The Drip, a novel by Michael Gullo
“I can’t.”
“You can’t what?”
“Michael, I just won’t. I won’t go from living in one construction site to living in the next. I will not do it.”
“Stef, we don’t have the money for your vision, move to Sevierville, put your toothbrush in the cup and head to O.P. Jenkins for the couch.”
“It’s not some vision, Michael. This is not my home. We made a mistake coming here, and I want to go home.”
“I know, but it’s not that easy --- We’ll get there. I promise.”
“We have been here for ten years, and you have been promising we’d move back almost the entire time.”
“It’s the money, Stef.”
“Michael, it’s not that, and you know it. It took you a year to dig out and finish a foundation that has been done for yet another year. Two years and I’m living with a foundation outside my dining room window. I’m thinking of painting a big red H on the thing and telling everyone it’s the helicopter pad.”
“Oh hell, yeah! You get the brushes, I’m heading to Sherwin Williams.”
“Michael.”
“I know, babe. But I don’t sit still. Patrick to find us cheap land, and the man says we can go look at it, and the price is right, but we don’t have the money to build a whole new house and finish this one too. It’s all in this here.”
“And that’s the point. You have spent every penny we had for the last ten years bolting things onto this house, and now it cost more than we’ll ever get for it.”
“It was unmarketable.”
“What market is that?”
“The real estate market. It languished 430 days before we bought it – because nobody searches for a three-bedroom four-story house. We paid nearly half price because It was unmarketable.”
“Except to you.”
“Don’t you remember the first visitors, those first months? James, Karen, everyone scared to drive down to the lake for fear they’d get stuck?”
“Fine, fix the septic. Pour a driveway - but whose idea was it to renovate three bedrooms into six? Whose idea was it to tear out the kitchen and put in a Tuscan chef sanctuary? And for goodness sake, whatever possessed you to take all of that off grid?”
“Not the solar again. Look, we bought this place with dreams of the whole family on the dock, Jetskis, floaties, cookouts, and the fact is it’s too far for all that.”
“Fine, then we sell it.”
“Thus the construction site.”
“No, Michael. The construction site is eight years.”
“Seven.”
“And a half.”
“It’s not all my idea. Hardin Valley’s economy changed. They put in the school and the thousands of homes, and this place went from a camp on the lake to eleven acre multi generational estate with six bedrooms.”
“But it’s not. It’s got six bedrooms, yes, but the beds are old, the décor is mismatched, and 1990 wants their bathroom tile back.”
“Did you just add to my renovations list?”
“No, Michael. I can’t live like this. Six bedrooms, Michael. Six. We don’t even decorate them. Old junk in every corner. And the couch; yes, I want a new couch. I mean, cat claws and dog paws. The pillows are dingy. It’s got ninety-six projects worth of sheetrock dust in it. I can’t take it anymore.”
“Wait, am I still going for the paint?”
“And the basement. Who the hell literally digs a hole next to the house with a garden tractor – a garden tractor, Michael. Who digs a hole next to the foundation, excavating every inch of the length of the house, footers and all and then saws a hole in the concrete foundation wall to put in a door just because the county wouldn’t count that bedroom without a second egress?”
“But I already expanded the septic to six bedroom. It had to be done is all I’m saying.”
“Yeah, go get the paint. I can use it for the chalk outline.”
“Fine, then we put this place on the market.”
“Then it sells, and where do we live?”
“I guess we could get an apartment for a few months.”
“A few mon --- are you serious?”
“Stef, you’re all worked up.”
“Worked up? You bought four cars in the last year, trading every one of them in because they’re not just right.”
“Fight fair.”
“I am fighting fair – for myself. You bought four cars in a year. Audi was too small. Then the Rivian too uncomfortable, and back to an Audi but different, and now I can’t even walk across the garage to my own car because your douche canoe Hummer is literally pressed flat up against the wall so you can close the garage.”
“Come on. That’s not fair. I gotta have an EV. We have solar power. The gas is free.”
“You’re impossible! You’re Wabi-Sabi with a Brooklyn accent, and sometimes we just gotta get shit done.”