“I’ll talk to Todd when he gets here.”
William and I went back outside until, eventually, Todd showed up, Eric came outside, and the debate started all over again—until Eric could no longer ignore reality: clearly damaged plywood, joists, and wall studs. He switched tactics and blamed Todd for not putting the expense in his bid. He said the contract reeked of a “bait and switch.”
Todd remained calm and held his ground. “That’s why it’s a contingency item. It’s bad luck, I’m sorry.”
Bad luck. I thought again of Forecheck. I couldn’t help but look at Eric like he was the biggest jackass on the planet. This was a bathroom. It was only money. Nobody had died. Nobody had been blown to bits in a tree.
“I told you about this potential when I bid the job,” Todd said.
“He did tell us,” the wife said.
Eric ignored her. He must have been a real joy to live with. “It seems like a convenient way to inflate a bid.”
Todd shrugged. “If you think you can get someone to fix the dry rot for less, you’re welcome to do so, but I won’t guarantee the work if I don’t approve the fix.”
“I’m going to have to think about it,” Eric said.
Todd shrugged. He turned to me and William. “Pack everything up. We’re done here.”
We went to the driveway, and I immediately put all the tools in the buckets. I could hear the husband and wife talking. She wanted us to do the work, but the husband was trying to save face, the way the South City kid had tried to save face with his girlfriend that night he’d picked a fight he couldn’t win. After less than five minutes, the husband backed down.
“Okay. Fine. Do the fix. But keep all the receipts so I know what the materials cost, and my wife is going to keep track of your worker’s time. This job doesn’t need two guys.” The husband looked at me. “How much does he get paid?”
“Five bucks an hour,” Todd said.
“Five bucks? That’s more than minimum wage. He’s a kid.”
The husband said it like I was ten years old. He was early thirties at most.
“He’s not a kid,” William said suddenly. “He’s eighteen.”
Eric turned to Todd. “Fine. But my wife will track their hours.” He stormed off, lowered himself into his Mercedes, and drove away.
Before leaving, Todd opened the glove box in his truck cab and handed William a Polaroid camera. “Document everything before you close it back up,” he said. William and I did so.
The next morning, William and I returned to the jobsite to do the tile work. This time we drove together in the El Camino, which looked to have been cleaned of William’s stuff.
We worked all day, mixing mortar, letting it set to a certain firmness, then cutting and laying tile. The wife decided she wanted a geometric design in the back wall of the shower, and William drew out several options on sheets of paper. The guy was gifted, an artist. She picked a complicated design, but William never hesitated to accommodate her, though I knew it would be more work cutting and fitting the tile together. I got the impression he enjoyed doing the creation and seeing it come to fruition.
When we finished, late in the day, William wiped off the grouted tile with a sponge and put the sponge into the bucket. The wife walked in. She took one look and was ecstatic. You would have thought we had installed solid gold tiles. She kept saying how beautiful it had all turned out.
The husband drove up as I put the tools into the buckets and put the buckets into the back of the El Camino. He looked to the house. “You guys are finished?”
“Yeah. William’s inside with your wife settling up.”
The guy hurried inside. Given the wife’s professed love of the tile job, I was not surprised when William quickly came out the front door. What did surprise me was the look on his face. I had seen that crazed look once before, in the seventh grade. Barry Hickman. I still remember his name. He had come to school with a near beer, strutting around the schoolyard like he was a big deal. I don’t know what compelled me, but I bullied Barry, and as more students bullied him, I couldn’t apply the brakes. I upped the ante. I knocked the still full can of near beer from his hand and walked away. Someone shouted my name, and when I turned, Barry barreled toward me at full speed, his arm cocked as if ready to throw a baseball, but not a baseball, the can of beer. He rushed at me so quickly the leather soles of his shoes had no chance to stop him on the asphalt, and he slid, which is the only reason the missile he unleashed didn’t smash me in the face. I can still hear the can whizzing past, just inches from my head. The terror did not end there. It was just beginning. Something had snapped in Barry. An animal came at me, eyes bulging, his pupils pinpoints of black, teeth bared, face flushed. I did the only thing I could think to do. I spun like a bullfighter. The raging bull blew past me, slid again, and this time Barry fell on his ass. I grabbed him in a headlock before he could get up, and I held on for dear life. My classmates implored me to kick Barry’s ass, but I wasn’t about to give Barry another shot at me. Truth was, his expression, what I had provoked in him, scared me.