Painting For The Lomsters

“You wouldn’t believe it!”  I said to my wife.  "It’s unreal.  UnFuckingbelieveable!"

She looked at me quizically, and asked: “What do you mean? How bad can they be?"

"Bad!” I replied. "And this is not just the pot calling the kettle black. These people can Drink. They put me to shame. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

The people I was or were referring to were or was my customers. 

“They pulled up yesterday afternoon," I continued,  "and I swear to God they were drunk already. And they grabbed case after case  of beer and wine out of their car, and filled up the fridge, and piled the rest on the kitchen counter. And they were all really friendly—you know, saying 'Hey how’re ya doin! 'Great to meet you!  How ya doin!.... Stuff like that. And the wife even hugged me!"

I held out my arms to demonstrate and my wife pushed them away playfully.

"And" I added,  "They guy’s face was....beet red!  All flushed,  and…….drunk!"

My wife laughed a little and said: "Oh well, I guess they just were having a good time”

“They sure were” I said. "But Cheez! And  reached into my own refrigerator for another beer myself.

"Well...." my wife said, "... just finish them up and get out of there."  You should have been done a few days ago.”

“I would have," I responded, " but they just kept giving me more work to do. Tomorrow I’m gonna be stripping the wallpaper and painting the living room.  But if all goes well, I should be done by Monday."

This conversation took place on a Friday evening in the summer.  I had just retuirned home from work, and we were sitting at our kitchen table. I was describing my first meeting, several hours before, with the people for whom I had been painting over the past week.

Six months earlier, they had moved out of town, to California, on a trial basis. They ended up deciding to stay in California permanently, and had returned to Long island in order to put their house up for sale-after I was done with the painting-and conclude any other affiars that they had on the East Coast before moving, as I say, to the sunnier climate of America's West Coast forever.

The reason I had never met the customers before was because the job was referred to me, and I was hired by their Long Island real-estate agent, who was also a friend of my wife. 

"Well Honey" my wife said, "Don’t  let them offer you any beer. Don’t  you drink with them. Don't forget that it was my friend that hired you in the first place. You’re supposed to be working there, and that’s all."

“Well of course," I said. "I know that! But still.... its gonna be uncomfortable with them all around the place tomorrow, because, you know, they’re gonna be right there. Right there walking by the kitchen and the living room with me working the whole time. You know. And today they kept sayin: Have another Beer! Have another Beer! and then their friend the carpenter from Mattituck came over, and he had a pickup truck full of beer too! And he kept laughing and laughing really loud! He's gonna be over there tomorrow too, doing some work.

And I couldn't help remarking again:  "And the guy...you know the owner... he’s so red. Like a Lobster! All broken capillarys in his face or something, like—from all that drinking. A real boozers face!

TO BE CONTINUED

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