Page 59 of Man Hands
Tom
It’s latein the afternoon and I’m sitting in my office waiting for Patricia to Skype me. She’s trying to stay on top of technology, and it’s painful for both of us. When I shut my eyes, I’m back in the thick of New York. Exhaust. Noise. Honking horns. Neon even in the middle of the day. People pissed off and being super verbal about why they’re pissed off. My business trips to New York are sometimes fun, but I prefer the quiet ofMichigan.
An image floats into my mind of a little lake cottage—not in the ’burbs like my mansion, but on the big lake—with a picture window. The front door is painted hunter green. There’s a screened-in porch ononeside…
The fantasy calms me enough that when Patricia finally comes online, I’m readyforher.
As much as she wants to be “modern,” she really doesn’t know what she’s doing. “Hello? Tom? Tom are you fucking there?” She’s hollering and I am staring at her very large chest where her buttons are holding on for dear life to keep her covered. It would only take one really deep inhale to send those buttons shooting acrosstheroom.
“I’m here, Patricia. You have to angle yourscreenup.”
“WHAT?”
“Adjust your monitor. Up. No, not like…yes! Stop! Thereyougo.”
“Oh,” she says and then she sits down, so now I can only see her face from the eyes up. Her shaggy, dark eyebrows (Benjamin Moore’s Ashwood Moss) are very expressive though, soit’sfine.
“I have just offered you a very nice deal and your mind is off in fucking lalaland.”
“Um, what are you talking about? I don’t have an offerfromyou.”
“I emailed it to you.” There’s a pause. “Oh. Fuck.” Then I hear clicking. And said email appears in my inbox. “Look, the network has an idea, and I think it’s genius. This is your chance to prove to them that your thrusting butt cheeks aren’t abigdeal.”
Closing my eyes, I have to picture the cottage again to stay calm.Hunter green door. Beach sand on the front porch.Patricia and I have known each other a long time, but I’d hoped we could go another ten years without having a conversation about mybareass.
“You’ve had a nice, comfy hiatus, Tom. But it’s time for you to get back to work. And by back to work, I mean you need to leave that shithole town in Michigan and go rescue some historichomes!”
Patricia doesn’t get paid unless I get paid, so it’s natural that she’d want me back at work. And the idea of knocking down some walls sounds pretty good right now. What I really want to do is knock on Brynn’s door. Maybe hold her up against a wall… Damn it. I’m doing it again. “So they gave the green light toseasonten?”
The eyes take on a furtive look. “Not exactly. But they’re going to. Right now they’re offering you a nice, fat fee for a special. A fucking special! You’ll only be on location for a week. And if that pans out, they’ll hand you a contract forseasonten.”
“What kind of special? Please tell me it doesn’t involve a musical number.” If Patricia has booked me onDancing with the Stars, I may not be responsible for myactions.
“A musical number?” she pauses. “Ah. That is a joke. I get it. Don’t quit your day job. No. There’s no music, hot buns. This is another Speed Build—a quick rescue and revamp of an old ski lodge. Here’s the deal—your network’s sister network needs to shoot a reality show there in two weeks’ time. But somebody got their wires crossed, and they didn’t renovate on schedule.” She cackles, then waves a manicured hand past her eyes. “I don’t know how a bunch of overpaid suits could make so many mistakes, honestly. But their dipshittedness is your gain. The network wants to fly you out immediately. You’ll prep the site, make some plans, and renovate everything in a forty-eight-hourcontinuousroll.”
It’s weird, but I can feel my pulse jump. I love a challenge. And I’d forgotten how it feels to be given amission.
“If the special succeeds, they’re actually prepared to offer you a five-season renewal. It’s unheard of,really.”
Five years? That’s alongtime.
Wow.
“Wow,” I say, trying to remain enthusiastic. “But what if the special tanks, and it’s not my fault? What if they put me up against a boxing match on cable? Are you telling me my whole career is hanging on thisspecial?”
“It’s going to be fine,” she insists. “This opportunity is golden. Also, I want a trip to Italy with my grandchildren, so you are going to sign this contract and hop on a plane to renovate a ski house. Come on, hot buns. Opportunitycalls!”
I’m trying to process all of this. And trying to rein in my desire to argue about 1) the horrible new nickname she’s given me, and 2) the fact that nobody really faxes anymore. “A ski house, huh?” I ask instead. “Where did you sayitwas?”
I’m afraid of her answer. I really am. But couldn’t it be in Michigan? Couldn’t reality stars do their thing in a lake cottage? That way Brynn and I could kick back with a glass of wine and some of her balls that’s she’s working on and, I don’t know, watch thesunset?
But that’s not the answer I get from Patricia. Patricia is a beast. She eats the Easter Bunny for breakfast. Raw. With her barehands.
“It’s in Quebec,” she says. “That’s in Canada, in case you’recurious.”
Something kicks me in the gut. I’m pretty sure it’s Patricia’s boot. I can’t speak, really, so I check the email with thecontract.
I look at the amount offered. Flip through theterms.
