A Mile in My Flip-Flops

by Melody Carlson

  “I’ll see you tomorrow around noon then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember the coffee maker is all ready to go. Just turn it on. And there’s orange juice and—”

  “I know, I know. You’ve already gone over that. Go ahead and leave, Gretchen. I’m sure that dog of yours is getting lonely.”

  “You’re probably right. Maybe I’ll bring him over to visit you tomorrow.”

  “That’d be nice.”

  “Call me if you—”

  “Good night, Gretchen.”

  “Night, Dad.”

  I decide to run by my apartment again, while it’s still light out, and load up some of my things—like a coffee maker—that will make my flip house a little more homey.

  “Are you moving?” asks my neighbor Tom. He’s one of those guys I normally try to avoid—the kind who talks too loudly, drinks too much, and is always looking for the next big “par-tay.”

  “No,” I tell him as I lug my Karastan wool area rug down the stairs. My plan is to put this in my makeshift bedroom until the wall-to-wall carpeting is installed. And then I will eventually use the rug for the open house, probably in the dining area.

  “Need any help?”

  I pause to wipe sweat from my forehead and look up at him, noticing that while he may not be the kind of guy I’d go out with, he does have muscles. “Sure,” I tell him. “I’d love a hand.”

  Naturally this makes him clap his hands like he’s applauding.

  “Thanks,” I say, rolling my eyes and doing a little bow. But then he pops down the stairs and picks up the other end of the rug, and in no time it’s loaded into the back of the truck.

  “Nice pickup,” he says, patting the hood.

  “It’s my dad’s.”

  Then he offers more help, which I don’t reject, and before long we’ve loaded the pickup bed with even more things than I’d planned. During our trips up and down the stairs, I’ve told him a little about my house flip, and he seems to think it’s a great idea and even offers to help, although I doubt he’s serious.

  “Thanks,” I tell him after the last trip. “I’m sure you’d like to be paid with a six-pack of beer, which I don’t have. But how about soda?” I lift up a case of Sierra Mist hopefully.

  He makes a face and waves a hand. “Nah. I was just being neighborly.”

  I smile at him. “Well, I appreciate it.”

  “And…” He glances over his shoulder like he’s uncomfortable. “If you ever, you know, want to go out sometime … that’d be cool.”

  “Well, thanks again,” I say, trying not to act shocked. “I’m pretty busy these days doing this house remodel, but…” I trail off to avoid leading him on.

  He seems satisfied with my ambiguity as he nods and says, “Later.” Then I make tracks to my pickup and wonder why I didn’t just say no. Still, it was nice of him to help. And it was flattering to be asked out.

  It’s dark by the time I get to the house, and I realize I still have to unload stuff from the pickup. Suddenly I find myself wishing for some more “neighborly” neighbors like Tom. Or maybe it’s just that I’m missing Noah. I tell myself that it’s his help I’m missing, but I wonder if it’s even more than that.

  I stand in the driveway for several minutes, trying to decide whether or not it would be safe to leave some of the heavier things in the back of the pickup. That’s when I spot my dad’s big contractor wheelbarrow over by the side of the house. Perfect. I put Riley in the backyard, and my work begins.

  After several wobbly wheelbarrow loads right into the house, including a precarious trip with the rolled-up rug awkwardly balanced in the barrow, I have everything unloaded into the living room. And although I’m exhausted, I suddenly decide to “play house.” I drag my beautiful rug down the dusty hallway, reminding myself of the salesman when he assured me these rugs are tough and originally were made for use in nomadic tents and were laid upon dirt floors. Then I unroll the pretty wool rug in the freshly painted bedroom and am so amazed that I almost start crying. The carpet has shades of olive, rust, gold, khaki, and black, and it looks great with the wall color. Then I drag my air bed in, situating it on the rug. I put a bronze lamp next to it; no need for a bedside table since the bed’s so close to the floor. I move my drop-cloth “curtain” from the other room, and I think it looks rather cozy. And Riley seems to like it too.

  Okay, I’m sure some people would think I’m nuts. Why would anyone in her right mind want to camp here? But I suppose I am a driven woman right now. With three weeks left and the clock steadily ticking, I know I am now dreaming the impossible dream. But I will give it my best shot. So I sit down on my bed, pull my notebook out of my house-flip bag, and begin to make more lists. There are lots of things I still need to order, so I make a list for them. I make a list of things that need to be done and a list of estimates for costs and deadlines, which are some pretty depressing figures. Finally I make a list of the supplies I’ll pick up tomorrow. And then I force myself to turn off the light and go to sleep so I can get up at the break of day and go straight to work.

  Once again I wake up to the sound of Riley barking and running back and forth across the bedroom, trying to get me up. I’m dismayed to see that I’ve slept in. It’s almost eight, and I can hear someone loudly knocking on the front door. I peek out the window to see Holly’s white Subaru parked in the driveway.

  “Coming!” I yell as I hurry to let her in.

  “Good morning, sunshine!” she says cheerfully, holding out a tray with two Starbucks cups and a little brown bag. “Help is here.” And with her paint-splattered jeans and T-shirt, she actually looks like she’s dressed for work.

  “Come in,” I say as I open the door wider.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “Sort of.”

  “You mean you slept here?”

  “Yeah,” I admit. “I’m camping.” Then I explain my plan to save on commute time.

  Holly looks incredulous as she glances around the grungy living room with various tools and supplies piled here and there. “You really spent the night here?” she says again. “Isn’t that kind of creepy?”

  I shrug. “I think I’ve gotten over the creepy factor.”

  “Can I look around?”

  “Of course.” I take a sip of the coffee, which is a latte and perfect, and open the bag to see two blueberry muffins. “And thanks for breakfast.”

  “Oh, man,” she says as she looks into the bathroom that’s completely gutted. “Where do you bathe and—”

  “There’s a second bath,” I tell her, pointing to the end of the hallway. She takes a peek at that one and shakes her head. “You really use that bathroom?”

  “The toilet works. The tub’s kind of gross, but you know—”

  “Gross? This place is like a third-world country, Gretch. How can you stand it?”

  “Hey, did you come here to help or criticize?”

  “Sorry.” She turns and looks at me with a seriously concerned expression, like she’s trying to determine the level of my insanity. “It’s just that I had no idea it was so … so bad.”

  “That’s because you only saw the house from the outside. And if you think this is bad, you should’ve seen it before the cleanup crew came.”

  “This place has been cleaned?” She makes a face as she points to the grimy wall in the hallway where it looks like animals or children wiped … well, something … all along the walls.

  “I took photos,” I tell her, “to document how bad it was.”

  “Yes … but I thought… Well, never mind.”

  “So, do you really want to help?” I ask.

  She presses her lips tightly together as if she’s reconsidering, then finally nods. “Yes. A friend in need is a friend indeed, right?”

  “I guess.”

  She peeks in my makeshift bedroom now, then laughs. “This must be where you’re sleeping.”

  “Where else?” I check out my “cozy” room in stark daylight and s
ee how shabby it really looks with the beat-up wood floor, missing closet doors, and a drop cloth nailed over the window. Charming.

  “Nice rug.”

  “Thanks.”

  We go into the kitchen area, where I have set up a couple of camp chairs. “Care to join me?” I ask as I set the coffees and muffins on the small outdoor table.

  “Delighted,” she says in an affected tone as she sits down and picks up her coffee. “Lovely little place you have here, Gretchen. You’ve done so much with it.”

  “Thank you,” I say with a mock snobbish tone. “I call it contemporary grunge with an artistic touch of minimalism.” I wave my hand to where the cabinets used to be. “Note the sparse lines of the kitchen.”

  “Very cutting edge.” She plays along. “And I like this filthy patina you’ve achieved on the walls. Sort of an urban-grime look, but perhaps you could use a little graffiti to set it off better.”

  “Yes, I think there’s a can of orange spray paint in the pickup.”

  “That should do the trick.”

  We continue this senseless banter while we dine on muffins and lattes, but finally I tell her it’s time to get to work.

  “Where do I begin?” she asks.

  “Do you like to paint?”

  “Inside or outside?”

  “Which would you prefer?”

  “Outside.”

  “Perfect.” Actually I’m relieved since I really wanted to do the interior painting myself. “The exterior is mostly ready to go, but you might need to do a little sanding in spots.”

  So we gather up the supplies and a ladder, and I take her out to one side of the house and show her how and where to sand the lap siding, pointing out the spots where the old paint needs to be smoothed out some. Then I open up a five-gallon bucket of primer.

  “White?” she says, peering down at the paint with dismay. “You’re painting it white? And it’s kind of a mucky-looking white at that.”

  “No, this is the primer coat. After that we’ll paint it a nice sage green.”

  She nods in relief. “Oh good. How about the trim?”

  “That’ll be taupe, but I don’t want to do it until the new windows and doors are in.”

  “New windows and doors?” She seems to consider this, then nods. “Maybe there’s hope for this place after all. How much time do you have left to fix it now?”

  I let out a groan. “Three weeks.”

  I see her eyes open wide. “Wow.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Well, I’ll help you when I can,” she says. “Maybe I can come by after work sometimes.”

  “That would be fantastic.”

  “And maybe Justin will want to help too.”

  “Great.”

  “But don’t forget that next Saturday is Tina’s wedding. I really hope you’ll be there. Tina can’t stand unfulfilled RSVPs. Plus I could really use the moral support of a woman, someone who can make fun of Bridezilla with me.”

  “Of course I’ll be there,” I promise, although I wish I could get out of it. Then again, it might be nice to do something social for a change.

  “So, anyway, I just start?” asks Holly. “Do I use a brush or this little roller?”

  “Whichever you like best—probably both.”

  “What if I make a mess?”

  I laugh. “Look around,” I say as I point to big flakes of paint still littering the beat-up shrubbery and dead grass. “I don’t think you can make it look any worse than this.”

  “Good point.”

  “And don’t worry about the windows since they’re coming out.”

  “This should be a breeze.”

  Seeing that Holly has things under control outside, I go inside to work. My plan is to paint both bedrooms and the hallway before this day is done. Of course, I know that I need to check on Dad at noon, as well as make a supply run, but I think this is a doable plan.

  As I’m painting the largest bedroom, I become more and more aware that the ceiling treatment, a nasty substance known as “popcorn,” has to go. Not only is it gray and creepy looking with old cobwebs still adhered to it’s bumpy surface, but it’s not paintable either.

  So I put down the roller and get out a broad knife. I attempt to scrape off some of the crud, which naturally creates an even bigger mess as the chalky, powdery junk coats both me and the floor. Even so, I can see there’s no going back now. Still, there must be a smarter way to do this. For starters I need to cover the wood floors so this white muck doesn’t get engrained in them.

  As I’m spreading the drop cloths, I notice Dad’s big Shop-Vac and wonder if that might not come in handy. Finally I’ve got the Shop-Vac hose in hand and am ready to go. I’m sure I must look like something from a sci-fi or horror movie as I go to work, but it seems my popcorn removal plan is working … somewhat. I have wrapped myself, almost mummylike, in a drop cloth that’s secured with duct tape. And I’m wearing my faithful bandanna over my nose and mouth and safety goggles over my eyes. I securely duct-taped the broad knife to the end of the Shop-Vac hose so that as I scrape, much of the debris goes directly into the vacuum. Pretty smart, if you ask me.

  Of course, I’m only about half finished when the air is so thick with dust that I can barely see, and breathing is getting to be a challenge too. I have a sneaking suspicion that I never should’ve started this “little” project.

  “What is going on in here?” yells Holly over the sound of the vacuum. I turn to barely see her at the door.

  “Close the door!” I yell, not wanting this creepy crud to escape. Then I climb down, turn off the vacuum, peel off my strange getup, and finally emerge to see Holly standing in the hallway looking at me with a stunned expression.

  “What are you doing in there?”

  I brush dust from my hands as I patiently explain about the popcorn ceiling and how it needs to go, and she suddenly looks very concerned.

  “Have you had that checked for asbestos?”

  “Asbestos?” I repeat weakly.

  “Yes.” She grabs me by the arm now, holding her hand over her nose, and literally drags me out of the house and stands me in the center of the yard.

  “Gretchen Hanover!” She shrieks at me in a slightly hysterical tone. “Are you insane?”

  I stand in the center of the yard feeling like I’m about five years old and just shake my head. “I-I don’t think so.”

  “Well, don’t move.”

  I don’t.

  Then Holly gets the hose, turns it on, and comes over and proceeds to aim the nozzle directly at me. Before I can ask what she’s doing, she pulls the trigger, and I am being doused with cold water.

  “What are—”

  “Do you remember that my parents had popcorn ceilings in their house?” she yells as she continues to soak me from head to toe. “And do you remember that it was full of asbestos!”

  I sputter and shriek from the cold, but I stand there taking my punishment as she continues to scold me.

  “And everyone in our family had to be evacuated from that house for a full week,” she yells, “while that toxic stuff was removed by experts who wore hazmat suits and respirators!”

  I try to say something in response to this, but a blast of water literally goes into my mouth. I lean over to spit it out, and she continues to hose me down on the backside. Finally she seems satisfied and stops, and I just stand there, dripping wet and staring at her in shock.

  “Do you know what asbestos can do to your lungs?” she demands.

  I shrug as I blink back tears. What she’s saying is beginning to sink in. Have I endangered my life? “Do you think that ceiling has asbestos in it?” I ask weakly.

  “When was this house built?”

  I tell her the year, and she nods grimly. Then she picks up an unused drop cloth and tells me to go into the backyard and to remove my clothes, which I assume she will bury or burn. Riley looks on with interest as I peel off my soggy, contaminated clothes and Holly wraps me in the drop
cloth.

  “Now we’ll go to your apartment where you can change. And before anyone goes back into that house, you must have it tested for asbestos.”

  “But I—”

  “No buts!”

  I wrap the multipurpose drop cloth more tightly around me as I slump down in the passenger seat of her Subaru. Part of me thinks that Holly has totally overreacted to this, and part of me is scared stiff that I will develop lung cancer before the sun sets.

  In my apartment, which Holly thankfully still has a key for, I take a very long and thorough shower and get dressed. Then Holly offers to take me to Dad’s since it’s nearly noon by now. But she continues to scold me as she drives. “I called some experts while you were in the shower,” she informs me. “They say there’s a high chance that ceiling has asbestos. Anywhere from five to forty percent of the material may be asbestos. And removing it the way you did, without wetting it or using proper equipment, was the most dangerous way possible. And they said that according to the description I gave them, it’s quite likely no certified contractor will want to come in and work there now, and no inspector will set foot in there. You might even be sued.”

  “Really?” Okay, now I really do feel like crying. How could I mess up this badly? All in one short morning. I wonder what Noah will say. Or my dad.

  “Not only that, the guy told me that if you can get someone in there, it will cost up to thirty dollars a square foot to have it removed. Do you have any idea how much money we’re talking about here, Gretchen?”

  “Ummm…” I do the math in my head. “Like forty thousand dollars.”

  “What are you going to do?” demands Holly when she turns in at Dad’s condo.

  “For starters…” I sit up straighter. “We are not going to tell Dad what I did today. He doesn’t need something like this to worry him right now.”

  I paste a smile on my face as I knock on his door, then use my key to let myself in. “Hey, Dad,” I say as we find him sitting in his recliner, a newspaper spread over his lap, and a basketball game blaring on the TV. He turns down the sound, then smiles up at us. “Two gorgeous women coming to visit.”

  Holly bends down and gives him a peck on the cheek. “I’m glad to see you’re looking much better, Hank.”