The first year I painted the house, I had to use a wire brush and a putty knife to dig out defective paint, and then I sanded down most of the house by hand. The next year, when I painted the garage, I knew better and bought a power sander. My father was not happy about that expenditure.
Now I need only wash the garage. It should dry quickly. The Billings Herald-Gleaner said the temperature was going to reach seventy-two today, which is very warm for this time of year. By contrast, the high temperature a year ago was forty-six, which I know because my data is complete. I won’t know for sure whether the temperature reaches seventy-two today until I see tomorrow’s newspaper. Today’s has only a forecast, and forecasts are notoriously off base. I prefer facts.
My garage, which is detached from the house, is very small. In 1937, when the house was built, people didn’t build the huge houses that are built today, unless they were very rich or very ostentatious. (I love the word “ostentatious.”) The house is 1,360 square feet—680 upstairs and 680 in the basement. The garage is twelve feet wide by fifteen feet deep, or just big enough for my car, a 1997 Toyota Camry, and some tools and other things.
Still, it takes me a while to wash the garage, mix the paint (I’m going to try Behr’s parsley sprig first), and get my various brushes lined up in the order that I’m going to use them. I also have a ladder for those hard-to-reach areas.
By 11:00 a.m., I am painting, working in the same direction that the sun is moving.
I am happy.
“I like that color.”
I’m on the ladder when I hear the voice, and I’m so startled that I nearly hit my head on the eave. I set my brush on the shelf on the ladder. My heart is beating fast. I steady myself and back down the ladder, and then I turn around.
It’s the boy I have seen across the street.
“What?”
“I said, I like that color.”
“It’s Behr parsley sprig.”
“What does that mean?”
“Behr is the company that made the paint. Parsley sprig is the color.”
“What’s parsley sprig?”
“Do you know that green stuff they put on your plate at a restaurant?”
“Yeah. You’re not supposed to eat it.”
“That’s a parsley sprig.”
“Oh.”
The boy has his hands in his pocket and he fidgets. This makes me fidgety, too. I don’t like it.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“Go away, then.”
“Well, maybe…”
“What?”
“Can I help you paint?”
I am agog. (I love the word “agog.”)
There is an eight- or nine-year-old boy painting the garage. Holy shit!
I do not curse often, but I am partial to the phrase “Holy shit!” Many years ago, I saw the movie Animal House, which is very funny. In one scene, Bluto and D-Day and Flounder from Delta House take a horse into the dean’s office—I am not sure why; the scene flummoxed me—and Flounder shoots a gun in the air, and the horse has a heart attack and dies. The other two guys come in and say “Holy shit!” a lot. It is a very funny movie.
I am giggling now, thinking of this.
“There’s an eight- or nine-year-old boy painting the garage.”
“Holy shit!”
“He’s eight or nine, and he is painting the garage.”
“Holy shit!”
“The garage is being painted by an eight- or nine-year-old boy.”
“Holy shit!”
I am pretty funny sometimes.
The boy does not paint the garage exactly as I would prefer, and I would say something to him if not for the fact that he never stops talking as he paints.
“What’s your name?” he asks me.
“Edward. What’s yours?”
“Kyle. Did you know that your house will be brown, but your garage will be green?”
“Yes. I will paint the house next year.”
“Why next year?”
“That’s the way I do things.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been married?”
“No.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m thirty-nine. How old are you?”
“I’m nine. I was born in 1999.”
“That’s the year Kevin Spacey won the best actor Oscar for American Beauty.”
“What’s that?”
“A movie.”
“I like movies.”
“So do I.”
“Are you going to pay me for painting your garage?”
I am taken aback. It’s not quite the same thing as being agog.
“Did we have a deal?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not going to pay you.”
“I am saving up my money for a bicycle. That’s why I was wondering. I have fifty-three dollars, but that’s not enough for the bike I want. My mom said that I might get one for my birthday, but she’s not sure.”
“If you expected money, you should have negotiated a deal with me before you started painting. That’s the fair thing to do.”
“It’s OK. I like painting.”
“When is your birthday?” I ask him.
“February ninth.”
“That’s when you’ll be ten?”
“Yes.”
“You’re nine years and two hundred and forty-nine days old.”
“Cool! How did you do that?”
“I’m good with data.”
His painting is haphazard. Sometimes his strokes are up and down, and sometimes they are side to side. Little dots of paint are missing the garage and landing in the driveway. And I am surprised that I don’t seem to care.
I will have to talk to Dr. Buckley about this.
The garage painting is finished by 4:30 p.m. It looks pretty good, especially considering that a nine-year-old boy did some of it. I offer to shake hands with Kyle, but he insists on a high five, something I’ve never done. I’ve seen the Dallas Cowboys do it, and it looks like great fun. I hold up my right hand, and Kyle slaps it hard. It sort of hurts. It’s not that much fun.
“See ya, Edward,” Kyle says, and he’s dashing across the street to his house, his blond hair flying behind him, his arms flailing.
At 8:07 p.m., after I’ve had my spaghetti, I hear a knock on the door. I am flummoxed. Visitors are rare at this house. I have not had a visitor since July 21.
I open the door, and standing on the stoop is the woman I saw mowing her yard yesterday morning, the woman I presume to be Kyle’s mother.
“Hello? Mister… I’m sorry, I don’t know your last name. You’re Edward, right?”
“Edward Stanton. Yes.”
“I’m Donna, Kyle’s mom. I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Not until now, no.”
“Kyle told me he helped you paint your garage. I hope he wasn’t any trouble.”
“No.”
“I just thought, if he’s going to be hanging around over here, I should know who you are. I hope you’re not offended.”
“No. But he just helped paint the garage.”
“Of course. I don’t want to be rude. You just can’t be too careful, you know? I’m sure you understand.”
“I didn’t let him go up on the ladder.”
“OK.”
She’s now just looking at me. I stare back at her.
“Is there anything else?” I ask her.
“No, I guess not. Thanks for letting Kyle help you out, Edward.”