by J. J. Murray
“You can wait until the sun hits the bricks,” Patrick said, “if the sun even comes out today, or you can try pouring boiling water into the sink.”
“I’ll try it.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
When he arrived, he knocked on Mrs. Gildersleeve’s door, and she let him in. A woman of about fifty, Mrs. Gildersleeve could have passed for a much younger woman, her golden hair still golden, her face still smooth. She reminded Patrick of the Nordic girl in a gum commercial, only Mrs. Gildersleeve was thinner and wore sweaters nearly every day of the year.
“It didn’t work,” she said.
“I’ll have to torch it, then,” Patrick said. He set his tool bag inside the door and found his trusty hand torch. His phone buzzed, and he answered it.
“My sink is stopped up,” a woman said.
“Is this Mrs. Schoonmaker?” Patrick asked.
“Yes,” she said. “How did you know?”
“Your drainpipe is frozen,” Patrick said, “but it’ll be thawed out in a moment. I’m already upstairs with Mrs. Gildersleeve. As soon as her sink drains, your sink should drain, too.”
“Why?” Mrs. Schoonmaker asked.
“You two share the same drainpipe,” Patrick said.
“Why?” Mrs. Schoonmaker asked.
Because this was once a one-family house, and whoever turned it into an apartment house combined lines to cut costs and cause me headaches. “Trust me, Mrs. Schoonmaker. It will be clear in a few minutes, but call me if it isn’t, okay?”
“Okay.”
Mrs. Gildersleeve blinked at him. “We share the same drain?”
“Everyone shares the same main drain,” Patrick said, snapping his phone shut. “You and Mrs. Schoonmaker share the same sink drainpipe. It’s not the greatest system, I know, but if I thaw yours out, hers should thaw out, too.” In theory.
He went into the kitchen, opened the cabinet under the sink, stuck his head into the cabinet, lit the torch, and ran the flame back and forth above the coupling nut to the trap. In a few minutes, the water in the pipe was boiling, and a minute later, the water drained out in a rush. He pushed himself out and ran some water in the sink.
“That ought to do it for now,” Patrick said. His phone buzzed, and he answered quickly. “Is it gone, Mrs. Schoonmaker ?”
“No,” Mrs. Schoonmaker said. “It has grown higher. It’s threatening to overflow.”
That’s not good. “I’ll be down in a moment,” Patrick said. He closed his phone.
“Should I let it drip overnight so this doesn’t happen again?” Mrs. Gildersleeve asked.
“The tap isn’t the problem,” he said. “It’s where the water travels through the pipe near the brick. You might try pouring a pot of boiling water down your drain first thing in the morning to loosen up any ice.”
“I shouldn’t have to do that,” she said.
“I know,” Patrick said, “but none of the pipes in this building are insulated, and we’d have to rip apart the walls to do it right. That would take weeks.” He showed her the torch. “You can always have one of these handy. They go for about fifty bucks.”
“What if the bathtub ever backs up?” she asked.
“It shouldn’t,” Patrick said. “For some reason, the bathtub and shower drainpipes in this building are wider than normal.” He noticed her cell phone on the kitchen table. What a coincidence. She has a fancy cell phone, and I need a picture. “Does your phone take pictures?”
“Yes,” she said. “Why?”
“Could you take my picture and send it to me?” He smiled. That has to be the strangest request I have ever made of a tenant—or of anyone, for that matter.
“You want a picture . . . of yourself.”
“I know that sounds strange, but I promised to send a picture to a friend of mine,” Patrick said. “Salthead lets me use this cheap phone, and it doesn’t have a camera.”
“Just . . . take your picture.” She picked up her phone.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” Patrick said.
“Dressed like that,” she said.
Patrick shrugged. “She’s a good friend. She’ll understand.”
“Okay.” Mrs. Gildersleeve held up the camera. “Are you going to smile?”
“Oh, right.” Patrick smiled.
She took the picture, looked at it, and turned the phone around. “That wasn’t much of a smile.”
Patrick looked at himself in his coveralls. I thought I was smiling. I don’t look anything like Bruce Springsteen, but Springsteen would probably never wear coveralls. I should have shaved. Geez, I’m a wrinkly clothes–wearing man. “It’ll work.” He told her his e-mail address, and she sent it to him.
“Do you have Wi-Fi?” Patrick asked.
“Obviously.”
“Oh yeah. Right.” He dug his laptop out of the tool bag. “May I borrow your Wi-Fi for a moment? I’d like to send the picture to her as soon as I can. She’s kind of been waiting for it.”
“Mrs. Schoonmaker is waiting for you, too,” she said.
Patrick nodded. “Her water isn’t going anywhere, and I only need a minute.”
Mrs. Gildersleeve sighed. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you,” Patrick said, and he smiled.
“Now, that was a smile,” Mrs. Gildersleeve said.
“Is your Wi-Fi password protected?” Patrick asked.
“What?” Mrs. Gildersleeve said.
I’ll take that as a no. “When you first get on the Internet, do you need to type in a code?”
“No,” she said. “Um, is this friend your girlfriend?”
“She’s a friend,” Patrick said. And she’s hardly a girl. Lauren Short is a lady.
“Have you known her long?” Mrs. Gildersleeve asked.
“No,” Patrick said. “Not long.”
Patrick booted up his laptop, connected immediately to the Wi-Fi signal, and checked his e-mail. Lauren still hadn’t replied. Oh yeah. It’s four a.m. there. She should still be asleep. He opened the e-mail from Mrs. Gildersleeve and looked at his picture. I’ve looked better, but this will have to do. He saved the picture to his hard drive and attached it to a quick e-mail.
Lauren:
Here I am in all my glory. Feast your eyes on a man in uniform.
Patrick
PS: I do clean up nicely. Really. You’ll have to use your imagination.
After clicking SEND, he returned his laptop to the tool bag. “Thank you so much.”
“What’s your friend’s name?” Mrs. Gildersleeve asked.
“Lauren,” Patrick said. “Lauren Short.”
“There’s an actress by that name,” she said. “It isn’t the same one, is it?” Mrs. Gildersleeve laughed. “Oh, of course it isn’t. What am I thinking?”
Patrick hoisted his tool bag. “It is.”
Mrs. Gildersleeve blinked.
“My friend is Lauren Short, the actress,” Patrick said.
“You’re kidding,” Mrs. Gildersleeve said.
“No,” Patrick said.
Mrs. Gildersleeve squinted. “You mean I just took your picture with my phone, and that picture is on its way to Lauren Short, the Hollywood star?”
“I’m sure it’s already there,” Patrick said. “She probably won’t see it for a few hours, because she’s sleeping in. She’s on vacation.”
“You’re joking, aren’t you?” she asked.
“No.” He smiled. “She deserves a long vacation after what happened to her, don’t you think?”
Mrs. Gildersleeve didn’t answer.
“Have a good day,” Patrick said. “It’s supposed to be just as cold tomorrow. Call me if the boiling water trick doesn’t work.”
“I . . . will.”
25
Lauren woke at the reasonable hour of eight and brushed her teeth over the kitchen sink. All forty-eight of them, she thought. I don’t have that many, Patrick.
She returned to her bedroom, fluffed her pillows, and went
back to bed.
All vacations should be this easy. I may even move my TV in here. Yes. That will be the extent of my labor today.
She checked her e-mail and deleted several hundred without reading them, until only Patrick’s latest e-mail sat in her in-box.
Yes! He sent a picture!
She downloaded the picture.
He’s . . . wow.
He’s . . . tall.
Huge hands.
I am impressed.
Patrick is impressive.
She kicked off her covers to cool off from the heat rising from her legs.
He didn’t say he was muscular. Look at those arms and shoulders! And those dark eyes. Wow. They’re sexy and kind at the same time. Ooh, what a sexy beard.
This man is not ordinary at all.
He’s hot.
Very.
But how do I to tell him he’s extraordinary and hot without sounding as if I’m in heat?
I don’t think I can.
And I really don’t think I should.
She saved the picture to her computer and then replaced her lame California coastline background with his picture.
Yeah, I could look at him all day. He is tall. I wonder where he’s standing, though. That can’t be his kitchen. It’s too girly. No man has blue ducks on his walls.
She popped up his e-mail and hit the REPLY button.
Patrick:
You lied to me.
You are hotter than the Boss.
You are an extremely handsome man. I knew you were beautiful. And if you don’t mind my saying so, if handymen ever did a calendar, you’d be the one I’d want for the months of December, January, February, and March. You’re the kind of man who can make spring come early. You’re the kind of man who can melt snow on the street. You’re the kind of man the sun is jealous of. You’re the kind of man who has seriously raised the temperature in my apartment. I had to turn on the A/C. I had to take a cold shower. I have an ice bag on my head right now.
In other words . . . you fo-ine.
I like what I see very much.
Very.
Much.
Whose kitchen is that?
Lauren
PS: Very. Much. Please send more! I need a portfolio! ; )
26
Once he had Mrs. Schoonmaker’s sink draining after a few minutes of torching her pipes, Patrick headed to the basement to make sure the main sewer drain was behaving.
It wasn’t behaving.
At all.
A one-inch coating of brown, semi-frozen, glistening goo greeted him.
But I just snaked this drain a few days ago! Geez! Will these people stop eating so much roughage?
While the snake chewed and whined through the muck, Patrick found Mrs. Gildersleeve’s unprotected Wi-Fi signal and checked his e-mail.
Lauren’s awake! And I didn’t disgust her with my picture. She even sounds . . . interested. If that’s the right word. I’ve obviously warmed her up, but how would I know if a woman is truly interested? It’s not as if I’ve had much practice. It’s a good thing neither of us is looking for a new relationship.
Though she sounds as if she is. I think I shall test her.
Lauren:
I was in Mrs. Gildersleeve’s kitchen. Her sink was stopped up because of a frozen pipe. I doubt you have frozen pipes in Los Angeles. She took my picture and said I didn’t smile. I did. Really.
Right now I’m re-snaking (which isn’t a word) a sewer drain in a cold basement and thinking of you.
See how unromantic I am? I guess I need practice.
Since I will be here awhile, and since I am borrowing a Wi-Fi signal while I wait, why don’t you send me a recent picture of you? Send one that shows me what you look like without makeup or clothes.
I mean, send one that shows me what you look like without nice clothes on.
Oh, I’m sure you have nice clothes.
Send me what you look like at this moment.
Patrick
27
My handyman has gone from flirting to frisky, Lauren thought. I like that.
A lot.
I shall return the favor.
She looked at the thin light green T-shirt and thinner navy blue panties she was wearing.
This could get very interesting.
She picked up her phone, turned it on, and went into the bathroom. She looked at the towels on the floor, the mess in the sink, and the shower curtain crying out to be replaced. A perfect background.
She snapped several pictures of herself with her phone, each more daring than the last, her neckline plunging lower, her panties becoming a thong, her “torso” becoming more and more visible.
Now, which one do I send? I know I should only send him the head shot, but I’m feeling frisky, too. I should send all of them to warm up his day.
But what if . . .
No. I will show some restraint, because I am not a hoochie.
Yet.
She sent the first picture to herself and saved it to her computer before attaching it to a blank e-mail.
Patrick:
This is me. No makeup, hair a mess and face dry, shirt wrinkled. It’s what I look like when I get out of bed. Try not to gag, and ignore my messy bathroom.
Lauren
PS: I took several more pictures, but I’m afraid I got carried away. Use your imagination.
The second after she sent the message, Lauren closed her eyes.
And now I’m scared.
Why am I scared?
Millions of people have looked at me for years in movies and in magazines, but this . . . this one picture matters.
This picture matters more than any other because I need someone to like it.
I need Patrick to like it.
Please like it, Patrick.
Please like me.
She tried to slow her breathing.
I should have sent the last one. I still have a nice booty, and he called it sculpture.
Her breathing increased.
No, no, the head shot is the best shot. For now.
I hope.
28
Patrick watched the photograph as it downloaded line by excruciating line, and when he had Lauren in the flesh in front of him, his heart thudded.
She’s . . .
My God.
There are no words.
If she looks this good when she wakes up and rolls out of bed...
He looked at the lake of goo receding sluggishly toward the drain as the snake churned on.
And this is what I look like sixteen hours a day . . .
An e-mail pinged into his in-box. He opened it.
Patrick:
You’re keeping me in suspense, and you know I don’t like to wait.
I’m sitting here thinking you lost the signal, or the picture froze during the download, or Microsoft decided to do an intrusive update and it slowed your computer to a crawl, or I should have sent one of the other more risqué pictures, or you don’t like the one I sent you, or the one I sent you scrambled into something horrible.
If you haven’t already figured it out, I’m slightly self-conscious, all right? Just slightly.
Oh, all right. I am very self-conscious, but I have every reason to be because I have just spent seven years with a bisexual man who told me I was beautiful almost daily when he didn’t mean it at all. I just need confirmation, okay?
You have to have the picture by now. What do you think? And you don’t have to sugarcoat it. I can take a bad review.
Lauren
PS: Why didn’t you tell me you were muscular? I likes, I likes. ; )
She likes, she likes. I guess that’s something. And I’ve never lifted weights in my life. I earned these muscles pipe by cinder block by wrench by hammer and by nail. He turned off the snake and cranked the hose back into its housing. And especially by snake. I may not hate cranking this snake nearly as much from now on.
Maybe there’s hope, because my “job,” such as it is
, has given Lauren something to like.
She wouldn’t like this aroma, though.
He turned his head away from the stench and searched for a clean gulp of air as his phone buzzed. He answered it. “This is Patrick.”
“What in the hell is going on?” a man cried. “I sit down, I flush, and the toilet nearly overflows!”
Mr. Hyer. “I know, Mr. Hyer, and I’m working on it. I’m in the basement right now. It’s slow going because of the cold.”
“You should have fixed it right the first time!” he yelled. “Don’t you know what you are doing?”
“I know what I’m doing, Mr. Hyer,” Patrick said. “I’m doing the best I can.”
“If you were doing your best, you would not be here again today!”
Patrick glanced at Lauren’s picture. She wouldn’t take this abuse. Of course, she wouldn’t be here in this basement to take this abuse. “Mr. Hyer, try to understand. Instead of one family and two toilets, there are eight families and eight toilets all using one ancient drainpipe that—”
“I do not want to hear it,” Mr. Hyer interrupted. “Fix it now!”
Click.
Patrick looked at edge of the pool of goo, which had suddenly moved two inches—in the wrong direction.
I am going to be here awhile.
I think I’ll name this place Lake Holland.
He smiled at Lauren’s picture.
At least the view is nice from the shore.
He again fed the snake through the muck and then restarted it.
Lake Holland sat unmoved.
While the snake sought out the main line again, Patrick turned and typed.
Lauren:
You are too beautiful for words, although I have some thoughts going through my head that I’m afraid to share with you. I hope you understand.
I’m in the basement of a building built during the 1890s, trying to unclog the same sewer line I unclogged the other day, and you want me to let you know what’s going through my mind when I see a breathtaking picture of you. I’m afraid that if I tell you how utterly, painfully beautiful you are, you might be offended. So I won’t tell you that my heart hurts to see your beauty. I won’t tell you that you aren’t stunning. You’re astonishing. I won’t tell you that I have never seen someone who has just rolled out of bed looking so beautiful. You can’t make me tell you how much my hands are trembling as I type this because of your heart-stopping beauty. And I most definitely won’t ever tell you that I will never be the same again from this moment until the day I die.