Page 33 of I'm Your Guy
The next day is Friday, and I spend the morning selling furniture to people who found me on Craigslist. At nine, ten, and eleven o’clock, various people show up at my door to purchase my belongings at rock-bottom prices.
There’s one piece I didn’t price low enough, because I couldn’t bear to. It’s a Drexel bookcase in walnut. It’s wide and short, which isn’t the current fashion in bookcases. I’d been asking three thousand dollars, which is about half what it’s worth in a retail shop.
No takers, though. And now I’m stuck with it, and I have no idea what to do about that.
By one o’clock, my apartment is empty and forlorn. I load up my boxes of books and kitchenware into my car. That only leaves some duffel bags with clothes and one pristine vintage piece of furniture made of walnut.
It takes me an hour to carefully drag it out of the building, inch by inch.
Mr. Jones, that coward, watches me from his window upstairs. As if I can’t see him. Finally, I look up at him and make a beckoning motion.
Then I wait, wondering if he’s too chicken to face me. But no—he comes shuffling out a few minutes later, zipping his coat.
“Help me lift this onto the roof of the car,” I demand. “Then I’m out of your hair.”
“Your car’s not big enough for that thing,” he grumbles.
“You want to be rid of me? Just help me lift it.”
He must really want me gone. Because the jerk helps me.
* * *
“Why is there a bookshelf on top of your car?” is the first thing Rigo asks when he arrives at Tommaso’s place at three o’clock.
“Because I wasn’t going to leave something worth five grand in my apartment.”
“Five grand?” He whistles. “Okay, but where are we going to put it? You’ve seen my place.”
“I don’t know,” I say, returning to my paint roller. “I was thinking I might put it here in Tommaso’s living room for a few days. He’d have somewhere to put his TV until I find him a media console.”
“Excellent plan!” Rigo tosses his coat onto the bean bag chair. “Hey, let’s move it now. The hockey game comes on in a couple hours. We can watch him play Nashville.”
My pulse leaps at this idea. That photo of Tom fighting his cousin wasn’t the only picture I saw when I googled him. There was also this photo of him lifting his hockey jersey, the abs of glory on full display…
A wave of guilt crashes through me. I can’t be having thirsty thoughts about my client. That’s not what he signed up for.
“We shouldn’t use his TV,” I say. “He deserves his privacy.”
“Dude, you are an excellent human being. But it’s just watching a hockey game. It’s not like rifling through his underwear drawer. Not that I wouldn’t like to.” He cackles. “Come on, I worked a full day already. I’m painting with you for fun.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say primly, and my friend rolls his eyes.
Then I pull out my phone and shoot off a text.
Hello from your living room. Vibe check—is it cool with you if I put a piece of my furniture under your TV until I find you a TV console? Either way, Rigo is threatening to turn on the hockey game while we paint.
A half hour later I get a reply. It’s typical Tommaso.
Sure, go ahead.
I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or truly indifferent. Oh well. This is my month for imposing on everyone. Tonight, and every night for the next couple of weeks, I’ll be sleeping on Rigo’s sofa.
Fun times.
Rigo and I paint as fast as we can while the light fades outside. And then we carry some box lights in from Rigo’s truck and set them up so we can paint after dark.
We’ve almost finished the first coat when Rigo says, “Let’s order some dinner and set up the TV. We can watch a little hockey while the first coat dries.”
