“SHIT…” I yelled after her. “YOU KNOW WHAT YOU CAN DO WITH YOUR ISLANDS!?”
3
For the next few days, we didn’t talk about it. We were over our heads in work. I’d never seen so much all at one time. A fucking cyclone hit us. So many things were torn up that after a while you gave up counting. Windows broken into a thousand pieces, all kinds of crap scattered in the alleys. Looking at a disaster this size, all we could do was shake our heads and stare at each other. George scratched his head and grimaced. Betty just sort of laughed.
I spent all my days running from one bungalow to another with my toolbox, a pencil behind my ear. Betty made the trip back and forth into town, getting me boxes of nails, cans of putty, lumber, and tanning lotion. I spent most of my time outside-up on a ladder or on someone’s roof. From morning till night the sky stayed limpid blue, rained out once and for all. I passed hours and hours in the sunlight, a handful of nails in my mouth, fixing all those little houses that were falling apart.
George was useless-it was even dangerous to work with him. He was always letting the hammer get away from him or sawing your hand off while you were holding the board. After working with him one morning, I asked him to just take care of the alleys-to stay away from my ladder or I’d clump my toolbox on his head.
Little by little the place started looking habitable again. I was lost in the ozone every night. It was especially tough to fix the TV antennas-bending the wire back while holding onto the cables at the same time. I didn’t want Betty climbing on the roofs, I didn’t want anything to happen to her. From time to time I’d see her head pop up on top of the ladder with a cool beer. The heat had me totally wasted-I saw lightning in her hair. I would lean over, roll my tongue in her mouth, and grab the bottle. It helped me make it to the end of the day. Then I would put my tools away and go eat, strolling under the caress of the sun till I reached the house and found her there, lying under the porch with my fan. She would always ask me the same questions:
“You doing okay? Not too tired?”
“So-so…”
She would get up and follow me inside. I would jump into the shower while she surveyed the stove. I was, in fact, really wiped out, but I also played it up a little-I wanted all her attention. The fatigue gave me all kinds of preposterous ideas. I wanted to be laid out and powdered on my bottom like a baby-things like that; to lay down on her belly and suck on her breasts-that got me excited. I would close my eyes while she sat behind me and rubbed my shoulders and neck. My cute little cyclone, I thought, oh, my cute little cyclone…
We would eat, and clear the table fast. Everything was orchestrated like sheet music. I would light a cigarette and go out onto the porch while she did a few dishes. I would take a long look at the chaise longue and lie down in it. I would hear her whistling, and more than once I felt happy, felt so calm that I would always fall asleep with a little idiotic smile turning up the corners of my mouth. Then my cigarette would fall onto my chest and I would wake up screaming.
“Shit, did you fall asleep again?” she said.
“Huh?”
She would come over and lead me to bed, her arm around my waist. She would push me over onto the mattress and start undressing me. Unfortunately I would realize after about ten seconds that I was too beat to fuck. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I passed right out.
So we figured out a new system: we fucked in the morning. The only bad thing was that I had to get up to piss first-her too-and that spoiled the magic a little. We got over it, though, with a few dumb jokes, then got to the heart of the matter. Betty was always in great form in the morning-I wondered if she wasn’t reliving some of what she’d dreamed during the night. She was always hot to try some strange new position-things that really knocked me for a loop, left me with my mouth hanging open. I would go back to work with renewed faith in Heaven and Hell, climbing back up on the roofs to fix those little antennas, my legs like butter.
One morning I woke up before Betty. The sun was coming in from all sides. I lifted myself up on one elbow: Somebody was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed. It was the owner of the motel, watching us attentively-watching Betty, that is. It took me a few seconds to figure out what he was doing, then I saw that we had really sent the sheets flying the night before, and Betty was lying there with her legs wide apart. The guy was greasy, fat. He was dabbing at himself with a handkerchief and his fingers were covered with rings-the kind of guy who can make you throw up first thing in the morning.
I threw the sheet over Betty and got up in a hurry. I dressed without being able to say a word, wondering what in the world he was doing there. He watched me, smiling silently, like a cat who’s just found a mouse. Then Betty woke up. She sat up suddenly, breasts bare. She pulled her hair out of her eyes with one hand.
“Hey… who the fuck is this guy?” she said.
He made a little gesture with his head and stood up.
“No, really… since when does just anybody-”
I dragged the owner outside before things started getting complicated. I closed the door behind us.
I walked back and forth in the sun, clearing my throat. He had his sport jacket over his arm and big sweat rings on his shirt. I couldn’t think straight-I didn’t feel too well. Normally at that time of morning I should have been peacefully fucking. The guy ran his hanky behind his neck and looked at me with a grimace.
“Tell me,” he said. “Is that young woman the reason you’re still in bed at ten o’clock in the morning?”
I stuck my hands in my pockets and looked at the ground. This both made me look bothered and kept me from having to look at his face.
“No, no,” I said. “She has nothing to do with it.”
“You mustn’t, you see…You really mustn’t let her make you forget why you are here-why I house you and pay you. Do you understand?”
“Sure, yeah, but…”
“You know…” he went on. “One little ad in tomorrow’s paper and there’ll be a hundred guys knocking each other over, begging to have your job. I don’t want to do anything underhanded-you’ve been here a long time and I’ve never had any complaints-but I don’t like this. I don’t think you can have a girl like that here and do your job at the same time. Do you see what I mean?”
“Have you been talking to George?” I asked.
He nodded. The guy was repulsive and he knew it. He used it like a weapon.
“Well,” I went on. “He must have told you what a help she’s been to us. I can tell you we wouldn’t have gotten along this well without her. You should have seen the damage after than fucking cyclone, there was hardly anything left standing, and she took care of all the shopping while George and I tried to get everything fixed in a hurry. She put the putty on the windows, picked up the dead branches, ran all over the place, never sat still for a minute, she…”
“I’m not saying-”
“And let me just add that she never even asked to be paid for it. George can tell you that she saved us a hell of a lot of time.”
“In other words, you’d like me to look the other way on this?”
“Listen, maybe it’s true that I got up a little late this morning, but these days I’m working ten, twelve hours a day. We’ve had a hell of a job here, just take a look around. Usually I’m up at dawn, I don’t know what happened. It won’t happen again.”
He was dripping in the sun. He was thinking about something, twisting his face in all directions. He took a glance around.
“Got to give these houses a paint job,” he said. “They look like hell.”
“Yeah, wouldn’t hurt. It’d attract attention from the road too. We’ve already talked about it, me and George…”
“Okay, then maybe there’s a way to work this all out. You can get to work on it with your friend there.”
The idea was so outlandish that it made me turn white.
“Hey, are you kidding?” I said. “That’s a job for a painting company… We’d never be able to fi
nish.”
“The two of you already are a little company,” he chuckled.
I bit my lip. The guy really had us right where he wanted us, and it was a tough pill to swallow. Why do these things always happen? Why do we always find ourselves in these situations? I hadn’t even started the day yet, and I was already exhausted.
“Okay, but I want to know how she’ll be paid.” I sighed.
His smile widened. He put his chubby little hand on my shoulder.
“My goodness, you make me laugh,” he said. “Five minutes ago you were asking me to forget the girl-isn’t that right? How am I supposed to do that if I have to pay her? It doesn’t make any sense.”
He was really one of those classic assholes you meet all over, the kind who leave a bad taste in your mouth. I looked at my feet. It felt like they were nailed to the floor. My jaw hurt. I wiped my mouth slowly, my eyes closed. This meant that I gave in. He must have been used to that-he got the message.
“That’s fine. I’ll just let you get to work, then. I’ll come by later to see how you’re getting on with it. I’ll see about ordering the paint with George.”
He took off, kneading his handkerchief. I stood there, dancing from one leg to the other before deciding to go back inside. Betty was in the shower, I saw her through the curtain. I was hemmed in on all sides. I sat down at the table and had a lukewarm cup of coffee. Disgusting.
She came out rolled in a towel and sat right down on my lap.
“Say, who the hell was that guy? Whoever let him in here?”
“He doesn’t need anyone to let him in,” I said. “He owns the place.”
“What difference does that make? You don’t just go walking into somebody’s house like that…”
“Yes, you’re right. That’s what I told him.”
“What did he want, anyway?”
I stroked her tit without having an idea in my head. I felt sort of empty. The job that was waiting for us-mama mia!… my legs were shaking. It was making me sick.
“So what did he want?” she insisted.
“Nothing. Bullshit… he wants us to paint a couple of things.”
“Oh yeah? Great! I love painting!”
“What luck,” I said.
The next morning this guy showed up in a truck with about a hundred gallons of paint and some rollers.
“There you go,” he said. “That’ll give you something to get started with. When you need more just give me a buzz and I’ll be back lickety-split.”
We unloaded the cans into the shed. It made a nice little hill in there. It gave me a stomachache: fireball rage and impotence mixed together. I had forgotten what a horrible feeling it is-it had been a long time since I’d had a taste of it. It’s funny, there were really a lot of things I’d forgotten.
The deliveryman split, whistling. It was sort of relentlessly nice out. I took a sad look at the houses and started lugging a fifty pound can of paint down the road, making sure my fingers got good and crippled. George was waiting for me by the entrance. I didn’t stop. He walked across to join me with his crazy-old-man grin.
“Hey, looks heavy what you got there.”
“Don’t be cute,” I groaned. “Leave me alone.”
“Well, shit, what did I do to you?”
I changed hands without slowing down. I hit myself in the leg with the can and saw stars for a minute. He wouldn’t let me be.
“Jesus, I never saw you like this.”
“That’s possible,” I said. “Did you really have to go tell him that Betty LIVED here?”
“Jesus Christ, you know how he is. He made me spill the beans.
I was only half awake when he came in…”
“Yeah, well, you’re never completely awake. What you are completely is full of shit,” I said.
“Hey, is it true you’re going to paint all those things? You really going to make yourself do…”
I stopped. I put the can down and looked George in the eye.
“Listen,” I said. “I’m still not sure what I’m going to do, but I don’t want you talking to Betty about it. Do you get me?”
“Yeah, don’t get bent out of shape, pal, your secret’s safe with… but how are you going to not tell her yourself?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it yet.”
Just as I got to the first bungalow I was hit by a bad case of the runs and had to leave for a little while. The enormity of the job simply had my guts tied in knots. I didn’t have the nerve to tell Betty about it. I knew that she would have chucked the whole thing-she’d never have let herself get screwed like that, she’d have burned the whole place down. What would happen if I told her seemed so horrible that I decided to keep it all to myself-a little diarrhea isn’t the end of the world, after all, it’s just an unpleasant little moment in life.
Betty was talking to the tenants when I got back. I was a little paler than usual.
“There you are. I was just telling these people that we’re going to do a little painting…”
They looked at me benignly, a kind of spaced-out couple, taking it easy in retirement. They’d been there for at least six months already and had hung flowerpots in every possible corner. I muttered a few incomprehensible remarks and dragged Betty out behind the building. My mouth was dry. Betty was looking gorgeous-charged with electricity, all smiles. I cleared my throat a few times, my fist jammed in my mouth.
“Well, what are we waiting for? What do we do?” she asked.
“Ah, okay… you paint the shutters and I’ll paint around them,” I said.
She tied her hair up on top of her head, laughing and carefree-it was enough to make you weak in the knees.
“I’m ready!” she said. “First one finished helps the other one!”
When her back was turned I gave her an incredibly sad smile.
From time to time the geezers came out to see how we were doing. They stood at the foot of my ladder, their mouths twisted in glee. Around eleven o’clock the woman brought us cookies. Betty joked around with them, she thought they were both really nice. Personally, I thought they were boring-I didn’t feel like making pleasant conversation every inch of the way. When I’d finished painting the top of one side, I climbed down the ladder and walked over to Betty to play my next hand. She was doing a corner.
“Jesus Christ, you’re really a pro!” I said. “You can’t do better than that… but there’s a little problem, I didn’t think to mention it…”
“What’s wrong?”
“Well, it’s the corner there… You went a little outside the lines, like…”
“Of course I went outside the lines. What do you want me to do… a brush this size…”
“I know. It’s not your fault. It’s just that now it looks like the other side is wrong.”
“So?”
I felt myself strangling.
“What do you mean ‘so’?” I got out.
“I mean, you’re not going to paint just one side of their building. What good does that do?”
I wiped my brow with my arm like a seasoned veteran who has lost all illusions.
“Well, I suppose…” I said. “I guess it would make them happy anyway. They’ll have a whole new building thanks to you.”
For the rest of the day we were stuck there, slaving over that shitty little house.
In fact that one little gig took up practically the whole week. The thermometer climbed all of a sudden and it was impossible to work outside in the early afternoon. All you could do was stay inside the house with the shades down, the icebox rumbling like a washing machine, unable even to crank out enough ice. We walked around the room half naked. Usually we wound up grabbing each other. I followed the little rivers of sweat that ran down her skin with my fingers, and we knocked all the furniture over, puffing like locomotives, hair glued together and eyes bright. I had the feeling that the more we fucked the more we wanted to, but that wasn’t the problem. What had me worried was that with each passing day Betty was
losing her taste for painting-she wasn’t into it like she used to be. The cookies didn’t work anymore. We hadn’t even finished the first bungalow and she was starting to get fed up. I had no idea how I was going to break it to her that we still had twenty-seven just like it to go. I couldn’t sleep at night, I smoked in bed while she slept, letting my mind waft off into the silence and the dark. I wondered what was going to happen. Whatever it was, I knew I’d have a ringside seat. It was like I suddenly found myself in the middle of an arena with a blinding sun in my eyes-I could feel the danger without really knowing which direction it was going to come from. It was not exactly a barrel of laughs.
4
We finished the old couple’s bungalow one evening around seven, just as the sun was going down. It looked unreal-pink shutters on a white background. The two geriatrics hugged each other in ecstasy. Betty and I were dead. We sat clown on paint cans and opened beers, clinking the cans together in a toast. A light wind had come up during the afternoon-it was quite cool out. There’s always something nice about finishing a job, whatever it is, and we took pleasure in it. The fatigue and the pain in our limbs became a kind of special liquor. We started giggling at nothing at all.
We were busy winking at each other and squirting beer all over the place when the owner showed up. His car kicked up a cloud of dust. He drove right up to where we were. We had trouble breathing, especially me. There was whistling in my ears.
He got out of the car and walked over to us with his wet handkerchief. He looked at Betty with a big phony smile. The last rays of the sun gave his skin a purplish tint: sometimes it’s easy to recognize people sent from Hell.
“Well, well,” he said. “Seems like everything’s just fine here. Job moving right along…”
“You can say that again,” Betty answered.
“Yes indeed. Let’s hope you can keep up this pace.”
I broke out in a cold sweat. I jumped off my paint can. I grabbed his arm and changed the subject:
Betty Blue Page 3
