Page 6 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
I gulp. “Will you have to replace the whole thing?”
He nods, crossing over to the window. He fingers the frame where it’s cracked from top to bottom, and splintered at the point of impact. “You fucked this thing up pretty good.” He winces. “Screwed it up, I mean. Not supposed to curse on the job. Sorry. Anyway, this is an old window and is beyond repair.”
I swallow my own curses. “How—how much do you think a new window will cost?”
He does some mental math, staring at my ceiling for a moment. “I could probably get it done for a couple hundred bucks, say three to five hundred, depending on a few factors.”
I fight the urge to cry—I really, really don’t have that much to spend on this. “Damn it.” I turn away, staring at the stupid window. “It was stuck, and I was hot, and I’ve had a shitty day.”
“I get it. This has been a scorcher of a summer. Today especially.” He lifts a tape measure from his tool belt, leans over the sink, and takes a few quick measurements; he pulls a cell phone from his back pocket and taps the measurements into a notepad app. Then, with a wince, he glances at me. “So, a little bad news. This house is old, right?”
I nod. “Around a hundred years old.”
“So, back then, window sizes weren’t really standard. Getting a window to fit this space is gonna be tricky. You could end up paying more for it, just because of the unusual size. Usually, you pay more for bigger windows, obviously, right? Well, in this case, you’re gonna pay more for less. The other option is to get a standard window and widen the opening, but you’re gonna pay me the difference in labor. Plus a special order window takes a while to arrive, so you’ll be living with a boarded up window longer than you want.”
“None of that sounds great,” I say, still swallowing hard past my emotions.
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.” He peers at the window from one side and then the other. Another glance at me. “It was nailed shut, by the way. That’s why it wouldn’t open.”
“But I looked for nails!” I protest, with a shake in my voice.
He reaches up and fingers a spot on the frame, where there’s a slight bump in the paint. “They used pretty small nails and then painted over them. Barely noticeable unless you know what to look for.”
“Why—why would they do that? Why would anyone nail a window shut and then paint it?” I ask, unable to make sense of it.
He shakes his head. “Who knows? Folks back then did a whole lot of weird shit—stuff, I mean. I’ve been working on houses most of my life, and I’ve seen all sorts of goofy things. Bricked-in doors, bricked-in fireplaces, including the original mantle, wacky additions with no adherence to code or even common sense.” He glances at the ceiling, at the light fixture that hangs loose from the ceiling, showing a dark gap. “You ever have your electrical looked at? The wiring in some of these old houses can be wonky.”
“We did have an inspection done, and the guy said it all looked okay.”
He nods. “Well, that’s good.” He jerked a thumb toward the front door. “I’ll grab some stuff and get this boarded up before the rain comes.”
“Thank you.” I am desperately trying to infuse myself with a sense of calm and collectedness, and only partially succeed.
“Haven’t done anything yet except talk.” He gestures at my empty wineglass on the counter. “Sit down, have another glass of wine, and relax. This is taken care of.”
Well, put it like that…
I crack open the other bottle, promising myself I’ll only have one more LITTLE glass.
A few minutes later, I hear him in the landscaping bed outside the window. Then I see him—he’s got on a pair of thick leather work gloves, and he reaches up and pries loose the remaining shards of glass from the window, tossing them in an old, paint-crusted bucket. He then lifts up a ragged section of blue tarp, using an industrial staple gun to fasten it to the outside of the window.
“This won’t be pretty, but it’ll keep the rain out,” he says.
“It’s only temporary, anyway, right?” I say, sipping my wine.
He grins at me through the opening. “Exactly! Always look on the bright side of life.”
“You’re not going to sing Monty Python, are you?”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Well now I am!” And he breaks into the chorus of the song, in a surprisingly good voice, and in a British accent to boot.
He surprises me by continuing to sing the song as he works, stapling the tarp up over the window. And then, singing a Journey song—the Journey song, “Don’t Stop Believin’”—he nails a piece of plywood up over the tarp. It takes him all of ten minutes, and then he’s back inside, stuffing his gloves behind the buckle of his tool belt.
