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“So you will understand if I confess that the call of my muse is so faint that your muse is drowning her out.”
“Hang on.” Zach bent down and rummaged in the open toolbox propped on the front steps. Inside was a package of earplugs. He shook out a couple and handed them to Frank. “Occasionally, my muse gets loud even for me.”
Franco stared at the two pieces of bright yellow foam. “Do you have these in blue?”
“No.”
He sighed, then pasted a brave smile on his face. “I shall persevere.”
Zach hadn’t seen him since. Fortunately.
He liked working in this area of San Francisco. There was a lot of contrast with the edge of the Mission District and the trendy part of Valencia Street. He wouldn’t mind living in a place like this. Of course, he wouldn’t mind living in any of the Victorians he’d restored. That was the secret to his inspiration—he got emotionally involved in them. It wasn’t practical, but he left the practical part of running Renfro Construction to his father and his brother, who had enough practicality to spare. Enough for Zach to be Renfro Restoration. So what if he did get a few pangs at the end of a project? Another one always came along.
Zach took a deep breath of the cool evening air and turned on the saw. The drone of the blade as it cut through the wood served as a soothing backdrop for his thoughts.
In spite of all evidence to the contrary, there was a practical side to Zach and that practical side, a residual of years working in the office side of the business, pointed out that there were thousands of very good commercial patterns and manufacturers of Victorian gingerbread trims. And even if he wanted to continue to provide custom designs, he could recycle his more successful ones to increase the profit margin. It would still be a Renfro Restoration original, but he could outsource the fabrication and carry the designs in stock. Construction time and standby labor time would be less, thus increasing the profit margin.
Lord knew it wouldn’t take much to increase the profit margin. But knowing each house was unique appealed to Zach’s pride and an artistic sense he hadn’t known he had.
He owed his father and brother big-time for letting him run this part of the company. They never said a word when Zach’s penchant for perfectionism ate into the already slim profits.
And he was just so much happier doing this than anything else. They knew that, too.
So, he’d work on this new trim design tonight so he wouldn’t have to pay standby time to the crew tomorrow.
Zach concentrated on working the jigsaw and holding the wood steady. One slip would ruin the design. Yeah, there were nails and wood glue, but that was a last resort.
He became aware of a blob of bright colors in his peripheral vision. The blob could have been there any number of minutes since his vision was partially blocked by the side of the safely glasses. He’d seen that blob before—walking by every day and a little while ago it had nearly been beaned with a piece of wood.
Without turning his head, Zach swiveled his eyes. Gotta be a homeless person wandering the streets—the giant ski parka, jeans, well-worn boots, the bag, the wool hat pulled over his…her? ears, but especially the way he/she stood there and talked to him or herself.
The guy was probably going to sleep in the house once Zach left. At this stage in the construction, Zach didn’t particularly mind, but in a couple of days, he was going to have to secure the place to protect the remodeling and tools from vandals.
But right now, he needed to concentrate on working with a lethally sharp saw.
MARNIE SHOVED her hands into her pockets as she watched the man work. His corded muscles were nicely defined by the T-shirt. His jeans did some nice defining, too. Very nice.
Surprisingly nice. Marnie wasn’t in the habit of noticing nice things like that. Hmm. This was a habit she should cultivate. What kind of trance had she been in the past few years? Oh, Barry had been nice looking in his own way but there was something about this guy…something elemental and real—talk about projecting, but who cared?—that appealed to Marnie.
What type of girlfriend would a man like that want?
Emboldened by the concealing whine of the saw, Marnie decided to ask him. “Hey, you. Yeah, you—big, strong, musclely construction guy. So what’s a girl gotta do to be your girlfriend?”
The pitch of the whine lowered as the saw bit into the wood. Marnie admired the shape of the man’s arms. A girl generally didn’t see arms like that in the computer field.
“You’re probably the short, tight skirt, big hair and makeup sort, aren’t cha, Big Guy?”
Big Guy responded by turning so Marnie had a better view of his chest. “Whoo-hoo! You know, for you, it might be worth it. A girl could get lost in those arms. And I’ll bet you’d never ask your girlfriend to paint or pound nails and then buy her a lousy sandwich. You’re probably a simple man with simple needs.”
Marnie suddenly had some of those same needs. What a coincidence. She and the construction guy had something in common. She could work with common needs.
“And I bet you don’t have a whole lot of brains to get in the way of those needs, do you? Nope. Not you. But you know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking brains are overrated. Men with brains just think about the same things anyway, so what do they need brains for?”
Marnie shifted her bag to her other shoulder and shoved her hands back into her pockets. She should get going, but it felt good to shout out her frustrations with the male population to an actual man. The fact that he wasn’t Barry and couldn’t hear didn’t matter at all.
“Yeah, you’re just the kind of guy I could go for, if only…if only you’d turn around so I could see whether or not you’ve got a cute butt.”
There was silence. An all-encompassing silence. A silence that had begun midway through her last sentence. A silence into which the words “you’ve got a cute butt” rang out clearly. Irrevocably.
Humiliatingly.
She should run. Fast. Now.
She should, but she didn’t.
The construction foreman, aka Big Guy, pulled off the clear safety goggles as he straightened and ran his fingers through sunstreaked hair. He gave her a cocky grin. “Thanks.”
Marnie’s face was so hot, she was surprised little clouds of steam weren’t rising from her cheeks. “I was just—I didn’t say—there was more to the sentence!”
“How much more?”
“What I said was, I wished you’d turn around so I…could tell…” Not helping. Not helping.
He inclined his head and obligingly turned around.
Oh. My. Gosh. First of all, he actually turned around. Second, he really did have a cute butt.
Now what was she supposed to do? Because eventually, Marnie knew he would turn back—the way he was this very second—and she would be expected to say something. Under the circumstances, she supposed witty and profound was out.
“Well?” he prompted. He had just the sort of voice she expected a manly man—and what was construction work if not manly?—would have.
Marnie swallowed. “Very nice, thank you.”
“Nice?”
She nodded.
“Not cute?”
“Oh! Yes! Yes, of course it’s cute.” She was not having this conversation. She simply was not. This was an alternate universe and the construction worker with the cute butt was just a figment of her imagination.
A figment that was walking over to the sidewalk. She should say something that didn’t involve body parts. “You’re doing great on the house.”
What a wonderfully insightful remark. So far, he’d torn everything off the front, so who knew if he was doing a good job or not?
“Thanks.” He came to a stop a careful distance away from her and proceeded to subject her to an unabashedly thorough scrutiny. His gaze flicked over her hat, dwelt on her face and lingered questioningly on her puffy ski parka. Then, of all things, he studied her shoes and narrowed his eyes on the black canvas pouch containing her laptop. It wasn’t a normal laptop case because Marnie didn’t particularly want to advertise that she was carrying an expensive piece of computer equipment when she walked through the neighborhood.
Now, the man couldn’t expect to stare at her like that without being stared at in return, and Marnie figured she might as well stare since she’d already blown the first impression. She truly wasn’t the sort to make lewd remarks at construction workers.
At least she hadn’t been a couple of days ago.
Marnie wished that he’d say something. She wasn’t ready to try her luck again at meaningful conversation.
He drew his hands to his waist and regarded her sympathetically. “You need a place to stay tonight?”
Marnie nearly swallowed her tongue. “I—” Apparently it was very easy to become this type of man’s girlfriend. Too easy.
“You hungry?” He used his teeth to pull off this work glove, dug in his back pocket and withdrew his wallet.
He was going to offer her money.
She took a step backward. “I—I’m fine. I live with my mom in Pleasant Hill.” That sounded very sophisticated. “I’m headed to the 24th Street Mission station.” Continuing to back away from him, she hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “It’s just a couple of blocks this way. I should get going.” Giving him a quick nod, Marnie decisively strode toward the BART terminal. She was walking uphill and her shins began to tingle, but she wasn’t going to slow down.
And she wasn’t going to look back, either.
2
The Legend of The Skirt
by Franco Rossi
Act One, Scene One.
Exterior: Charming Victorian
Camera pans (unless is play) details of Victorian woodwork.
ENTER: (unless is movie, then camera zooms in through window) Handsome, with an air of superiority that he tries to hide, charismatic doorman, clearly bound for greater things.
(Note to self: decide if writing a play or movie)
A Skirt in San Francisco
A Play in Three Acts
by Franco Rossi
Act One, Scene One.
A world-renowned parapsychologist, acting as a doorman, (see above description) successfully rents his apartment to three women who will time-share during the week. The possessor of a skirt, which, legend has it, attracts men (and he must rely on legend since he is immune to the skirt), he awaits the opportunity to study the skirt’s effects firsthand.
(Note to self: keep it snappy, keep it moving)
Ms. Monday-Tuesday is a preoccupied computer programmer. Very smart, but very unaware. Nice eyes and hair—needs a trim—has no clue how to dress, presumably a good figure, but how would one know beneath the sleeping bag she wears as a coat? Wants to give city living a try and a break from long commute.
Ms. Wednesday-Thursday is looking for her father. Something mysterious going on there. Must explore.
Sadly, Ms. Friday-Saturday used to own the apartment and is attempting to get on with her life after a broken engagement.
(Note to self: take notes before writing script.)
(Additional note to self: Wear earplugs only if sitting in foyer, otherwise cannot hear doorbell.)
IT HAD BEEN several days since Zach had seen the homeless person. He hadn’t meant to scare her—he’d decided the person was a “her”—but that might be the best thing if it had sent her on home. These runaways took to the streets thinking it was a solution to their problems. Maybe in some cases it was, but that kid was too soft for that kind of life.
And then this morning, there she was again, dragging her belongings behind her. She hadn’t had the duffel when he’d seen her last week. He wondered if she’d stolen it or accepted a handout from somebody.
Surreptitiously from his perch on the ladder, Zach watched her climb the steps to a Victorian across the street and was more than surprised when that Frank character opened the door and let her in. Moments later, without the duffel, she climbed down the steps and hurried on up the street.
Zach started down the ladder, intending to check on the guy, but stopped. It wasn’t any of his business. Besides, Frank came and went all the time. If Zach didn’t see him by noon, he’d check up on him then.
In the meantime, he had some trim to finish tacking up.
Man, he loved his job. Even when things went wrong, he loved his work.
Zach had cut out thirty-six linear feet of gingerbread trim. This morning, he was tacking it between the bay window on the ground floor and the upper floor bay window, the oriel, to see how it looked.
It was an ornate pattern, full of curves and swoops and intricate cutouts because Zach wanted to show off a little bit. He hammered up the three strips, then climbed down the ladder and walked to the edge of the front yard.
An excellent job, if he did say so himself. But the trim didn’t have the impact he’d thought it would. He tried to imagine various exterior color schemes that would highlight the pattern, but the problem was that the curves and cutouts and curlicues were too small for the scale. The intricacies of the design were lost. Maybe if he painted the house a dark color and the gingerbread white, like icing, it would work.
He was standing there imagining it when he heard a throat clear behind him and was relieved to see Franco from across the street. He was walking three dogs, yet managed the leashes in a way that told Zach he’d done it many times before.
“Would you be adverse to a comment from a layman?”
“Go for it.”
“The trim doesn’t work.”
Zach exhaled heavily. “I know.”
“It’s too fussy.”
“I prefer ornate.”
“I prefer ornate, too, but sometimes, less is more, if you know what I mean.”
Zach had meant the word “ornate,” but he let it pass.
Franco shifted the leashes to one hand and gestured up and down. “Look at the tailored lines of the house.”
Zach knew what he meant. “It’s Sticks-Eastlake style. See the square bay window? And there are still some of the original wooden strips outlining it.” Restoration was Zach’s favorite subject. “When the facade is finished, there will be more strips outlining the doors and the framework of the house and then—”
Franco held up a hand. “My point is that you wouldn’t dress a gloriously statuesque six-foot tall woman in girlish frills and lace, would you?”
“A gloriously statuesque six-foot tall woman can wear whatever the hell she wants.”
“No, she can’t.” Franco was firm on this. “She can wear the clean, dramatic lines and bold patterns and color that would overwhelm a more petite woman. Likewise, your house. Enhance. Do not detract.”
