by J. J. Murray
“These pictures are golden.”
For the rest of the morning, with no paparazzi harassing them, Patrick and Lauren made the rounds, relighting three water heaters and a furnace. They were strolling toward Patrick’s apartment—after savoring a meal of smothered chicken, candied yams, and string beans at the Soul Spot on Atlantic—when Patrick’s phone rang.
“A pigeon just flew through my kitchen window!” Mr. Hyer screamed. “There’s glass everywhere!”
“Is the pigeon still alive?” Patrick asked.
“Oh yes, it’s roosting on my refrigerator and whistling ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’ ” Mr. Hyer said. “Of course it’s dead! There are feathers and bird guts everywhere!”
“I’ll be right there, Mr. Hyer,” Patrick said.
“What do I do until then?” Mr. Hyer shouted. “I’m freezing my ass off!”
“Try to hang something over the window,” Patrick said.
“A bath towel will do.”
“Why?” Mr. Hyer shouted.
“So no other pigeons join their friend and you can block the cold air.” He closed his phone. “Back to Baltic.”
“A pigeon flew through a window,” Lauren said. “Why would a pigeon fly through a window?”
“It was probably confused from the storm,” Patrick said.
“Or it just wanted to make Mr. Hyer’s day more exciting, I don’t know.”
Upon arriving at the apartment building on Baltic, Patrick went first to the basement to cut up some cardboard boxes with a box cutter and collect six three-foot-long two-by-fours.
“You’ve done this before,” Lauren said.
“Pigeons are little missiles,” Patrick said. “They bounce off most of the newer windows but not these old ones.”
He and Lauren walked up to 3B. Patrick picked through his tool bag and laid out duct tape, a whisk broom, a dustpan, a heavy-duty stapler, a power screwdriver, a box of wood screws, and a heavy-duty garbage bag in the hallway.
“Mr. Hyer doesn’t like me to take the tool bag into his apartment,” Patrick said. “He says it makes too much noise, which is strange, because he can barely hear.” He put everything into the pockets of his coveralls. He looked at the door. “I’m assuming there’s glass everywhere in that kitchen. Be careful. You whisk up the glass, and I’ll do the repair.” He paused before knocking. “One more thing. Mr. Hyer might remember me, and he might not. He’s about ninety. I would stand behind me until it’s safe.” He knocked loudly, and Lauren jumped. “Sorry.”
A series of locks moved and clicked until a hunched-over, balding man ripped open the door and snarled, “It took you long enough, um . . .”
“Patrick.”
“I knew that,” Mr. Hyer said, stepping aside.
Patrick moved inside, Lauren gripping his back pocket, and then he carefully and quietly removed everything from his pockets and laid it on the kitchen table. “Mr. Hyer, this is Lauren.”
Mr. Hyer slumped into a bright orange wooden chair beside the kitchen table and held a light blue cardigan sweater tightly to his chest. “Who’s she?”
“Lauren is my assistant today,” Patrick said.
“Hello,” Lauren said.
“We’ll have you fixed up in no time, Mr. Hyer,” Patrick said.
Patrick took the garbage bag and covered the pigeon before working the bird into the bottom of the bag. He stepped carefully around hundreds of pieces of glass to the window itself. “Be careful, Lauren.”
“I will.” She began whisking pieces of glass into the dustpan and dumping the glass into the garbage bag.
“It just flew into the window like a cannonball!” Mr. Hyer yelled. “Glass everywhere! I thought I was under attack! It was Pork Chop Hill all over again!”
Patrick removed large shards of glass from the left window frame. Then he opened the right window and stepped through to the fire escape and began measuring, writing down the window’s dimensions on a little notepad he took out of his middle pocket. “Lauren, Mr. Hyer served in Korea. He earned a Bronze Star, a Silver Star, and a Purple Heart.”
Lauren smiled at Mr. Hyer. “I’m honored to know you, Mr. Hyer.”
Mr. Hyer squinted at Lauren. “Who’s she?”
“My assistant, Lauren,” Patrick said. He returned inside and cut four pieces of cardboard based on his measurements.
“Oh,” Mr. Hyer said. “Your assistant. I need an assistant. I’m an old man. I could freeze to death before anyone notices, and now you have both windows open!”
“I would notice, Mr. Hyer,” Patrick said.
“What would you do with my body?” Mr. Hyer asked.
“I’d donate it to science, Mr. Hyer,” Patrick said.
“You would,” Mr. Hyer said. “I hate pigeons. Flying rats . . . grenades with wings . . .”
Patrick stapled two pieces of cardboard to the outside window frame, then sealed them with duct tape. After power driving screws into the two-by-fours, he screwed them tightly into the frame a few inches apart. He stepped through the other window and shut it. “I have to get the glass cut to fit, Mr. Hyer.”
“Why can’t I have all new windows?” Mr. Hyer asked.
“Windows from this century.”
“You know why,” Patrick said.
“Damn neighbors.” Mr. Hyer looked at Lauren. “They want to keep the building authentic. Can you believe that? They actually like drafty, warped, authentic windows.”
Patrick stapled the other two pieces of cardboard to the inside frame and sealed them with duct tape. After screwing in the other three boards, he shut the window and latched it. “That should do it.”
“Oh, that looks like shit,” Mr. Hyer said.
Patrick moved his hand around the edges. “I can’t feel any cold air, though.”
“It still looks like shit,” Mr. Hyer said. “How long do I have to look at it?”
“If I can get the glass cut tomorrow morning,” Patrick said, “I can have you fixed up by lunchtime. Is that okay?”
“It’s okay,” Mr. Hyer said. “It’s not as if I’m expecting any guests.” He blinked at Lauren. “Who’s this?”
“This is Lauren,” Patrick said. “She’s my assistant.”
Lauren whisked the last bits of glass into the dustpan. “Hello, Mr. Hyer.”
Mr. Hyer looked her up and down. “She looks too young to be working at any job.”
“Thank you,” Lauren said.
“You any good with plumbing, honey?” Mr. Hyer asked. “This one hasn’t got a clue. My toilet backs up every other day.”
“He’s an expert with my plumbing,” Lauren said.
“Huh?” Mr. Hyer said.
Patrick laughed as he collected his tools. “We’re done, Mr. Hyer. Anything else we need to check on for you?”
“No,” Mr. Hyer scowled.
“I’ll call you before I come to replace your window,” Patrick said.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Mr. Hyer said.
“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Hyer,” Lauren said.
Mr. Hyer rose and pointed at Lauren. “You stay in school, young lady. You don’t want to do a job like this forever.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Hyer,” Patrick said.
Outside 3B, Lauren whispered, “Stay in school?”
“Mr. Hyer was a guidance counselor about thirty years ago,” Patrick said, zipping up the tool bag and putting it over his shoulder. “He usually tells me to stay in school, too. Today he forgot. You must have distracted him.”
After disposing of the glass in a snow-filled Dumpster, they walked a few blocks without an entourage to Bergen Street and Mrs. Moczydlowska’s apartment.
“Anything I should know here?” Lauren asked.
“I don’t know if I can adequately prepare you for Mrs. Moczydlowska,” Patrick said. “Be prepared for anything and everything.”
Mrs. Moczydlowska was eerily silent as Patrick and Lauren looked for rats. After twenty minutes, Patrick and Lauren met in the kitchen.
&nb
sp; Lauren shrugged.
“No sign of them,” Patrick said. “No droppings anywhere.”
“I still hear them,” Mrs. Moczydlowska said.
“Not as much as before, though, right?” Patrick asked.
Mrs. Moczydlowska shook her head. “No. They are quieter.”
Patrick noticed the closed oven. She listened to me. “They’re getting bored. They’ll move away shortly. Any other issues?”
“No,” Mrs. Moczydlowska said. “You go now.” She walked them to the door. “Good-bye.”
Patrick paused outside Mrs. Moczydlowska’s closed door. “Something’s wrong,” he said.
“What?” Lauren asked.
Patrick shrugged. “That is by far the shortest time I have ever been in her apartment.”
“She didn’t even seem to notice me,” Lauren said.
Oh, she noticed, Patrick thought. And that’s probably the problem. “Well, we’re done for the day.”
They started down the hallway to the stairs.
Patrick heard a door open.
“Patrick!” Mrs. Moczydlowska yelled.
Patrick sighed. “Do you mind waiting for me?”
Lauren sat on the top step. “I don’t mind.”
Patrick returned to Mrs. Moczydlowska’s door. “Yes?”
Mrs. Moczydlowska fumbled with her hands. “Are you going to marry this person?”
“Yes,” Patrick said. “I am going to marry Lauren.”
“Will you be moving away with her to California?” she asked.
“No,” Patrick said. “We’re living here, in Boerum Hill.”
Mrs. Moczydlowska narrowed her eyes. “But why?”
“This is my home,” Patrick said. “This will be our home.”
“But she is . . .”
“Beautiful, I know.” Patrick smiled.
“No,” she said sternly. “I mean she is famous.”
“Okay,” Patrick said. “She’s famous. We’re still living here.”
“But I am confused,” she said. “Famous people live in big houses in California. She has a big house in California.”
“That house belongs to her ex,” Patrick said.
“But I saw her house on the television today,” she said.
“That was Chazz Jackson’s house,” Patrick said.
Mrs. Moczydlowska sighed. “He was saying mean things about her. He said that she betrayed him. That she cannot have the best, so she settles for the worst. And he called you a boy toy.”
“Really?” I’ve never been called that.
“What is this boy toy?” she asked.
“A new, younger man,” Patrick said.
“But you are older than she is, yes?” she asked.
“Yes,” Patrick said. “By two years.”
Mrs. Moczydlowska looked down the hallway to Lauren. “She is . . . She looks so young.”
“I’ll tell her you said that,” Patrick said. “She’ll be glad to hear it.”
“Do you love her?” she asked.
“Very much.”
“I can see that,” she said. “You were not so much looking for rats as you were looking at her.”
“She’s quite beautiful to look at,” Patrick said.
Mrs. Moczydlowska stepped back into her apartment. “You will answer if I call tomorrow.”
“Of course,” Patrick said. “I’m not quitting this job. You’re stuck with me.”
“You say this now,” she said.
“I say this now, and I’ll say it tomorrow,” Patrick said. “I am not quitting and moving to California.”
“Will she come with you every time?” she asked.
“She might.”
Mrs. Moczydlowska shook her head. “I do not like this arrangement one bit. I may call your boss.”
“Will you call my boss?” Patrick asked.
Mrs. Moczydlowska looked up briefly. “No. I will try to get used to the idea. Good-bye.” She shut the door.
Patrick returned to Lauren and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go home.”
They started down the stairs.
“What was that about?” Lauren asked.
“She’s not happy with the new arrangement,” Patrick said.
“Oh,” Lauren said.
“She says she will try to get used to it,” Patrick said.
“She kind of dotes on you, you know,” Lauren said.
“Yep,” Patrick said. “I’ve never been completely sure, but I think I remind her of her husband.”
“I saw his picture,” Lauren said. “You don’t look anything like him. Do you know what happened to him?”
“No,” Patrick said. “Maybe he was a handyman, too.”
They moved outside, into the snow.
“There aren’t any rats in her apartment, are there?”
“I doubt it,” Patrick said. “There’s never anything really wrong. She just likes my company.”
“So do I.” She put her arm around his waist.
“She thinks you’re young,” Patrick said.
“I am when I’m with you,” Lauren said. “So, are we really done for the day?”
Patrick nodded.
“How’d I do?” Lauren asked.
They turned up Hoyt. “I think Salthead would hire you as a buildings maintenance apprentice. The pay isn’t that great, no more than ten bucks an hour, but there are some excellent benefits.”
Lauren smiled. “Such as?”
“Me.”
“Oh, get me an application immediately,” Lauren said.
“I must have this job.”
“No application necessary,” Patrick said. “You’re hired.” They turned onto State Street.
“Can you honestly see yourself living like this?” Patrick asked.
“Honestly, no,” Lauren said. “I’m exhausted, and I didn’t really do much of the work. I can see myself with you, though. I can even see myself doing this with you. Most days. Not Sundays, okay? There’s something wrong about working on Sundays.”
“Okay,” Patrick said. “I’ll try to have everything perfect every Saturday.” He saw passing people do double takes, but no one stopped them or harassed them.
“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Lauren said, “but I have plenty of money, you know. Neither of us would ever have to work again.”
“Half a million doesn’t go as far as it used to, especially in this city,” Patrick said. “Rent for a larger apartment alone will cost you up to sixty grand or more per year.”
“I have more than half a million, Patrick,” Lauren said.
“I have half a million in the bank. I have also made many wise investments. I have plenty of stock, too. All I have to do is cash it in.”
“I want to support you.”
“I know you do, and I respect that so much,” Lauren said. “You don’t know how much. I’m just saying that you don’t have to. We could live anywhere, do anything, and go anywhere.”
“That’s money you earned.”
“That’s money I want to share,” Lauren said. “With you and only you.”
“Couldn’t we call it an emergency fund or something? You know, to be used only in case of emergency.”
“I guess we could. . . .”
She doesn’t like the idea. “We haven’t had any emergencies yet, right? We have a roof over our heads, we’re wearing some really chic clothing, and we get plenty of exercise. What more do we need?”
They arrived at the apartment and removed their boots at the door.
“Well, we need some more light in our apartment,” Lauren said. “And some rugs. The floor is too cold. And a one-way window, you know. We can see out, and they can’t see in. And some art for the walls. Some color! Lots of color! We could even re-cover that couch.”
“But it’s brown,” Patrick said. “Your favorite color.”
“I have other colors on this body,” Lauren said, removing the straps from the coveralls and letting them fall to the floor.
; “Really? Where? I didn’t see them.”
Lauren extricated herself from her long johns. “You want to see all the colors of my body?”
“Oh yes.”
She removed her bra. “Then you’ll need to put in more lights.”
“I have a flashlight,” Patrick said. “It has a very powerful beam.”
Lauren removed her panties. “That’ll do . . . for now.” She raced to the bed and hid under the covers.
Patrick found his flashlight.
This could get very interesting. “Miss Short?”
“Yes?”
“What are you doing under those covers?”
Lauren giggled.
“I hope you’re not doing anything naughty,” Patrick said.
Lauren giggled again.
He could see the outline of her hand working furiously under the covers. “Are you . . .”
“Am I what?” Lauren asked.
“Are you masturbating, Miss Short?” Patrick asked, moving onto the bed.
“No,” Lauren whispered.
This I have to see.
Patrick worked his head under the covers and turned on the flashlight. Oh, I didn’t expect to see a freckle there. I think I shall kiss it for being in such a unique and tender spot. I wonder if she’d like me to suck on her fingers while she does that.... Oh yes, she does. I hope the flashlight batteries last. I have a lot more exploring to do.
55
For the rest of that week, Lauren and Patrick worked long days and played long into the night.
They replaced Mr. Hyer’s window while he slept, undisturbed, on his couch. Patrick checked his pulse just in case.
They unclogged several Dutch drains. They drank espresso and hot chocolate at the Little Sweet Café. They also ate too many sweets because Freddy “paid” them with free cookies for allowing him to post their picture on the wall behind the counter.
Meanwhile, the media went to work. Lauren read a story aloud while Patrick rubbed her feet.
From the New York Post:
LAUREN, WE HARDLY KNEW YOU:
FALLEN ANGEL DATING WISEGUY?
We don’t know Lauren Short at all.
Lauren Short, Chazz Jackson’s fresh ex, has been slumming around Brooklyn with “handyman” Paulie Esposito, who reportedly threatened several reporters outside the pawnshop where he allegedly bought Lauren her supposedly platinum engagement ring....
