Page 14 of Perfect Mess
I took a moment to gather myself before turning, drawing a slow breath through my teeth. It was one of those times when you know it’s going to be bad, but you’re not sure how bad. Like when you get pulled over for speeding in a school zone. Or right before you put your W2 numbers into TurboTax.
Next to the front door, on the wall, was a large splotch of red paint. Not the entire wall, thankfully, just enough to provide a sample of the horrors that a full painting would unleash. The paint was the color one might paint a barn filled with pigs. Or a baboon’s butt. Or a prostitute’s lipstick.
When I hired Wright Touch Painting to complete the painting work in Aunt Catherine’s house, I left a very detailed, very specific voicemail with the details of the job. I also sent a two-page email. And several clarifying texts.
After the incidents with my first two painters, not to mention the beige not greige incident with Painter #3, I even ordered and paid for all the painting supplies myself.
“Well?” Gary smiled ear to ear, like a proud toddler who brought home an ugly finger painting from daycare.
“Greige.” My voice squeaked out as a whisper.
“Excuse me?” Gary looked confused.
“Greige,” I said again. “Everything greige.”
“Greige?”
“You were supposed to paint everything greige.”
“Everything?”
It took effort to unclench my fists as I forced a smile through clenched teeth. “Greige is crisp. Greige is clean. Greige goes with anything and everything goes with greige. Greige.”
Blink
Gary looked at me like I was speaking Swahili.
I glanced again at the swath of ugly red paint. When I first walked into Aunt Catherine’s house, I thought I had accidentally walked into a serial killer’s murder room. If only that had been the case. At least then someone else would have gouged my eyes out. Now, I was going to have to do it myself.
“I figured this room could use a pop of color,” said Gary.
Slowly, I turned, taking my time to let my brain fully process the words that had just come out of Gary’s mouth. “A pop of what?”
“Color.” The smile dropped off his face when he saw my face. “You know, spice things up a bit?”
“I didn’t realize that when I hired a painter, I was hiring a decorator too.” I could feel the migraine forming. Like a serial killer stabbing me in the hypothalamus with a paint scalpel. “I was very specific when I hired you,” I said. “Greige. Everything greige. Greige in the hallways. Greige in the bedrooms. Greige in the kitchen.” I pointed to the stack of paint cans stacked against the wall. Every single can was greige. “Where did you even get red paint?”
“I had it in the van. Leftovers from another job. I figured I would put a little on the wall so you could see how it looks. I don’t know, I think it compliments your grayish-beige color nicely.”
It may have been the paint fumes, or the lingering effects of a cow hoof to my head, but at that point, I very much needed to get a breath of fresh air before my head exploded, which would have been terrible because then the rest of the wall would be colored red too. From brain matter.
I turned back around and began moving toward the door.
I never saw the ladder.
Nor did I see the can of red paint perched on the top step of the ladder.
The can of paint that was still open.
The can of paint that was not closed. You know the movie Carrie?
Yeah.
That.
* * *
Turns out,paint is even harder to get out of your hair than cow manure. While I rinsed off in Aunt Catherine’s shower, Gary fetched spare clothes from his van, which comprised an extra set of the burlap textured painting overalls and a vintage concert T-shirt. Normally, I never would have entertained putting either piece of clothing on my body, but I had nothing else to wear and I wasn’t about to get wet paint all over Charlotte.
