by J. J. Murray
“Hi,” Lauren said.
“Wow,” the woman said. She dropped her chalk. “Wow!” she shouted.
“Zina,” Freddy said. “Finish the sign.”
Zina looked out the window. “Paparazzi! That is so cool.” She spun around to Lauren. “I mean, cool to me. Probably not that cool to you. What are you wearing?”
Lauren put her hand on her hip and posed. “Like it? It’s handywoman chic. All former actresses are wearing coveralls these days.”
“I like it,” Zina said. “I have to get me some of those. What size are they?”
“Size huge,” Lauren said.
Patrick smiled at Freddy. “Two espressos and two hot chocolates.”
Lauren pointed at the glass case. “And some of those cookies.”
Patrick nodded. “And some of those cookies.”
Zina stuck her head outside briefly, shut the door behind her, and giggled. “I wasn’t going to come in today, but I’m glad I did.”
Freddy handed Lauren her espresso and the cookies. “Let me know if it needs more sugar.”
Lauren sipped it. “Just right.”
“You’ll love the hot chocolate,” Zina said. “It tastes like hot Hershey’s syrup.”
Lauren sipped the hot chocolate. “This is good,” she said. She bit off part of an oatmeal-raisin cookie. “Oh yes. Sugar, I’ve missed you.” She fed Patrick the rest of the cookie. “We must come here every morning. No more Pop-Tarts.”
“Dude,” Zina said. “Pop-Tarts? Really? You know Freddy’s crepes and cookies are legendary.”
“Please,” Lauren said. “Pretty please?”
“We’ll see you tomorrow, Freddy,” Patrick said.
“And the next day.” Lauren gathered up the remaining cookies and put them in the paper bag Zina had handed her. Then she placed the bag in the middle pocket of her coveralls. “These cookies are fantastic.”
It looks as if we’ll be eating breakfast here from now on, Patrick thought as he paid. I hope Freddy gives frequent-eater discounts.
Lauren walked outside, munching on another cookie and sipping her hot chocolate as camera shutters whirred. “You all have to try the hot chocolate and some of these cookies.”
The photographers took several hundred rapid-fire shots of Lauren eating a cookie.
Unreal, Patrick thought. This city is nearly shut down from a blizzard, and they’re taking pictures of a woman eating a cookie in Boerum Hill.
“I’m not kidding,” Lauren said. “Go try them. We’ll wait for you.” She fed a cookie to Patrick.
No photographer snapped a picture.
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Lauren said.
“And I promise we’ll wait right here.”
Most of the photographers went into the small café, returning minutes later with cups of coffee and hot chocolate.
“They waited,” one photographer said.
“I told you we would,” Lauren said. She linked her arm with Patrick’s. “Come on.”
“Where are you going?” asked one of the photographers.
“Where are we going next?” asked another.
“You’ll see,” Lauren said. “Enjoy the walk.”
They doubled back on Hoyt and trudged down Shermerhorn to Gem Pawnbrokers, its roll-down security gate down and coated with graffiti. Patrick and Lauren waited beside a stop sign as snowplows crept by on Flatbush.
“He wasn’t kidding,” one photographer said. “He bought her ring here. What a loser!”
Patrick stared him down. “How can I be a loser when I won Lauren’s heart and she’s going to marry me?”
“Dude,” the photographer said, “you bought her engagement ring at a pawnshop.”
“As have millions of men throughout history,” Patrick said. “Are all of them losers, too?”
The photographer shook his head. “It’s not done, man. Not for a woman like Lauren Short.”
Lauren finished another cookie. “Why are you here? Is this news? We’re standing in front of a pawnshop waiting for it to open on a Monday morning.”
“You’re news, Lauren,” someone said.
“How am I news?” Lauren asked.
The photographers looked at each other until one said, “You’re a star.”
“I was a star,” Lauren said. “I’m much happier now, thank you.”
“Did he make you wear that outfit?” someone asked.
“No,” Lauren said. “These are my work clothes.”
One of the security gates rose.
“I think they’re opening,” a photographer said.
Lauren took Patrick’s hand. “You think?” She laughed.
Patrick moved toward the main door and turned. “Look around you. This city is at a standstill. Some people might not have any power. The streets are a mess. People are struggling to open up their businesses. Go do something useful for a change.”
“Like what?” a photographer asked.
“Shovel some snow,” Patrick said. “Help someone. Do anything but follow us around.”
Patrick held the door for Lauren, and a photographer tried to follow behind her. Patrick stuck out his arm. “Are you serious?” he asked. “I wasn’t holding the door for you.”
The man took his picture. “I thought you were a gentleman.”
“I’m only a gentleman to my lady,” Patrick said, and he entered the pawnshop, the photographer edging around him and snapping pictures.
Vicky was again behind the counter, and when she looked up, her jaw dropped. “My God, it’s Lauren Short.”
“Hello,” Lauren said, peering into the jewelry case.
Vicky blinked rapidly. “Um, hello. I’m one of your biggest fans.”
“Thank you,” Lauren said.
Patrick handed her five hundred dollars. “I think this squares us for the ring and the tax, if there is any.”
Vicky took the money and gave Patrick his change. She squinted at the photographer. “Get the hell out!”
“I’m browsing,” the photographer said.
Vicky moved swiftly around the counter and towered over the man. “I don’t like to repeat myself. You’re harassing my customers. Get the hell out.”
The photographer snapped Vicky’s picture and backed out of the shop.
“Sorry about that,” Vicky said softly. “Um, Patrick, right?”
Patrick nodded.
“You weren’t kidding about . . . ,” Vicky said, cutting her eyes toward Lauren.
“No,” Patrick said. “We’re in kind of a hurry, Vicky. We have to get to work.”
“We?” Vicky said.
“Oui,” Lauren said.
“Oh, um, sure,” Vicky said. “One sec. I’ll get your tools.”
While Vicky went to the back, Lauren pointed at a platinum wedding band. “I like that one.”
“It’s nice,” Patrick said.
Vicky carried the tools to the counter. “You’re both going to work?”
“Yes,” Lauren said. “Today is my first day on the job. Patrick is going to teach me the tricks of the trade.”
Vicky shook her head. “Really?”
Lauren smiled. “Every handyman needs a handywoman. That sounds like a song.”
“I, um, I sold your ring to him,” Vicky said.
“It’s perfect,” Lauren said. “Thank you, Vicky. And thanks also for kicking that prick out of here.”
Vicky blinked.
“I’m a real person, Vicky,” Lauren said. “I even wear coveralls sometimes.”
“You look good in them,” Vicky said. “Of course, you’d look good in anything.”
“No I wouldn’t,” Lauren said. “But I do hope to start a new fashion trend.” She looked up at Patrick. “Are we ready?”
“Yes,” Patrick said.
“Good-bye, Vicky,” Lauren said. “I’ll be back soon to buy Patrick’s ring.”
Vicky smiled. “Okay.”
Once outside, Patrick moved swiftly through the photogr
aphers with Lauren holding his elbow. They started down Third Avenue.
“Are those your tools?” a photographer asked.
“No,” Patrick said. “I just robbed the place.”
“Smart-ass,” someone said.
A mousy photographer with a peach fuzz mustache jumped out ahead of them. “Why were your tools there?”
“I used them as collateral for a loan,” Patrick said. “A loan to get Lauren’s ring.”
The mousy photographer laughed. “You pawned your tools for her engagement ring?”
Lauren sighed. “Isn’t it romantic?”
A photographer behind them scowled. “This has to be a scam. I’ll bet they’re making a movie together, like Cinderella in reverse. First they wait for us back at that café, and now this.”
Lauren tugged on Patrick’s arm. “I need to say something.”
“Go ahead,” Patrick said. He repositioned his tool bag on his shoulder. “Let him have it.”
“This is not a stunt,” Lauren said. “We are not making a movie together. Patrick pawned his tools to get a loan to buy me this exquisite ring.” She waved it in front of the photographers. “He sacrificed for me. That is love, pure and simple.”
“Lauren, do you expect us to believe that you are marrying a guy who has to pawn a bunch of used tools to buy you a used ring?” one asked.
“Yes,” Lauren said. “That’s what love is.”
“That ain’t love,” the mousy photographer said. “That’s tacky.”
Patrick wheeled on him, his tool bag nearly striking the man in the face. “I think everything you do and say is tacky.”
Lauren hugged Patrick from behind. “It does no good to explain love to them. They’ll never understand it. They don’t understand anything pure or simple, though they should, as purely simple as they are.”
“True,” Patrick said. He held out his hand. “Care to go walking with a simple man?”
She took his hand and squeezed it. “What a simply wonderful idea.”
They continued down Third Avenue.
“Where are you going now?” someone asked.
“To work,” Patrick said.
“Both of you?”
“Yes,” Patrick said.
“And you’re dragging Lauren Short along?”
“I am going of my own free will,” Lauren said. “I’m going to learn another trade.”
Patrick turned onto Baltic, Lauren at his side, and pointed at the apartment towers ahead. “That’s where I grew up.”
“You grew up there?” a photographer asked. “In the Gowanus Houses?”
“Yes,” Patrick said.
They continued up Baltic.
“Buddy, you haven’t gone very far in life, have you?” someone asked.
Patrick squeezed Lauren’s hand more tightly. “I guarantee they won’t follow us through the Houses,” he whispered. He looked back. “I didn’t have to go far. I just had to get out.” He smiled. “If you want, I can introduce you to some of my friends in there. I’m sure they’re all dying to have their pictures taken.”
As soon as they crossed Bond Street, the photographers vanished.
“Where’d they go?” Lauren asked.
“I’m sure they’ll catch up to us on the other side,” Patrick said, relaxing his grip.
“Is it that bad here?” Lauren asked.
“It can be,” Patrick said, “but it’s no worse than any other neighborhood in Brooklyn. There are good people, and there are bad people, and they’re all trying to survive.”
They passed children of all colors building snowmen in the middle of the street, the staccato of Spanish mixing with the patois of the Caribbean.
The photographers were waiting for them in front of the Pululo Grocery & Deli at Baltic and Hoyt.
“Did you see any of your friends, buddy?” a photographer asked.
“No,” Patrick said. “Most of my friends are dead or in jail.”
Patrick stopped in front of a redbrick apartment building next to Wonderland Kids Spa. “Ready?”
Lauren nodded. “Ready.” She turned to the photographers. “Will you be here when we’re through? I do hope so. I have so enjoyed our little walk.”
Patrick led her down some snowy stairs to Mrs. Gildersleeve in 1B.
Mrs. Gildersleeve opened the door. “Patrick. There you are. It’s about—”
“Hello,” Lauren said.
Mrs. Gildersleeve’s eyes popped.
All this hassle today has been worth it just to see her expression, Patrick thought.
“You’re . . .” Mrs. Gildersleeve blinked at Patrick.
“Lauren Short,” Lauren said. “Hi.”
“May we come in?” Patrick asked.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Mrs. Gildersleeve said. She stood back and let Lauren inside, Patrick following behind. She closed the door. “You’re really Lauren Short.”
“Yes,” Lauren said.
Mrs. Gildersleeve fell back against the door. “I don’t believe it.”
Patrick set down his tool bag. “Your message said you had a leak.”
“Um, yes, under the kitchen sink,” Mrs. Gildersleeve said. “It’s more than a drip this time. It leaked out onto the floor.” She hurried around them to the kitchen.
“You have an amazing effect on people,” Patrick whispered.
“I think it’s you,” Lauren whispered.
While Patrick had his head and half of his upper torso under Mrs. Gildersleeve’s sink, Mrs. Gildersleeve offered Lauren some coffee.
“I’m okay,” Lauren said. “I already had some espresso and hot chocolate.”
Patrick popped his head out. “You do have a leak. It’s fixable, though.”
Mrs. Gildersleeve sipped from a mug, her hands shaking slightly. “When Patrick told me, um, that you were his friend, naturally, I was skeptical.”
“Why?” Lauren asked.
“Well, he’s . . .” She looked down at Patrick. “No offense, Patrick, but you’re a maintenance man and she’s a movie star.”
“I was a movie star,” Lauren said. “I’m starting a new life with Patrick now.”
Patrick pointed at the tool bag. “Lauren, could you hand me the biggest wrench you can find in there?”
Lauren unzipped the bag and handed him a wrench as long as her arm. “Is this it?”
Patrick nodded. “You’re one for one.” He twisted slightly and returned to the pipe under the sink. “Make sure you talk loudly, okay? I don’t want to miss anything.” He began tightening both coupling nuts.
“We will,” Lauren said.
“How did you two meet?” Mrs. Gildersleeve asked.
“We met online,” Lauren said. “He wrote me a sweet e-mail after my breakup. That e-mail lifted my spirits, and I wrote back. And then Patrick wouldn’t stop writing to me. He’s been mercilessly stalking me from three thousand miles away.”
Patrick laughed. “Why didn’t you get a restraining order, then?”
“Because I can’t be restrained around you,” Lauren said.
“I can’t. I’ve been stalking him just as mercilessly. Hey. You took Patrick’s picture. Right here in this kitchen. I recognize the blue ducks.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Gildersleeve said. “I did.”
“Did he tell you about St. Louis?” Lauren asked.
“Yes,” Mrs. Gildersleeve said. “And I thought he was pulling my leg.”
“Patrick doesn’t lie.” She nudged his leg with her foot. “Do you?”
“No,” Patrick said. “I haven’t learned how. I’m not an actor.”
Lauren nudged his leg again. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m not saying a thing,” Patrick said.
He tightened the jamb nut and felt the bottom of the trap, flecks of rust falling onto his forehead. She needs a new trap. He slid out. “All fixed. For now. Next time we come, I’ll have to replace your trap.” He stood and handed the wrench to Lauren.
Lauren hugged it to her c
hest. “For me? I don’t know what to say. Thank you. You really like me, don’t you?”
“I love you,” Patrick said.
“He gave me a wrench,” Lauren said. “I wonder how many men give wrenches to their wenches.” She placed it in the tool bag and zipped it up. “It was nice to meet you.”
“It was . . .” Mrs. Gildersleeve smiled weakly. “It was nice to meet you, too, Lauren.”
Lauren moved to the door, Patrick followed, and in moments they were up the stairs and in front of only three photographers.
“Lauren, what did you just do?” one of them asked.
Lauren bit her lip, fluttered her eyes, and put the back of one gloved hand on her forehead. “Oh, it was brutal,” she said sadly. “I don’t know if I can accurately tell you the sheer horror I’ve just witnessed.”
Patrick heard cameras going into overdrive. He also tried not to laugh.
“I handed a . . .” She sniffled. “I handed a wrench to my man. It was so heavy. I thought my arm would snap in two.” She dried an imaginary tear. “And he . . .” She grabbed Patrick by his coverall straps. “This strapping, strong man took that wrench. . . .” She whimpered. “He took that wrench, and he stopped a leak. I wish you had been there. It was so . . . inspiring.” She bowed and threw in a curtsy. “The end.” She laughed. “And we’re coming back soon to replace her trap.” She squinted at Patrick. “What’s a trap?”
“The curvy part of the drain at the bottom,” Patrick said.
“Ah,” Lauren said. “The curvy part of the drain at the bottom.” She shook her head at the reporters. “We’re working. That’s all. There’s no show here.”
“Where are you going now?” a photographer asked.
Lauren smiled at Patrick. “Where to?”
“Over to Bergen,” Patrick said. “They have no hot water. The pilot light probably blew out during the blizzard.”
“It sounds so dangerous,” Lauren said.
“It isn’t,” Patrick said. And she has to know that. “I’ll let you relight it.”
“I love playing with fire,” Lauren said, and she hugged him.
Two of the photographers faded away. The lone photographer shook his head. “I don’t believe it. You’re really becoming a handywoman.” He checked his watch. “I gotta go.”
Lauren smiled. “Good luck with your pictures.”
“I won’t need luck,” the man said as he moved away.
