My Own Little Anger

Ring the bell.  Twice.  Who’s this?  I’m working.  Can someone else get this?  And . . . no.  No one else is home.  I’m home alone.  I need to check who’s here.

There’s a guy at the door.  He’s probably in his twenties.  He looks vaguely perturbed at needing to communicate with me.  In Chinese: “Hey, I’m here to paint the garage.  The lady of the house arranged this.  I she home?”  I have heard that something like this was afoot, so I’m not shocked, but I have no idea what has been discussed. 

“Let me try to reach my wife, OK?”  I call.  And call again.   I call her a few more times.  Sometimes the annoyance of multiple rings or buzzings can spur the otherwise unaware or cognitively ill-inclined into action.  Then I reach her.  She is quick.  “Yeah.  Yes.  I know.  Have them call me.”  And then she is gone, before I can hand my phone off to the guy in the peach tee-shirt and buzz cropped hair.  He still doesn't know what to do. 

I call my wife.  I call her again and again.  I text and we chat and call and we chat a few question marks and then wechat a few exclamations marks. These guys want to know what to do.  I have no idea what they’ve agreed to.  We should get that straight before you go wild with a paint brush in here.  Of that I am sure.   

I can’t leave.  I stand here and call.  He mills about.  The simple fact that she was there and now is inaccessible is infuriating.  My we chat messages become ever, more snarky. I employ larger fleets of punctuation markers.  Ellipses.  Question marks in pairs, or triplets.  Is she on the phone?  What’s her deal?

Finally, she picks up and asks what’s up.  To me the answer is symphonically obvious but her comment helps to pierce the film of my own little anger bubble.  I hand over my phone to the painter gentleman, free now, to return to work.  

Friday 5/04/18