UNANTICIPATED HUNDREDS
Yesterday I finished a job for a pleasant “senior” lady whose name and location I won’t divulge. She was widowed not very long ago and is caring now for her retirement-age son, who has cancer. The bulk of my work for her entailed the patching of broken bricks with lime mortar, some repointing of foundation stones and repairs of failed spots on her concrete front porch. She paid me in full for the cementitious stuff and for my return after the fixes had cured a bit for their repainting. I hate to see bricks painted and doubly hate to see stones painted, but my repairs had to match the rest of the house: old bricks painted white, foundation granite painted black.
At farewell time I told the woman what I had painted and not painted, as a painting contractor I am not. I told her my focus was in making masonry patched blend in with existent work, that many areas on her house walls, foundation and porch still required scraping and repainting. She understood and asked what she owed me. I said $19.07, not minding the tax on the quart of black latex I’d traveled some miles to fetch, when the supply I’d brought with me ran short. She had asked me to purchase a gallon of this paint, but the $60 price tag at the hardware store had inspired me to settle for the quart.
“How about $250?” she asked me. “No, no, Mrs. X,” I said. “You paid me in full for this work when I was here last time. Call it 20 bucks for this new paint and we’re even.”
Mrs. X disappeared into the surely hallowed bowels of her huge old house for many minutes. I lit a cigarette, stood in the shade and surveyed her grounds. The grand thunderstorm that soaked my neck of the woods had not shed more than a few drops in hers. Her cut-too-short lawn was still a thin, sorry carpet of beige and brown. With patience I waited. Old people have to move slowly. I encourage them to do so, as oftentimes I find that in old-time politeness they’re aiming to please with fast and nimble footwork of which they are no longer capable.
Mrs. X finally emerges from her home, with two $100 bills in hand. My hands immediately shoot up in protest. The cagey old womanly wisp about flies up to meet me like a wasp and stuffs the two hundreds into my shirt pocket, really ramming them in there.
I remove the bills and try my damnedest to return them to her. She will hear none of it. I tell her I’m more stubborn than she is and launch again into an explanation of all the reasons I can’t accept the money. She says it’s her money and she can do what she wants with it, takes umbrage behind her screen door and tells me that she might like to hire me for some future project. I say all right, but I figure I owe you $180. She smiles broadly and says good day.
On my way home I thought about this overly generous “tip” and about how it might be made up to her. Upon return home I called and spoke to her son, who relayed my words to his mother. This was a challenging conversation. I’d say about a third of what I wanted to say to Mrs. X, the son would be heard over the phone quoting me verbatim but in incompletion, Mrs. X would voice her two cents, and I’d attempt to voice in five cents’ worth.
My offer was submitted for consideration eventually. Mrs. X has been thinking of transporting the two big concrete urns that have stood in her front yard for years to the cemetery where her husband is buried. I have a pickup truck, I said, and I’m strong enough to wrestle all the concrete components into and out of it. Her son thanked me for calling and informed me that his mother would consider my offer when “things settle down.”
I’m left to wonder if “things” ever settle down. In the meanwhile I’ve kind of enjoyed flashing $100 bills.
Yesterday I finished a job for a pleasant “senior” lady whose name and location I won’t divulge. She was widowed not very long ago and is caring now for her retirement-age son, who has cancer. The bulk of my work for her entailed the patching of broken bricks with lime mortar, some repointing of foundation stones and repairs of failed spots on her concrete front porch. She paid me in full for the cementitious stuff and for my return after the fixes had cured a bit for their repainting. I hate to see bricks painted and doubly hate to see stones painted, but my repairs had to match the rest of the house: old bricks painted white, foundation granite painted black.
At farewell time I told the woman what I had painted and not painted, as a painting contractor I am not. I told her my focus was in making masonry patched blend in with existent work, that many areas on her house walls, foundation and porch still required scraping and repainting. She understood and asked what she owed me. I said $19.07, not minding the tax on the quart of black latex I’d traveled some miles to fetch, when the supply I’d brought with me ran short. She had asked me to purchase a gallon of this paint, but the $60 price tag at the hardware store had inspired me to settle for the quart.
“How about $250?” she asked me. “No, no, Mrs. X,” I said. “You paid me in full for this work when I was here last time. Call it 20 bucks for this new paint and we’re even.”
Mrs. X disappeared into the surely hallowed bowels of her huge old house for many minutes. I lit a cigarette, stood in the shade and surveyed her grounds. The grand thunderstorm that soaked my neck of the woods had not shed more than a few drops in hers. Her cut-too-short lawn was still a thin, sorry carpet of beige and brown. With patience I waited. Old people have to move slowly. I encourage them to do so, as oftentimes I find that in old-time politeness they’re aiming to please with fast and nimble footwork of which they are no longer capable.
Mrs. X finally emerges from her home, with two $100 bills in hand. My hands immediately shoot up in protest. The cagey old womanly wisp about flies up to meet me like a wasp and stuffs the two hundreds into my shirt pocket, really ramming them in there.
I remove the bills and try my damnedest to return them to her. She will hear none of it. I tell her I’m more stubborn than she is and launch again into an explanation of all the reasons I can’t accept the money. She says it’s her money and she can do what she wants with it, takes umbrage behind her screen door and tells me that she might like to hire me for some future project. I say all right, but I figure I owe you $180. She smiles broadly and says good day.
On my way home I thought about this overly generous “tip” and about how it might be made up to her. Upon return home I called and spoke to her son, who relayed my words to his mother. This was a challenging conversation. I’d say about a third of what I wanted to say to Mrs. X, the son would be heard over the phone quoting me verbatim but in incompletion, Mrs. X would voice her two cents, and I’d attempt to voice in five cents’ worth.
My offer was submitted for consideration eventually. Mrs. X has been thinking of transporting the two big concrete urns that have stood in her front yard for years to the cemetery where her husband is buried. I have a pickup truck, I said, and I’m strong enough to wrestle all the concrete components into and out of it. Her son thanked me for calling and informed me that his mother would consider my offer when “things settle down.”
I’m left to wonder if “things” ever settle down. In the meanwhile I’ve kind of enjoyed flashing $100 bills.