“You’re late.” Brill’s smoldering cigar jumps as he speaks. He’s in his overalls again, this time with large kneepads worn over the outside of the pants. If a volleyball game breaks out, he’s ready. There’s no door hanging yet on the bathroom, and I can see the plumbing has been installed and the floor tiles laid down, a nice pale blue-turquoise mix that reflects the late morning light on the white walls. It has the feel of a tranquil aquarium tank.
Only the room smells of smoke. Badly. Not entirely cigar smoke.
“You should get the flue checked,” I say.
“Flue’s fine. You here to consult or work?”
“Wells—”
“Won’t even pick up a damn screwdriver unless it’s got a napkin wrapped around it and an orange slice sticking out the top.” Brill takes the cigar from his mouth and leans in close enough to my face to kiss me, searching my eyes for something that won’t be there.
“Huh.” He leans back, satisfied. “Foxhole buddies forever. I’ll be damned.”
“I’m here to work,” I say. “I already took your money, I’m just trying to earn it now.”
“Well, all right then.” Brill returns me my space.
“But you’re gonna have to show me, though. You realize that, right? This is all new territory to me.”
“We’ll work on it together, then. It’s not like we got to build the foundation or anything. We’re at the point now where we’re just covering up and making shit pretty, smoothing over the rough edges. I was right about your taping job, though.” Brill points to the living room wall, small bulges running down the length of the Sheetrock panels where I’d worked with my unskilled hands.
“We gonna redo it?”
“Fuck no. Like you said, just cover it with some artwork or something. Anyhow, didn’t you say you were looking for a new place?”