The Drip, a novel by Michael Gullo
“Brush them a little close with the mirror. Make them move over.”
“What the hell, does it ever stop?”
“What, stop?”
“Do you ever think to yourself, enough is enough? I mean, ever? You run your game, and you get lucky you caught them. But you gotta kick them on the way out the door so they come back and break the windows.”
“What do you mean, the windows?”
“Are you out of your mind? You catch the guy on your land, and it’s obvious he’s stealing the equipment, and you won’t even let me call the cops.”
“Let you? I didn’t know I had that kind of power. Do I get like a remote control or something?”
“Don’t put angles on with me, Michael.”
“Angles? I’m just saying that I didn’t know I could not let you do things. I thought…”
“I’ll pull the car over and beat you with whatever I can find. I will beat you to a pulp, a literal pulp, Michael.”
“Is there a menu button for pulp? Can I order pulp up on demand?”
“Michael.”
“You can’t stop in the middle of the road, Stef.”
“You better get somewhere. Back seat. Get in the back seat.”
“Does the remote work from back there? Where’s the stop-being-mad-and-listen button?”
“You get one chance. I’ll listen, but if you go sideways, and you don’t start with what the hell we’re doing with Amy, who is on her way to our house to start throwing our shit in cabinets and closets again, I’ll…”
“She better not touch my tool bag…”
“I’ll – Do you? I love this man. I love this man. I love this man. I …”
“So, one thing at a time. Amy. You said two hours, but what time specifically?”
“4:00 or 4:15.”
“Oh, shit! That means the front windows will be in maximum sunset and that dirt will look…”
“The windows? Are you off your meds?”
“Only meds I need are a steady diet of shit to handle and a tape measure for the bag size. And this remote. This thing is handy.”
“We need Swiffer wet cloths.”
“Get off at Publix, and I’ll run in.”
“Get flowers for the table. And for me, because that’s what assholes do when they forget they’re not the only person in the world with feelings.”
“Swiffers, flowers, batteries.”
“Batteries?”
“Hell yeah, I gotta keep a spare set. This thing dies, and I’m done for.”
“It never stops.”
“So, what happened was, I was in the zone. She called me just like we said she would, ten days on the nose, and you got the under on that one. With Christmas in the mix, I was sure she’d pad. She calls, and I’m in the machine, the mulcher is roaring, I’m step fifteen into a workshop fantasy, and there she is, ten days, blah blah blah, and I’m all, you’re a pussy…”
“You called her a pussy? Like, oblique?”
“Nopers. Dead pan, pussy.”
“You ain’t right.”
“It’s not her. It’s the industry. They’re all psycho like the camera’s always on. Live by the network, die by the network. House needed flair, not a price drop.”
“Oh, it’s got flair. When were you going to mention the ninety-thousand dollars in windows to sweeten the pot?”
“I was in the zone. The zone, babe.”
“The zone.”
“Besides, you already agreed to that when we met the Marvin Window guy.”
“That was before you got Patrick to find land and then waylaid me with making the call to the guy because he’s eighty-one, and you sound like a scam on the phone.”
“So you see it. We bought the land. I had no choice but to get this place sold. And even if we get a contract, the inspection is going right at those windows, and bam, I got ’em answered.”
“Never stops.”
“So, you see what happened. I came by it honest. Right?”
“Never.”
“I’ll get the flowers. Two sets.”