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Tommy (Tommy & Alice, the new wife) Wednesday, 7:00 a.m.
I’m the go-to guy for park residents planning renovation projects. Since most of us are transplants, and temporary ones at that, it’s hard to keep track of Florida’s rules for construction and renovation. As head of the Resident Council, I keep current on the statutes, so people often come to me for advice about what they’re allowed to do under the law. Ron teases me sometimes for going on a bit too long on the subject, but it’s important that people get facts, not somebody’s sloppy opinion.
Wednesday morning, while I waited impatiently for quiet hours to be over, a guy named Ben came by to ask about the rules for repairing storm damage. A friend of his who lives farther north had lost part of his roof when the tail of a hurricane passed through his park, and he wondered how his buddy should proceed. As is often the case when a person stops to talk home repair, others show up, and soon I had a half-dozen men under my carport, some of them straddling bikes, others carrying their mugs of coffee.
I was pleased to be able to explain to Ben the relevant part of the Florida building code. “Once the extent of storm-related damage has been determined, you identify what building codes and requirements are in effect locally, since repair is governed at the local level. Generally, some version or derivative of the International Existing Building Code will be in effect, but they’ll vary based on location. Your buddy might find current building codes on the local government’s website, or he could call to confirm this information.”
“Or he could fix it and keep quiet,” someone commented. “Any time you can leave the government out of things, you’re better off.”
“I wouldn’t go that route,” I warned, “but people do what they do.”
We were interrupted when Del, who lives a few lots down, joined us, looking rumpled and angry. The reason for his foul mood became clear when he said, “Shawna informed me at breakfast that her sisters want to come down and stay with us for spring break.” He scrubbed at his hair with one hand. “What am I supposed to do with three extra adults and five kids in a frickin’ trailer?”
Nobody had a good answer for that, though Harry offered the use of two blow-up mattresses he had in storage. Del didn’t even consider it. “No. They aren’t coming, and that’s it.”
Probably to bring an end to the topic, Ron brought up the peeper. “I keep hearing about this guy hanging around the park at night,” he said. “Has anyone here seen him?”
“Shawna did,” Del said. “She said he’s way too young to live here, like twenty, and kinda skinny.”
“That’s not right.” Ben is a loud talker, so the whole street probably heard his comment. “Big Frank saw him on Tuesday night. He says he’s about thirty and built like a tank.”
“Hank says he’s got a big old beard,” Harry put in, rubbing his chin to make the point.
“People come and go in this place,” I said. “The guy could be a plumber’s helper, an AC repair tech, a delivery man, a satellite TV installer, lots of things.”
“Then why is he peeking in windows?”
“He might not be,” I said calmly. “The simplest explanation is best. All the hookups for water and electrical are at the back of the trailers, so nobody should freak out when they see a man go past their window.”
“What time of day did your lady see the guy?” Harry asked Del.
“After work hours,” Del replied. “Maybe six-thirty.”
Still trying to be logical I said, “Lots of times workmen are here late, trying to get the job done.”
He clung to the dramatic version. “Shawna says he was definitely looking in Mark Carlson’s window.”
I gave up. “Listen, guys, I’m going inside. I’ve got work to do.” They wandered off, Del still talking as Harry leaned his big body down to catch every word. Assuming the peeper was the topic, I shook my head. Rumors.
By the time Alice returned from grocery shopping that afternoon, I was putting the last section of flooring in place. “It looks beautiful, Tommy.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” I stood, stretching muscles that were already telling me I’d overdone it. “I’ll finish the trim tomorrow, but we can move our bed back in now, so we won’t have to sleep on the lanai.”
She slid her arms around my waist and then pulled back, nose twitching. “You’re a little...moist.”
“That’s honest sweat, Mrs. Murgasson.”
“It is, and I would never criticize.”
“I will shower before we go out to find ourselves some dinner. No sense exposing the rest of the world to my odiferousness.”
“Is that a real word?”
“I doubt it, but like Shakespeare, I reserve the right to invent a bon mot when the need arises.”
“How about my personal favorite, Eddie Poe? You’ve got to appreciate a guy who comes up with a word like tintinnabulation.”
“‘...of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells.’”
We’re aware that people often roll their eyes when we quote lines of poetry or snatches of timeless prose to each other, but it works for us. I spent my working years as an English professor at a small college in Montana. Alice read classic literature to distract herself from a horrible first marriage. Our mutual love of language helps to bring us closer, so the Madding Crowd can think whatever they choose.
