if the neighbors get too, y’know, inquisitive about the permits, we can take care of that.”

“That’s just covered in awesome sauce,” I say.

Although honestly, after the latest petition,¹²⁷ I’m a tiny bit tempted to learn more, but I fight that urge. I glance at my watch to see how much more time I’ve got to kill with this guy before I can make it seem like I’ve given him my full consideration.

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.”