Just Joe ~ Jen Luerssen

by Luerssen, Jen

  “Joe, I can see you keeping that pussy joke inside, and I’ll tell you, I’ve never been prouder,” he says and pats me on the back and turns to Betsy. “So, Miss Carter, tell us what you need.”

  Betsy watches us skeptically. “I outlined everything I needed to Marisol, but basically I want a renovation that honors the bones of the building and adds modern amenities. I’d love it if you were able to keep as many as the original fixtures as possible. What are your thoughts on these floors? Do they have a chance?” She taps her Converse-clad foot on the floor.

  “I have the notes from Marisol here, let’s sit and we can talk budget, style and your expectations,” I say and gesture to the bar, there are a few stools around the ugly Formica topped monstrosity.

  She looks at me and takes a seat. “I think I’m confused.” She points to me. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Joe Davis, the owner of the company,” I say. “I’m going to get rid of this ugly bar for you. Shall we get down to it?”

  Her eyes narrow at me, then to Donovan who is now sitting as well, drinking my coffee. “You? You’re like 12 and you own the company?”

  “I can verify I’m 33, definitely not 12, and yes, I’m the owner of the company. This is Donovan, my most trusted and loyal employee. He is very knowledgeable about San Francisco architecture since he’s old, and will be a good resource for honoring the bones, as you so nicely put it.” This happens to me all the time. I’m fortunate that I look like I’m about 25 instead of 33 and occasionally people have a hard time taking me seriously. “So, Bets, you look to be about 20, how did you go about owning your own home?”

  She smirks at me and points. “Don’t call me ‘Bets,’ I’m sorry I misjudged you, I’m almost 30 and I can afford a place like this because I make a ton of money writing software for hospitals.”

  “Are you two done making googly eyes at each other? I want to get started on my list of materials. This place has serious potential. I’ve been so fucking bored working on that basic mid-century place this summer. I need a challenge.” Donovan says this directly into the coffee cup he stole. He has an Instagram, Twitter and Snapchat account, and he loves to throw out new ‘lingo.’ It’s a tad unsettling while at the same time hilarious.

  “Wait ’til you see the upstairs bathroom, Don,” I say and waggle my eyebrows. “As far as googly eyes go, I’ll stop if you will?” I tease Betsy, her face a bright red. “Donovan here takes his side job as a matchmaker pretty seriously, so you’ve been warned.”

  “Oh, jeez, let’s get to it already,” Donovan complains. “This bathroom better be god awful.”

  Betsy’s face lightens. “Okay. I promise to stop too,” she says with a wink. “So, Joe, what do you think? Are my floors salvageable?”

  “We have to get under them first, to see if we can keep them.” I wink back at her.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Don mumbles.

  * * *

  This house is a disaster. Betsy explained she bought it from the original estate and then had someone come and clear out debris and make it temporarily livable. It’s barely that. It’s obviously clean but I can already see a lot of things that will make our job harder. It needs to be completely rewired and all of the plumbing will need to be replaced. As I sit here letting Betsy know her house is a shitty money pit, I see her sink physically into her chair. My dad always told me to tell the customer all the bad up front. That way when you perform miracles on their home, they think you are the second coming.

  “It’s really that bad?” she asks, her eyes glassy with tears. “I knew I got a deal but I thought it would be salvageable.”

  “It’s definitely salvageable,” I reassure her. “It’s a gut job, though, I’m not going to lie to you. We need to get into the walls and rewire and repipe all of it. You need to be prepared for what we find in the walls. It could get ugly.”

  “Meaning more expensive,” she says and she’s right.

  “I will give you an estimate with all possible scenarios. We will be able to salvage a lot of the original wood and the floors aren’t that bad, we will have to replace some planks but once we refinish you won’t be able to tell. The stairs need to be completely replaced, I’ll see what we can do with the banister, it’s pretty rad.”

  “Okay, I’m trusting you, you redid a co-worker’s flat and she had nothing but great things to say. Said you were a miracle worker.” She takes a deep breath. I like her, she has a good attitude. Of course, it’s hard to hear your house you spent probably over a million on is a total piece of shit, but if you can’t see the potential then you should have bought a renovated craftsman and called it a day.

  “Great things, eh? How could she fail to mention how handsome and charming I am? I must be losing my touch, am I losing my touch, Don?” I ask him and he flares his nostrils and shakes his head.

  “I need to retire, I’m too old for your shit,” he says and I hug him. “Step off, you’re lucky there’s a god damned pink flamingo in the bathroom, I need to work out some aggression during demo.”

  I release him laughing. “Oh, Donovan, you love my shit.”

  “If you two are done doing whatever dysfunctional dance you’re doing, can you get to it?” Betsy asks tapping her foot.

  “Sure thing Bestie. Don and I are going to finish up our measurements and check a few things. We will be out of here in about an hour.”

  “It’s Betsy,” she corrects.

  “That’s what I said,” I brush her off. She will now be known forever as Bestie, close enough. “We will check in with you before we leave.”

  Don and I make quick work of measuring windows, the two fireplaces, doors, etc. We are done by noon and he tells me he’s done for the day and is going to bounce and get some pho, alone.

  I stomp back to my new BFF’s room and knock loudly since I hear music playing.

  “Come in!” she calls.

  I open the door and am immediately struck speechless. Betsy is in the middle of the room in a full backbend with one leg raised in the air. She is wearing leggings or tights or something tight, my brain isn’t functioning at top levels. I am fully aware that she is not wearing a shirt. Or more to the point she’s wearing like, half a shirt? Her hair is still in a braid and her head is thrown back in what appears to be ecstasy. Mine would be in pain if I were in a similar position.

  She kicks her leg over and the other follows and she lands perfectly. “You guys finish up?” she asks glowing from her exertions. I’m mesmerized by her. Her shirt reads “Have you seen the rest of my shirt?” and it makes me laugh.

  “Yep, grumpy old hipster and I are all done,” I say and she laughs. I can tell I’m growing on her. “I’ll email you the schedule for the upcoming few days and then a larger ballpark of time. It will probably take a total of three months but not much more. I have an estimate for best, middle, and worst case scenarios. Which one do you want first?”

  She walks to me and her scent wafts my way. Oranges and sweat, smells heavenly. It’s all I can do to help myself from licking her shoulder. “Worst case, lay it on me,” she says and holds her hand out.

  I give her the slip of paper with the highest amount on it. “It shouldn’t be too much of a shock.”

  Her eyes go wide and then she closes them. “Sure, not shocking at all,” she says sarcastically. “Now give me the best case.”

  “Well, you and I continue to be best friends, you fall desperately in love with me, and we live happily ever after,” I say with my best smile.

  “You are really too much, you know that?” she asks, hands on hips, with a hint of a smile.

  “I do, and I’m getting the feeling you don’t mind.” I hand her the other two slips of paper and she sighs.

  “I’ll mind less if you can get this job done closer to this price,” she says waving the best-case slip at me.

  “Oh, I’ll get the job done.”

  Her eyes roll so far back into her head I worry about her having permanent damage.

  Just D
emo

  WHEN I START A PROJECT I try to visualize what it will look like at the end. With Betsy’s house it’s a challenge. We will strip the entire place down to the studs and start from scratch. It’s not the first time we’ve done it but it’s rare. My architect, Colleen, has done a few drawings but Betsy hasn’t chosen one yet. I ring her bell, excited to see her again. We’ve exchanged a few emails, including her returning the contract, signed and sealed. I’ve kept it professional over email, but all bets for Betsy are off when I see her in person.

  When I hear her nearing the door, I lift my sledgehammer over my shoulder, trying to look tough and ready to destroy. The door opens and I’m struck speechless again. She is wearing tights again with a slouchy off the shoulder shirt. She’s also out of breath and has a sheen of sweat on her brow. This job might be harder than I thought.

  “Hey, Joe, you look ready to knock shit down,” she says with a smile.

  “My favorite part of my job. Destroying shit before I build it all back up.”

  “Don’t fucking touch that bathroom, it’s all mine,” Don says from behind me and he’s carrying a similar sledgehammer.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, Donovan, say hello to the lady at least.”

  “Hello, lady,” he grunts out and walks into the house.

  I follow and Betsy closes the door. We walk to the kitchen where Don has helped himself to coffee and a danish.

  “Don’t mind him. He thinks since he’s over 70 he doesn’t need to have manners anymore,” I say taking the coffee she offers me and pluck a blueberry danish from the plate on the counter.

  “It’s fine, one of my best friends is 72 and she doesn’t give a fuck either. It’s refreshing and brings things into perspective.”

  “See, Bestie, we have so much in common. Spending time with our elderly friends, a love of quality danish, are these Black Jet?” I ask knowing these are from one of my favorite bakeries.

  “Are you purposefully trying to annoy me or does it just come naturally?” she asks. “Of course, they are from Black Jet, I wouldn’t be able to make something this good. Also, don’t expect this every morning. I’ll probably be gone before you get here most days. Always help yourself to coffee though. I insist.”

  “We will take advantage of your coffee offering,” I say with a wink. “It’s definitely on purpose, by the way. Now, let’s knock shit down!”

  * * *

  Betsy helps us enthusiastically tear down some walls and even Don lets her get a chance at the pink bathroom from hell. We get a huge chunk of the demo done on the second floor and some on the first. We help her move the coffee pot, fridge, and microwave to her room in the back and I finally get a shot at the disgusting salmonella coated butcher block.

  “Wait, you’re going to demo the counter? I was kind of hoping it could be saved,” Betsy says and I pretend to throw up in my mouth. “What? It’s not that gross, just needs to be sanded and then treated with oil.”

  “Unless you are hyper diligent with cleaning it a butcher block counter is the most bacteria-ridden surface on the planet.” I speak from experience. My parents loved theirs and when Jack and I started renovating the house it was the first thing we got rid of. We kept it clean but it still had a weird smell and it was just a pain in the ass. “It’s your digestive system, but this could be a big setback in our best friendship. I’d never be able to share a meal with you here if you prepared it on the block.”

  “Hm, so there are extra incentives to keeping it,” she says tapping her finger on her lips.

  “Bestie, you wound me,” I say teasing. “I can work around it, you’ll have to eat with me and my brother or we’ll just go out.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, man, are we going to get this kitchen done today or are you and Bessie here going to bone first?”

  “Don, dude we talked about this. You have to tone it down in front of the clients. Now Bets here is cool so she’s laughing it off, but can you take it down a notch?”

  “Why should I? You’re not getting anywhere with her, so I thought I’d be the bad cop. I’ll play ornery old man and you’ll look like less of a douchebag.”

  “You guys know I’m right here?” Betsy asks, waving her hand.

  “Listen,” I say turning to her. “How about we save a small section of the block and we can incorporate it into the new concrete counter as a cutting board? I’m just worried about your health,” I say placing my hand on her shoulder and it’s so soft and now I’ve made it awkward.

  “Okay, that sounds like a good compromise,” she says and if I’m not mistaken, she shivers slightly. I’m going to take that as she likes me touching her.

  I drop my hand and turn to Don. “Go get the chainsaw.”

  He raises his hands in victory. “This day is the bomb.”

  * * *

  We finish well past five which means Don left about an hour ago. He tells Betsy that he is under strict orders from his doctor to not work past five o’clock. It’s a load of shit that I let him get away with because when he’s here he is productive.

  Betsy hands me a bottle of water and gets one for herself and we drink them in silence. The house is bare, down to its bones and we didn’t find anything too bad. Don found a petrified rat and a little bit of termite damage in a corner in the hall next to Betsy’s room but the rat had been dead for years and the damage looks old but not anything too alarming.

  When a house is like this, down to the studs, it’s a little heartbreaking in its beauty. This is what a sturdy, well-built home looks like and few get to see it.

  Betsy nudges my shoulder. “Thinking about all the possibilities?” she asks.

  “Yep, I see me and Jack hanging on the couch right here watching The Bachelor with you. Over there I see you cooking me dinner and not using the barf-tastic cutting board. Up there I see—“

  “That’s enough out of you,” she says pushing my arm down that’s pointing up to where the master bedroom will be.

  “What?” I ask innocently. “I was going to say I saw you sleeping like the angel you are and doing whatever acrobatics you do.”

  She shakes her head and her blue ponytail swishes over her shoulder. I can’t stop looking at her, which means I should leave.

  “I’ll get all these tools into the truck and then get out of your blue hair,” I say, placing the water on the counter.

  “Hey, can I get your cell number, in case I have a question or need to let you know when I’ll be home?” she asks.

  “Bestie, if you want my number, you don’t have to make up reasons. Just ask,” I say and take her phone from the counter and put my contact info in and then call myself.

  “Bet-see, say it,” she glares.

  “Bet-see, I’ll Bet-see you later,” I say, picking up my tools and leaving to the sound of her laughing.

  * * *

  Later at home, Jack and I have spaghetti and meatballs and then sit out on the back deck drinking beer. I tell him about the new project and about Betsy.

  “She has blue hair and the most beautiful tattoos. Her sass is off the charts too and she is pretending to hate me,” I say.

  “Are you sure she’s pretending? Make sure you read the social cues, bro.” Sometimes I hate that he’s a more evolved human than me.

  “She and I have a rapport. I’m reading it correctly. She’s trying to resist me but I’m not being inappropriate, I swear.” He shakes his head at me and I throw my bottle cap at him. “You know that Don would shut me down if I was misreading her participation in our fun banter.”

  “You’re using Don as your voice of reason? Shit, Joe, do I need to come with you to this job and save you from a sexual harassment charge?”

  I hold my hands up. “I swear I’m not that bad. She is a casual person and we are friendly, I promise. She asked me for my number today.”

  “Really? She asked the person in charge of working on her reno for his number? You guys are total BFFs.” He rolls his eyes.

  “Yep, we are, watch me
text her right now.” I take my phone and type out a quick message to her.

  Me: Will you be home in the morning or are we starting without your lovely presence?

  Bestie: Did you seriously put your contact name as ‘Number One Stud’?

  Me: You knew who it was right away, didn’t you?

  Bestie: Sigh, you are literally the worst person I know.

  Me: All my friends say that. Are you firing me?

  Bestie: God no. You’re the worst person, but also the best at renovating homes. Trust me, I’m having a hard time with it.

  Me: I get better with time, I promise.

  Bestie: Somehow I believe you. I changed your contact name and no I won’t be home tomorrow. I’ll see you on Thursday.

  Me: Oooh, what is my new contact? BFF? Hotconstructionguy? Guns-a-plenty?

  Bestie: Ha! I’ll never tell, somehow, I think that will drive you nuts.

  Me: You want to drive me nuts? Wear that half shirt again.

  Bestie: You are so inappropriate.

  Me: So my brother told me.

  Bestie: Listen to him, he sounds like the wise one in the family.

  Me: Most definitely. Good night Bestie.

  Bestie: Good night ding dong and it’s BETSY.

  Me: See you Thursday, Bestie.

  Bestie: Do you have to have the last word?

  Me: Perhaps.

  Bestie: Sigh

  Me: Sleep well, Bestie.

  Bestie: Grr.

  Me: I love a woman who can growl.

  Bestie: FYI I changed your contact name to insufferable ass from what it was before. You do know I can fire you?

  Me: Yes, but you won’t because we are the best.

  Bestie: Betsy has gone to bed. Do not disturb.

  I want to let it go but I can’t, I’m me.

  Me: Sweet dreams, Bestie.

  Just Friends

  BETSY IS SLOWLY BUT SURELY warming up to me. It may be because when we had to shut off her power, I brought her a coffee. It might have been how I was able to get her a major deal on reclaimed wood planks that match her flooring. Or it could have been that I found an authentic early 20th century outside light fixture worth $500 on eBay for $30. Probably it’s the texting though.