A Mile in My Flip-Flops

by Melody Carlson

  But thanks to the Cinco de Mayo celebration, the downtown area is crowded, so I start my search on the south end of town, trying to avoid traffic jams. I’m aware that this area is a little pricey for me, but you never know. First, I pull over into a parking lot and read the fliers. I read about several houses for sale, but the prices are staggering. Even more than I imagined. Also, based on the descriptions and photos, these houses already seem to be in great shape. No fixer-uppers here. Then I notice some condo units for sale, and I can imagine finding a run-down unit in need of a little TLC, but it’s the same situation. According to the fliers, they’re in tiptop, turnkey shape—recently remodeled with granite counters and cherry hardwood floors and new carpeting and prices so high I can’t imagine doing anything that could push them a penny higher. My profit margin and spirits are steadily sinking. Maybe my idea to flip a house has already flopped. Just like the rest of my life.

  After several hours of driving around town, complete with doggy pit stops, and finding not one single fixer-upper house, I begin to feel seriously discouraged. Maybe this isn’t going to be as easy-breezy as I thought. Finally, feeling totally dismayed and in need of a little encouragement, I stop by my dad’s beach condo on the north end of town and dismally knock on the door.

  “Hello, Gretchen,” says Betty, my dad’s girlfriend. She smiles brightly as she opens the carved wooden door wider. “Come on in. We were about to sit down to dinner. You’re just in time.”

  I glance at my watch. “Oh, I didn’t realize it was dinnertime already.” I also didn’t remember that it’s Saturday, a day Betty and Dad usually spend alone together. “I don’t want to intrude.”

  “You’re not an intrusion, Gretchen,” Dad calls from somewhere inside. “I’ve been barbecuing a pile of ribs all afternoon. Come on in and join us.”

  “I don’t know…” I glance over my shoulder trying to think of an excuse to get out of here. It’s not that I don’t like Betty, but I just wanted to see my dad.

  He appears at the front door now, wearing a big smile. He’s attired in a loud Hawaiian shirt, khaki golf shorts, and a red chef’s apron that says “Real Men Don’t Use Recipes” tied snugly over his rounded midsection. “I actually tried to call you about an hour ago,” he says with a curious expression. “But no one answered. Everything okay?”

  “I was out … and my cell phone was off.” I remain in the hallway with Riley tugging eagerly at my leash, trying to get inside. I’m sure Dad’s wondering why I wasn’t holed up at home as usual.

  “Come on in, Gretchen,” urges Dad, taking me by the hand and pulling me.

  “I’ve got Riley.”

  “I can see that. Bring him on in,” he commands. “What about your cats?”

  “It’s okay. They can take care of themselves, or they can hide in the spare bedroom if they want.”

  When I was growing up, my dad always claimed that he hated cats. But shortly after Mom died, when I was thirteen, I rescued a little black kitten in the middle of a busy street. It had been a particularly rough day in middle school, and the warm, furry kitten seemed like a real find. But once I got it home, Dad did not agree. He immediately put an ad in the local paper and some “found cat” signs in the neighborhood. When no one claimed my prize, I insisted on keeping her. Jasmine turned out to be a delightful cat, and later when I went to college, Dad pretty much adopted her and never did give her back. She had a good long life, and when she died a couple of years ago, it was Dad who decided to replace her. But instead of buying just one cat, he got three. He fell in love with three tiger kitties from the same litter, brought them all home, and named them Mowzer, Wowzer, and Bowzer. My dad’s never been terribly clever with names, and even now he can’t seem to tell them apart.

  The cats are not the only reason I keep Riley on his leash. I’ve only brought him here once before, and he knocked over a potted palm that sat right next to the door. Fortunately that plant is now tucked safely away in a corner.

  “Come outside with me, Riley,” says my dad as he takes the leash from my hand and leads Riley out with him. Dad’s first-floor condo has a nice walled-in area with a patio and a patch of grass. Not really big enough for a dog to run, but much nicer than my tiny sunbaked deck. “Check out my ribs, boy,” Dad says to my dog. “You like meat?”

  I chuckle to myself and think what a wonderful grandpa my dad would make. Not that it’s likely to happen anytime soon … if ever.

  “Want a soda or some iced tea?” offers Betty.

  “Iced tea sounds good.” I follow her into the kitchen, noticing how neat she looks in her crisp white Capri pants and blue and white striped top. Unlike me in my grungy jeans and a T-shirt with a shoulder that’s still soggy from dog slobber, Betty always keeps herself up. I figure it’s because she used to have her own real-estate brokerage and just never stopped looking professional. But like my dad, she recently retired. A divorcée of about ten years, she’s independently wealthy and travels a lot. She calls herself a liberated woman, which makes me wonder if she thinks the rest of us aren’t.

  They’ve been dating for about six months, and I still don’t know what I think about her. She’s a few years younger than Dad, although her platinum blond hair makes her seem more youthful. And she’s nice enough, but it’s strange seeing my dad dating someone this regularly. It took him ten years after Mom died to decide to date anyone. And then it was only sporadically, thanks to the demands of his contracting business. As a result, this is the most serious relationship he’s been in. And I can tell he likes her a lot, but I’m not so sure about Betty’s intentions. Sometimes she seems slightly aloof, and I’m not sure that she’s into him like he’s into her. I guess I just don’t want to see him get hurt.

  “Did you go to Cinco de Mayo?” Betty asks as she hands me a tall glass complete with a generous lemon wedge.

  “No … Holly tried to talk me into going with her and Justin… but I had other things to do…” I refrain from admitting how I didn’t want to be a fifth wheel, which is sort of what I feel like right now.

  “Other things?” I can tell she’s skeptical. It seems that everyone is concerned about my hermit ways. So as we head out to join Dad and Riley, I stupidly blurt out in my defense that I went house hunting.

  She pauses in the living room, turning to peer curiously at me. Her narrow arched brows lift slightly. “House hunting?”

  Without answering, I continue outside, watching my dad as he uses a long set of tongs to carefully turn the ribs. The smell is almost intoxicating, and Riley sits like a dog statue at Dad’s feet with long strings of slobber hanging from his gaping mouth. Then, just as Betty hands Dad a soda, Riley comes to life and starts running around the tiny square of lawn, turning round and round in tight circles like he’s gone crazy.

  “Stop it,” I tell him, embarrassed by his neurotic behavior. “Be good, Riley!”

  “Oh, it’s okay.” Dad chuckles as he closes the barbecue. “He just needs to stretch his legs. Poor thing’s cooped up in your apartment day in, day out. I’d be running in circles too.”

  “Gretchen says she’s been house hunting,” says Betty.

  “House hunting?” My dad turns and looks at me like I have just sprouted a second head. “Why are you doing that?”

  So, hesitant but nonetheless excited, I explain to them about my house-flipping plan. I go into all the details of how it’s done, the short-term financing, how I’d be really good at it, how I’ll have extra time once school’s out next month, and how I already have a lot of furnishings and things that I can “stage” it with when it’s time for the open house.

  “You’ve obviously given this a lot of thought,” says Betty. But I can tell she’s still not convinced.

  “It’s a really great way to make money,” I say. “And I can use my profits from the flip for a down payment on a house for me.”

  “Sounds like you have it all figured out,” says Dad. But I sense a slightly sarcastic tone. He looks even less on board than Bet
ty.

  “Well, I don’t have it all figured out,” I admit. “But I think it’s something I could do…I might even be good at it. Maybe I could do one every summer as a way to supplement my income.”

  “Real estate is pretty spendy around here,” Betty points out. Thank you, Captain Obvious.

  “Yes. But that’s one reason it makes sense,” I counter. “People are willing to pay high prices. I just need to find a run-down piece of property—something that nobody wants—and then transform it into something wonderful … and sell it.”

  “Sort of a get-rich-quick scheme?” Dad’s furry brows draw together, and I notice how white they’ve gotten. They used to be sort of a reddish blond, like mine. Sometimes I forget that he’s getting old.

  “No,” I insist, “its not a get-rich-quick scheme. It’s an honest way to make money. And I’m fully aware it will involve a lot of hard work, but I do know a thing or two about construction.” I wink at him. “After all, I grew up watching you do it. I know how to use a circular saw and how to swing a hammer.”

  He grins and pats my head. “That you do. But remodeling isn’t the same as new construction, sweetie. It’s a whole different can of worms.”

  “And depending on the age of the home, you could run into all kinds of problems,” warns Betty. “Plumbing, electrical—”

  “Look,” I say, knowing it’s rude to interrupt but feeling too frustrated to let her continue. “I want to do this. If you guys think it’s stupid or foolish, I just won’t bother you with the—”

  “Don’t get upset,” says Dad. “We just care about you, Gretchen. We don’t want you to get in over your head. Remodeling is serious business.”

  “I know that already.” I stubbornly fold my arms across my chest and suddenly feel like I’m the same age as the kids in my class.

  “How do you know that?” asks Dad.

  “I watch House Flippers on HGTV,” I say, then instantly wish I hadn’t, because I know it sounds ridiculous. And I can tell they’re trying not to laugh at me. And who could blame them?

  “Is that some kind of educational channel?” asks Dad, who watches only sports or news and thinks cable is a waste of time and money. Consequently, I’ve tried to keep my HGTV addiction a secret. I don’t think he’d understand.

  “It’s a home-improvement network,” Betty informs him. “And it’s actually somewhat educational, although I don’t know that they can cover everything, especially when it comes to remodeling. It’s just trickier than what can be explained in a one-hour segment.”

  “I’ll say,” agrees Dad. “I’ve tried to stay away from doing remodels over the years. I’d rather tear down a house and rebuild it from the ground up.” He peers at me. “You sure you’re up for something like this? Just from watching television?”

  “Okay, I know it probably sounds silly to you,” I admit. “But I’ve actually learned a lot watching those shows. Enough to know that it’s possible.” I don’t mention the show I saw today where the house flip didn’t go so well. “And I’ve seen people on the show make good money on house flips. People who know less about construction than I do.”

  Dad still looks skeptical. So I playfully sidle up to him and slip my arm around his thick waist. “Besides, I’m lucky. I have a dad who’s an expert. Most of the people on that show don’t have an experienced contractor in their back pocket.”

  He chuckles. “You think you’ve got me in your back pocket?”

  “And now that you’re retired, you have more time, Daddy. You’ll be just the person to advise me.”

  This almost seems to do the trick because Dad starts to get a dreamy look in his eyes, like he’s really considering the possibilities and liking them. “I suppose it could be interesting.

  “And fun,” I add.

  “And you know that I’d love to see you get into a house of your own. I just wish I had enough cash to help you out, but you know how that last job set me back some…” He turns away from me now, focusing his attention on the barbecue again as he applies a fresh coat of sauce to the already dripping ribs.

  Saddened that I’ve made him remember this, I exchange an uncomfortable glance with Betty. This is a painful topic that we try to avoid. For Dad’s sake, we just don’t go there. Most of the town is aware that he was horribly taken advantage of in his final construction job. After a lengthy hotel project was finally completed, the stingy out-of-state investor had the audacity to accuse Dad of doing unsatisfactory work. My dad, who had worked in Southern California for decades with nothing but happy customers. To add insult to injury, this tightwad jerk not only refused to pay Dad but filed a claim against him with the state contractor’s board and withheld payment to Dad’s subcontractors as well.

  As it turned out, that good-for-nothing investor was flat broke and ended up filing for bankruptcy himself, but that didn’t help anything on Dad’s end. He wound up paying his subcontractors from his own pocket and hiring a lawyer to go after the investor. In the midst of this, Dad’s health went seriously downhill, and at his doctor’s insistence, he decided it was time to retire. The attorney, who’s gone pro bono, still thinks there’s a chance the lawsuit will pay off, but at the rate it’s going, Dad might be a hundred years old before he sees a dime of settlement. Fortunately his condo is paid for, and he seems to get by fairly well on his Social Security.

  “I don’t want you to feel like you’d have to do much in the way of helping me…I mean, as far as physical labor,” I say quickly to Dad. “I’ll mostly need your expertise and advice, because I know that your health is—”

  “Nonsense,” he says. “I’m fit as a fiddle. My blood pressure has gone down considerably, and that new cholesterol medicine is working so well that I can eat like a king now.”

  I point to the ribs. “So that’s what this is about?”

  Betty frowns with concern. “I told Hank it wouldn’t hurt him to continue some of the healthy eating habits he’s established.”

  “I’m sick and tired of vegetables and whole grains,” he says as he licks barbecue sauce from a finger. “And if I never eat anything to do with soy again, I’ll be a happy man. Besides, what’s the point in being alive if you can’t enjoy your life a little?”

  “With moderation,” injects Betty. “Which reminds me…I brought a bottle of Merlot.”

  “You drink wine now?” I ask Dad as Betty goes back into the house.

  “Betty says it’s good for me—just a glass at dinnertime for my cholesterol and heart. I didn’t like it much at first, but I can’t argue that I’ve been feeling better.”

  Betty returns with the bottle and corkscrew and hands them over to Dad. “The wine needs to breathe a little,” she tells me.

  “Betty’s right about moderation,” I say to Dad as he fiddles with the corkscrew. “Moderation is a very good thing for someone with high blood pressure and high cholesterol and ancestors with a history of heart disease.”

  “I agree with you about moderation.” He winks at me as he pops the cork, then hands the bottle back to Betty. “And I think these ribs are moderately done now—that means medium and just exactly how I like ’em. You girls ready to indulge in some fine red meat, or would you rather go chew on a celery stick somewhere?”

  No one argues as he stacks the delicious-smelling ribs on a platter. But I do have to question his sensibility when we sit down at the patio table, where Betty has just set out the side dishes, which don’t look any healthier. “Your dad made these,” she says, almost in self-defense.

  I look at the creamy potato salad, which is loaded with eggs and bacon bits, and then the second bowl, which I recognize as his famous “southern” coleslaw. I’m thinking there must be about a gallon of mayonnaise between these two large bowls.

  “You think you got enough cholesterol on this table?” I ask Dad as he pours us each a glass of wine.

  He chuckles as he sets a glass in front of me. “If it makes you feel any better, I used light mayonnaise.”

  I bi
te my tongue as I wait for Dad to say grace. Maybe there’s no point in nagging the poor man. I take a deep breath, noticing the nice cooling breeze coming straight off the Pacific. And I realize it’s actually sort of nice sitting outside and sharing a meal with Dad and Betty. I feel guilty for having been such a hermit for so long, but maybe things are starting to change for me now. And maybe I’ll become more social when I finally have a place of my own. I imagine a house with a yard where I can set up a table and a barbecue like Dad’s. Then as he prays his usual blessing and I hear Riley happily chewing on a bone beneath my feet, I think that life seems to hold some promise now. Things are about to change.

  Dad says, “Amen” and passes me the bowl of coleslaw, but as I put a cautious serving on my plate, I see that it’s literally dripping in dressing. “You’re sure this is light mayo, Dad?”

  He clears his throat as a slight smirk appears on his face. “Here’s the deal, Gretchen Girl. You lay off my dietary decisions, and I won’t get on your case regarding your remodeling abilities or lack thereof.”

  “Meaning you’re going to help me flip a house?”

  He picks up a big rib. “Yep. I’m thinking it sounds like fun.” He winks at me with those blue gray eyes that are just a couple of shades lighter than my own, then smacks his lips and takes a bite.

  “It could be fun,” adds Betty, “as long as your flip doesn’t go flop.”

  I try not to scowl at her. “Of course, it won’t be a flop,” I say with confidence. “Dad and I will make a great house-flipping team. He’ll be the brains, and I’ll be the brawn.”