a door that doesn't go anywhere?
Charles, our handyman, has a remodeling business and does quite well for himself. He’s a swell guy and a real sweetheart. And he can fix anything!
Sometimes, though, I get the feeling that he’s laughing at me. There are a variety of reasons why I think this could be true:
My “toolbox” consists of a pair of pliers, a hammer and about 300 tiny parts leftover from various projects. The first time he asked to borrow a tool and I opened up the Tupperware bin to show him what I had, he just looked at it silently. Looked at me. Look at the box. Me: “What?!”
I often have to call him for dumb things, like “I need a ladder to dust the ceiling fans” or “I am locked in the bathroom.”
And one day, something happened that might have made a lesser man burst out laughing right in front of me:
I have a leak in my bedroom closet. This is apparently caused by a drainpipe outside. Charles is working on it and he asks me how the hall closet outside of the bedroom fared during the mini-flood.
“That isn’t a hall closet, Charles. That’s just a door that doesn’t go anywhere.”
“Lisa,” he asks, smiling and biting his lip, “a door that doesn’t go anywhere?”
“Yes,” I responded, feeling a little huffy. “When I first looked at this place the broker explained it was just a door with a brick wall behind it. It doesn’t. Go. Anywhere.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what. I have a bunch of skeleton keys and I’ll bring them back tomorrow. I’m telling you, that’s a closet. The door was probably accidentally locked without a key to open it, and the broker was just lazy.”
I’m thinking, well! I’ll show him, but I don’t say anything. Later that night, I walked by the so-called closet and just for the heck of it, grabbed the doorknob.
It opened. To a roomy, hall-sized closet. Pristine, because it hadn’t been used in all the time I’d lived there, without enough room for my many vintage coats.
Hadn’t been opened until it was only a matter of months before I move away.
Hadn’t been opened in more than five years.
The next day I told Charles what happened. He nodded gravely and turned his back to keep working. But I swear, as I walked out of the room, I heard muffled laughter.
He never said a word. ~
Sometimes, though, I get the feeling that he’s laughing at me. There are a variety of reasons why I think this could be true:
My “toolbox” consists of a pair of pliers, a hammer and about 300 tiny parts leftover from various projects. The first time he asked to borrow a tool and I opened up the Tupperware bin to show him what I had, he just looked at it silently. Looked at me. Look at the box. Me: “What?!”
I often have to call him for dumb things, like “I need a ladder to dust the ceiling fans” or “I am locked in the bathroom.”
And one day, something happened that might have made a lesser man burst out laughing right in front of me:
I have a leak in my bedroom closet. This is apparently caused by a drainpipe outside. Charles is working on it and he asks me how the hall closet outside of the bedroom fared during the mini-flood.
“That isn’t a hall closet, Charles. That’s just a door that doesn’t go anywhere.”
“Lisa,” he asks, smiling and biting his lip, “a door that doesn’t go anywhere?”
“Yes,” I responded, feeling a little huffy. “When I first looked at this place the broker explained it was just a door with a brick wall behind it. It doesn’t. Go. Anywhere.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what. I have a bunch of skeleton keys and I’ll bring them back tomorrow. I’m telling you, that’s a closet. The door was probably accidentally locked without a key to open it, and the broker was just lazy.”
I’m thinking, well! I’ll show him, but I don’t say anything. Later that night, I walked by the so-called closet and just for the heck of it, grabbed the doorknob.
It opened. To a roomy, hall-sized closet. Pristine, because it hadn’t been used in all the time I’d lived there, without enough room for my many vintage coats.
Hadn’t been opened until it was only a matter of months before I move away.
Hadn’t been opened in more than five years.
The next day I told Charles what happened. He nodded gravely and turned his back to keep working. But I swear, as I walked out of the room, I heard muffled laughter.
He never said a word. ~
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