The renovations on the dead lady’s house up the street have crossed the line from “extensive” to “epic,” and I have lost count of the succession of skips that have been dropped off, filled with broken wallboard and skanky insulation, and hauled away to be replaced. This afternoon, as I was struggling damply into the black gym baggies and Hanes undershirt that constitute my work uniform, a resonant clang directly in front of the house launched me toward the front window. The skip to eclipse all skips had just been discharged from a roll-off cab directly in front of my curb, large enough to live in, rust-brown and unlovely.
I hurtled out to the front walk barefoot in baggies and sport bra, the black tee shirt flapping off one arm, accosting the truck driver: “Dude! Hey, doesn’t this belong up the street?”
I give the guy cred. He was amiable while explaining that he had to get the laden skip out of the dead lady’s driveway first, before he could leave off the spaceship-sized one that was blocking mine. Two minutes, he promised. Damn if he didn’t live up to it. Good thing because my first client was due.
Actually she had already been by once, as I learned when she pulled into the drive and I pled consternation over the skip while I hurriedly put the sheets on the massage table.
“Yeah, I saw you,” she said.
I love my job. I can run around in my yard half dressed and people still march right in and pull out their check books.