Business as Usual
A jolt awakened me, disoriented and confused. The 737 connecting flight I took from Dallas was landing at Corpus Christi Airport in a turbulent thunderstorm. The plane bounced violently against the gusty winds, and passengers were wide-eyed with uncertainty. A young mother wearing designer jeans and an embroidered pink sweatshirt clutched her two small children in the seats adjacent to me as if it might be their last embrace. The flight attendant, using the seat backs to steady herself, carefully staggered down the narrow aisle.
"Sir, you need to strap yourself in, we're landing," she said, concerned.
"This is a mighty wicked storm," I said while trying to locate the end of my seatbelt.
"Yes, it's a little rough, but we'll be safe on the ground in a few minutes," she said, as she gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
I could feel the aircraft descending, but, through the blinding rain, couldn't discern any physical landmarks outside the passenger window. Then, obscured almost entirely by the blinding rain, the galvanized roof of an aircraft hangar appeared directly beside us. And with a simultaneous thud, the landing gear bounced onto the runway. The pilot reversed the engines with a roar until the aircraft slowed, then taxied through the squall to the jetway. An audible sigh of relief filled the plane. When the aircraft docked, I helped the young mother with her luggage, grabbed my belongings, and exited the exhausted jet. My mother and two little brothers were waiting anxiously at the gate.
"Let's find a coffee shop inside the airport and wait out this storm," my mother said as we greeted and shared hugs.
"You won't get any complaints from me," I said. "I could use a strong cup of coffee after that flight."
"Was it rough?" my mother asked.
"Does a bear?....uh....yes, it was very rough."
We spent the few days before Christmas telling stories about times past, with a few Nintendo games sprinkled in, then on the 24th, we piled into my mother's station wagon and drove to the First Methodist Church downtown for the Christmas Eve Candlelighting Service, which always ended with the congregation singing "Silent Night."
I went to bed after midnight that night, that silent night, in Corpus Christi, Texas, patiently waiting for the sandman to send me off to slumberland, then, a fragment of an old poem popped into my head--not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
As per usual, on Christmas morning, my stepfather, John, woke before dawn to prep the turkey and shove it in the oven before the first creatures stirred. He rattled easily when it came to preparing the turkey—steadying himself with sips of Pearl from a can he had stashed in an outside refrigerator—and it was best to let him work undisturbed. My mother was usually up too, cooking breakfast to order for the early risers, me being the first that year. The savory smell of pecan pie, turkey, dressing, sausage, pancakes, bacon, and eggs filled the kitchen.
When it was time to unwrap presents, John handed me an extra gift. He likely wrapped it himself; it was neat enough, but unquestionably not the work of my mother's crafty hand. It was a professional drafting compass set. I was astonished. John rarely smiled, but he did that morning. "I heard you were learning drafting." John could be thoughtful at times when you least expected it.
Later, at the dinner table, Molly asked if I had visited Washington, D.C.
"Yes. Several times. My roommates, Jack and Sue, took me on a mini-tour of the Smithsonian Museums months ago, followed by a fancy dinner in Georgetown. I have also visited the Smithsonian alone many times; I am quite fond of the art museum, if you can believe that. Oh! And a friend of mine, Jeff, another displaced construction worker from Texas, is getting us tickets to George H.W. Bush's Black Tie and Boots Inaugural Ball at the Washington Hilton Hotel in January."
"That sounds like a blast!" Mom said. "How is he getting tickets to that swank event?"
"Through the Texas State Society. Jeff joined the organization when he moved to Virginia to meet people. We have been to several of their events; this one suddenly popped up."
"That sounds like so much fun. Are you going to wear a tuxedo?"
"Yes, I'll rent one, but I need to buy some new cowboy boots here in Corpus before I fly back; my old antelopes are pretty beat up, and wouldn't match my tux anyway."
After dinner, everyone cut a slice of their favorite pie—Mom's had a double helping of Cool Whip—and retired to the living room to fall asleep watching a Christmas movie, while I slipped out to meet Chip and Liz at El Que for beer and billiards.
I woke up the next morning to find my mother sitting at the kitchen table in her robe, coffee in hand, and head buried in a biology textbook.
"Good morning, Matt. Do you want some breakfast?"
"Don't get up, Mom, I can make my own. What are you studying?"
"I've been working on my bachelor's degree in nursing. If all goes well, I should be graduating in May."
"That's fantastic, Mom!"
"Do you think you'll ever go back to school, Matt?"
"I don't know. Never say never, but I don't see it in my immediate future. However, I have developed an interest in architecture, especially since I moved to Virginia."
"How did you learn so much about construction?"
"I have always been interested in building things. Remember all the stuff I built on Chestnut Street from old fence boards when I was 9 or 10?"
"You were pretty creative," Mom said. "I remember the submarine you built."
"Well, I just took that interest up a few notches. Once I realized that a profession in the medical field was not for me, I needed another direction. Unexpectedly, as if a lightbulb lit above my head, I thought: What about construction? I could learn carpentry! So, with no experience, I got a job as a carpenter's helper and began learning the basics, I bought books on carpentry and construction, got a job as a carpenter, and moved up in the field as I gained more knowledge and experience in the trade, and here I am, seven years later, building a detached garage and an art studio as a self-employed General Contractor in Washington, D.C."
"That's amazing, Matt, it really is. Are you going to buy a computer for your business?"
"There it is," I said, rolling my eyes.
"I know, I know, I'm always talking about computers, but I'm serious, Matt. You always loved building little machines and switch boxes from stuff you bought at Radio Shack when you were a kid. A computer would take that interest to the next level. You could discover computers the same way you learned construction and add a new tool to your business."
"Maybe some day, Mom, but for now, my plate is full."
"Fair enough, Matt. I'm going to make more coffee. Will you have a cup?"
"Sure."
"Say, you should fly back to Texas in March and go to Espinazo with me and Molly and Grandma," Mom said, changing the subject.
"Where is Espinazo?"
"It's a small town in Mexico where people go twice a year to celebrate the birth and death of a curandero, El Niño Fidencio, a faith healer."
"Why would I want to go there?"
"It's enlightening, plus it is also lots of fun. Ask Molly."
"Ask Molly what?" Molly asked as she suddenly entered the room.
"About Espinazo," Mom said, "I'm trying to talk Matt into joining us."
"Oh, you have to go, Matt! We can hike through the desert, drink beer, and go dancing every night."
"I'm not sure I'll have the time, but I will if I can."
"If you can go, I promise, you won't regret it," Molly said.
That afternoon, I went to a nearby western wear store and found a pair of cowboy boots. They were the perfect blend of black and dark gray and would look like a million bucks at the Black Tie and Boots Ball, but they were a tad too small. The store didn't have a larger pair, unfortunately, but I wanted them so badly I bought them anyway, thinking they would stretch over time. They never did.
I wore my new boots on the flight back to Virginia. They looked sharp with my jeans and button-down shirt, and turned the heads of a few pretty girls in Dulles airport, but I couldn't wait to get home and kick them off my aching feet. Once I got settled in my Woodbridge Office, I called Jeff.
"Hey Jeffrey, were you able to get tickets for the Black Tie and Boots Inaugural Event?"
"Yes, but we may not want to go."
"What? Why?"
"These tickets only cost us $50 each, but rumor has it that folks in Texas are willing to pay $1,000 for them. $950 each would be a nice profit."
"No kidding. I could use the extra bucks."
"Me too," Jeff said. "I'll put an ad in the Dallas paper and see who bites."
"If we can sell them," I said, "great, and if not, we go to the Ball. It's a win-win."
I called the Shuckleys to let them know I was back in town and planned to pour the concrete on January 3rd or 4th. Then I called Aaron.
"Are you ready to pour Shuckley's slab next week, Aaron?"
"Hell yeah, I'm getting cabin fever after spending so much time inside over the holidays."
"What do you think about the temperature? It's supposed to be in the 20s next week."
"Are you worried about us or the concrete?"
"Neither. I already know we will freeze, but the concrete should be okay; the structure of the garage will provide the needed protection. We can cover the garage door opening with plastic and heat the inside with a propane heater. That combination will keep the concrete well above freezing."
"That should work," Aaron said.
"Okay then, I'll call the concrete company and schedule the delivery for next Wednesday. Let's meet on Tuesday to prep the foundation."
Tuesday morning, on the way to Shuckleys, I stopped at a lumberyard to pick up a roll of 6-mil plastic and an outdoor thermometer, then stopped by a tool rental company to rent a 150,000-BTU propane jobsite heater.
At Shuckleys, Aaron and I unrolled the Welded Wire Mesh—which I had purchased before heading to Texas—to reinforce the concrete slab. We cut it to lengths that fit the garage's interior width, secured the sections with wire ties, and set the assembled wire mesh onto "chairs."
Next, we cut a sheet of plastic to serve as a temporary garage door, attached one edge to the top of the opening with staples, then rolled up the bottom to just below the header and secured it with nylon string.
On Wednesday, around noon, Aaron and I returned to Shuckley's garage and, knowing we would be working past dark, installed temporary work lights suspended from the garage's ceiling joists and attached the thermometer I had purchased earlier to an interior stud to monitor the garage temperature as the concrete cured. The temperature was 26 degrees.
Aaron and I set up the jobsite heater just outside the garage door opening on the right, out of the way, aimed it toward the middle of the garage, then fired it up. The heat felt good.
Late that afternoon, the mixer arrived and, upon my signal, began pouring accelerated concrete inside the garage floor space. Aaron and I fired up the work lights, put on our rubber boots, and went to work, spreading, raking, and leveling the concrete around the floor to ensure the wire mesh was fully covered. At dusk, the cement truck finished unloading and departed.
After the concrete had hardened a little, we broke out our trowels and knee pads and began smoothing the surface. The troweling process took about 15 minutes; we then waited for another interval and repeated it.
"It's going to be a late night, Aaron."
"That's okay. I came prepared," Aaron said as he removed two beers from an ice chest in his truck.
"How can you drink cold beer on a night like this?" I asked.
"You'll find out. One of these is for you."
"I don't know..."
"Take it, Matt."
"Okay...you twisted my arm. Gimme that thing."
At 2 a.m., exhausted and frozen, we mustered up enough energy to trowel the slab one last time, but it had hardened to the point where there was nothing to trowel. We had finished the slab. Aaron left for home around 2:30. I kept the jobsite heater blowing for another hour, killing time smoking cigarettes and staring at the hardening concrete, then shut it down and left Shuckleys at 3:30, thoroughly annihilated.
The next morning, the sun had warmed temperatures near freezing. I drove back to Shuckleys to check on the garage floor. It was an incredible sight to have it completed after so many weeks of delays due to sub-zero weather.
I removed the only wooden form—a 16-foot 2x8—that I installed at the base of the garage door opening, along with the temporary plastic door we used to keep the garage warm. The only thing left to do was call the garage door company to schedule the installation.
"It looks good, Matt. You and Aaron did a great job," Mrs. Shuckley said as she walked toward me from her back patio.
"Thanks, Mrs Shuckley. Do you want your painter to paint the garage before we install the door?"
"No. There's no telling when he will be available. Go ahead and install it."
"I'll try to get that scheduled tomorrow. Aaron also needs to grade the gravel driveway so it aligns with the new garage floor, but after that, we'll be finished."
"Great, Matt, let me know when you're wrapping up and I'll write the final check."
"Perfect."
"When you're ready, we can start talking about my new art studio. We won't want to build it until March, but we can work on the design and estimate in the interim."
"I was thinking the same thing, Mrs. Shuckley. Let's talk more tomorrow."
By Friday afternoon, the final payment for the detached garage was safely in my bank account, and I had already sketched the design for the new art studio. One project completed. The next project started.
Since I had a week to spend in Espinazo, I made plane reservations to arrive in Corpus Christi on March 11th and return to Virginia on the 20th.
Black Tie and Boots - January, 1989
Two days after Jeff put an ad in the Dallas Morning News to sell our tickets to the Black Tie and Boots Inaugural Ball, I received a single call from someone in Dallas who "wasn't about to pay $1,000 for tickets that only cost $50." I couldn't blame him, but we weren't lowering our price; in fact, as the event drew nearer, Jeff and I decided we didn't care about the money and would regret abandoning a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
With the Ball just two weeks away, we reserved a couple of Miami Vice tuxedos the next morning to lock in the style and price while there was still availability.
The day before the event, Jeff and I took the day off so we would have plenty of time to pick up our tuxes and make any last-minute size changes, but they fit perfectly, unlike my new boots.
Saturday afternoon, I showered and shaved, dressed in my tuxedo and tight-as-hell boots, and drove to Jeff's house in Burke, where we slowly sipped Don Julio Añejo until it was time to head to the Washington Hilton Hotel.
Saturday evening, January 21st, 1989
It was a festive time in Washington, D.C. The American people had just elected a new president and were looking forward to meaningful changes in our federal government, though his campaign message was, "Business as Usual." I could only take that to mean one thing--four more years of Ronald Regan.
We arrived at 8 p.m., ready to dance the night away with gals from Texas, whom we hoped to meet. The ballroom was grand and star-studded, with politicians, movie stars, football players, and reporters interviewing well-known celebrities as they entered the foyer. Stealthed by anonymity, Jeff and I easily slid past the newspeople into the main ballroom and spotted three gorgeous women, dressed to kill, sitting at a large round table with two empty seats. Jeff and I looked at each other, smiled, and headed that direction.
"Hello, ladies," I said. "Is anyone sitting in these seats?"
"No, please join us. My name is Melissa, and my friends are Mary and Deborah."
"It is a pleasure to meet you all," I said. "My name is Matt, and the big guy here is Jeff."
"Are y'all related?" Mary asked, comparing our appearances.
Jeff laughed and said, "No, but lots of people think we're brothers. Maybe it's the Texas accent."
"Then y'all are from Texas?" Deborah asked, sounding unconvinced."
"Yes," Jeff said, "but we live in Northern Virginia now, due to the Texas economy."
"I grew up in Corpus Christi," I said, "but lived in Austin before I moved to the D.C. area a year and a half ago."
"Same for me, except I grew up in Houston," Jeff said.
"Mary and I are from Laredo," Melissa said, "and Deborah owns a horse ranch near Wharton."
Wharton? Did I hear that right? I pinned cattle at livestock auctions in Wharton County in the mid-70s—you can't own a horse ranch in those parts without knowing a few cattle ranchers—there was one I would never forget, that cattleman from El Campo, "Boy, you don't know a heifer from a steer, from a hole in the ground."
"Wharton is magnificent country," I said to Deborah. "Say, does ole Billy Bode still run the livestock auction down there in El Campo?" "Why, yes...he does," Deborah said, stunned, as she subtly conveyed a—I guess these guys are legit—gesture to Mary and Melissa.
Jeff leered at me.
"I used to work at El Campo Livestock."
Jeff smiled, "Of course you did, you bastard."
"Do either of you fellows know how to two-step?" Melissa asked, looking at me.
"Does a bear? (Jeff laughed)....I mean....yes, let's go!" I said, as I took her hand and made for the dance floor.
Jeff and I two-stepped, polkaed, and waltzed with the three women from Texas all evening. Jeff mostly danced with Mary and Deborah, while I danced three-to-one with Melissa. I don't know what it was; we just clicked, and toward the end of the night, I danced exclusively with her.
At the end of the evening, the overhead lights in the ballroom came on. Melissa and I exchanged phone numbers, but knew the relationship wouldn't go very far unless she planned to relocate to Washington; I had no plans to move to Laredo. Suddenly, the magic of the Black Tie and Boots Ball was over, and it was time for Jeff and me to say our goodbyes to Mary, Deborah, and Melissa before our pumpkin turned back into a pickup truck.
The next morning, I woke with a smile, thinking about Melissa and the festivities at the Inaugural Ball, and how fortunate I was to have spent the evening celebrating the election of a new president with the leaders of the free world in Washington, D.C. My ticket to the event, sitting on my desk, caught my eye. I grabbed it, put it in an envelope for safekeeping, and placed it in the top drawer of my nightstand.
In my bare feet, on the cold wood floor, I strolled into the kitchen, put on a pot of coffee, and noticed a light blinking on Jack and Sue's answering machine:
Hi Matt, Mrs. Miller here. I was showing our neighbors, the Schwarzs, the work you have done around our house. They would very much like you to build some shelves in their basement. Give me a call when you can, and I'll provide the scope. I hope all is well. Talk to you soon.
Once the coffee was ready, I filled my cup and called Mrs. Miller.
"Hi, Matt, how have you been?"
"I have been well, Mrs. Miller. How about you and little Matthew?"
"He's getting bigger by the hour and discovering new things to get into every second. The other day, he knocked over a plant in the kitchen and dirt went everywhere, but you don't want to hear about that. Are you calling about the Schwarzs project?"
"Yes, they need some shelves?"
"Yes. It's not a lot of work, but might keep you busy for a couple of weeks."
"That's perfect for me. I'm flying to Texas in March and could use a small project to fill the time before I go. When I return, I'll be building an art studio for the Shuckleys."
"What's happening in Texas?"
"Mexico, actually. My mother, sister, and grandmother are taking a trip to Espinazo to celebrate El Niño Fidencio's Saints Day, held in mid-March. They have been there before and wanted me to join them."
"Who is El Niño Fidencio?"
"I don't know much, just the little I have read. El Niño was a well-known local curandero, a faith healer, popular in the 1920s. People go to Espinazo twice a year, in March for Saints Day, and in October to celebrate his birth and death."
"That sounds very interesting. I want to hear all about it when you get back."
"Sure thing. I'll take lots of photos. So what about the Schwarzs?"
"Okay, well, I don't really like them," Mrs. Miller said. "They're snobby and pretentious....actually, she's okay, but he is a first-class a$$."
I laughed hard, "What do you mean?"
"It's just a feeling I get when I'm around him. For instance, when they were here last week, he boasted about how he had their gardener plant small shrubs in front of their enormous three-story house to make it look bigger."
"Yes, what an a$$," I said, grinning, thinking maybe Mrs. Miller was judging him too harshly."
Mrs. Miller gave me the Schwarzs number, and I called them that evening.
"Hello," a man answered coldly.
"Hello, my name is Matt and...."
"Hey, that carpenter is on the phone!" he hollered angrily, away from the phone, probably to his poor wife, into what sounded like a large empty room.
"Hello? Matt?" she asked, wrestling the phone to her ear.
"Mrs. Schwarz?"
"Yes."
"Mrs. Miller told me you wanted some shelves installed in your basement."
"Yes, can you come by tomorrow morning and look at it?"
"Sure. Nine o'clock?"
"That's fine. Do you know where we live?" Mrs. Schwarz asked.
Yes. You live in that giant house with small shrubs...., I thought.
"Yes, Mrs. Miller told me. I'll see you tomorrow."
It was a cloudy morning in Northern Virginia, with temperatures in the low 20s, expected to rise above freezing by mid-afternoon.
As I rolled up to the Schwarzs' residence, I noticed the small shrubs Mrs. Miller referred to, planted along the front of the house. My first reaction was, can't they afford to buy larger shrubbery? As for making the house look bigger, Mrs. Miller was right; their immense three-story home was already tremendous. Instead of the small plants making the house look bigger, the house just made the plants look too small.
I rang their doorbell. A pretty petite woman with dark hair, perhaps in her upper 30s, wearing expensive-looking casual wear, came to the door.
"You must be Matt," she said.
"And you must be Mrs. Schwarz," I said.
"Walk around to the back of the house, and I'll let you in the basement door," she said.
"Okay," I said cheerfully, supposing 'hired help' wasn't allowed inside the main house. No worries. I preferred the outdoors anyway.
I met Mrs. Schwarz in the basement. She wanted 16-inch-deep shelves built along one basement wall, which had a fireplace at the center and two windows on each side. I began taking measurements as she spoke, and the cogs in my head commenced to turn. I could create all the shelving material by ripping 4x8 sheets of A/C plywood (since they planned to paint), 15-3/4" wide, with minimum waste. Then, I could add 3/4" nosing on the front of the shelves to achieve the 16" depth.
"I think I have what I need to create an estimate this afternoon, Mrs. Schwarz. I'll call you when I have it worked up."
"Don't call after five o'clock, Matt," she whispered in a soft, almost inaudible voice. "My husband will be home."
"Is that a problem?" I said, looking around to see if he had come back home.
"Trust me, Matt, the less he knows, the better," she said. "If you aren't ready before five, then just call me in the morning after nine; this is our project, yours and mine, no one else needs to be involved."
"Fair enough," I said as I left the basement and walked around to the front of the house to my truck.
Well, that was strange, I thought, while driving back home to my Woodbridge Office. She whispered when she talked about him as though he might still be lurking around the house.
I finished my estimate around four o'clock, but I decided to sleep on it. The next morning, Mrs. Schwarz accepted it without question. I went to work each day after nine and left by four, until Friday, when I finished the job by noon. Mrs. Schwarz was pleased with my work and paid me in full.
That evening, I received an unexpected call from Mr. Schwarz—he must have liked my shelving work (though he never said so)—asking me to provide an estimate to construct two partition walls in their basement. All I needed to do was frame the walls and cover them with unfinished sheetrock on both sides. He accepted my bid for $800 (materials and labor). I lowered my original bid of $1,050, hoping to secure a repeat customer.
On Monday, I returned to the Schwarzs' basement with enough 2x4 material in the bed of my truck to construct one of the two walls. My pickup truck didn't have enough capacity to carry all the materials I needed at once, so I had to purchase each day's building materials on the way to work each morning. On Tuesday, I made another trip to the lumberyard for another load of 2x4s and built the second wall. On Wednesday, I went back to the lumberyard for enough sheetrock to do half the job. Finally, on Thursday, I picked up the remaining drywall I needed to finish the job, which I did at the end of the day. I finished, cleaned up my workspace, and left before Mr. Schwarz came home from work, thinking I would pick up payment on Friday. That evening, however, I received another unexpected call from Señor Schwarz.
"Matt, I think you are overcharging me for those partition walls," he said brashly.
"What?"
"Yes. A friend of mine had one built for half of what you charged."
"I'm sorry you feel defrauded, Mr. Schwarz, but if anything, sir, I undercharged you. Most of that $800 went for materials, leaving me less than half for a week's work. I sincerely hoped you would see my estimate as a bargain and consider me, on future projects, as your go-to contractor."
"You finished in four days. It wasn't even a whole week," Schwarz said, not acknowledging a word I said.
"You agreed to the estimate, Mr. Schwarz. If you thought I was overcharging you, you should have gotten another bid, or told me so before I started the work."
"Well, I think it's too much and I'm not paying that amount. When you come up with a reasonable price, I will pay it."
"I'm not changing my price, Schwarz. If you can't pay the whole amount, then don't pay me anything."
"You think since I am rich, you can charge whatever you want?" Schwarz said, escalating his tone.
"Did I say that? No. Rich? In fact, quite the opposite," I said, infuriated.
"You think I can't afford to pay you?" Schwarz said, with defensive irritation.
"A rich man wouldn't argue with a poor man over a lousy $800. And it's not even the whole amount, it's some nitpicky $50, or $100, or $200, whatever it is you're trying to hustle me out of. You know, Schwarz, this conversation is insulting. Keep your money. The partition walls are on me."
Schwarz slammed down the phone. It wasn't about money-I knew that. It was about him bullying some poor construction worker out of a few bucks so he could brag about it to his partners over martinis and fine cigars. Schmuck.
I spent the last week of February finalizing the drawings and estimate for the Shuckleys' art studio, and scheduled a meeting with them on Friday evening to discuss the details.
"Matt, these drawings and estimate meet our expectations. What are next steps?" Mr. Shuckley asked.
"I need to submit the blueprints to Fairfax County for approval," I said. "I can do that tomorrow. My goal is to have the building permit in my hands before I leave for Mexico."
"Mexico? Vacation?"
"Yes," I said, thinking it might be more like a pilgrimage. "I fly back into Dulles on March 20th, and if you're ready, I can start construction shortly after."
"That's ideal, Matt," Mr. Shuckley said. "Have a wonderful trip, call us when you're ready to break ground."
On Monday, I had the finished drawings converted to blueprints and submitted them to Fairfax County for approval. On the way home, I stopped in Springfield for a much-craved burger and beer before proceeding back to Woodbridge.
When I rounded the corner of our Street, Jack and Sue were backing their Airstream Trailer into the driveway. They were finally home from their long sojourn to Key West. Jack saw me pull up and smiled.
"Happy hour, anyone?" Jack hollered, grinning.
"I'm game," I said.
"See you in the basement," Jack said.
"Let me grab the mail," Sue said, "there's probably past-due bills in there."
While Jack regaled me with the trials and tribulations of their weeks-long voyage, Sue sifted through the mail.
"It looks like this one's for you," Sue said, teasing me with a who-is-your-new-girlfriend smile. "Who is Melanie Schwarz?"
"She was one of my customers while you guys were traversing the East Coast," I said, opening the envelope. "Her husband and I sort of 'got into it' over the phone; he didn't want to pay the full amount of a bid he accepted the week before."
"Scumbag," Sue said.
"Yes, that's what I thought," I said, "but it looks like his wife came through. Here's a check, written off her personal account, it appears, for the whole amount. There's a message."
*********************
Dear Matt,
I sincerely apologize for my husband's behavior last week. I hope you can forgive him.
You do excellent work!
Melanie
PS: I got your address from Mrs. Miller.
*********************
"Well, how about that?" I said. "That woman is entirely too kind-hearted for that malevolent jerk husband of hers."
"It makes no sense, but opposites attract," Sue said.
"I suppose," I said, thinking of some of the opposites I had fallen for. "But I'll never work for him again."
"So what else is happening in your world, Matt?" Jack asked. "Did you finish the garage?"
"Yes," I said. "Garage completed. Art Studio bid accepted. I break ground on it when I return from Mexico."
"Mexico?"
A week later, on the morning of my departure to Corpus Christi, Jack and I left Woodbridge at four o'clock, blasting through a couple of red lights to beat the traffic, and still barely made it to Dulles in time for my seven o'clock flight. The night before, Jack, Sue, and I stayed up partying until after two, which probably wasn't too bright, given my early-morning travel plans, but sleep-deprived Jack insisted on taking me to the airport anyway.
"Sue and I will pick you up on the 20th," Jack said. "When does your flight arrive?"
"Five-thirty in the afternoon," I said.
"Good," Jack said. "Let's plan to have dinner. Safe travels, Matt."
"Thanks, Jack. I'll see you in a few days."