heart even worse than the Mets. You have to learn to like the pain of defeat or you’ll go crazy. But sometime last fall, something changed. Even though everyone still expected the Jets to lose every week, they kept winning to the point where it felt like it wouldn’t matter if they lost a game. They’d already won.
“Actually,” Stanley, one of the co-hosts of The Wave cuts off Sexy Caller, “we were focusing on the Mets this morning.”
But Sexy Caller’s not having any. “I remember how you laughed at Ryan last fall,” she goes on. “What did you call his color-coding system again? ‘Football for Preschoolers’? I just think you should man up and admit – ”
But I never learn what she wants Stanley to admit because there’s a tap on my shoulder.
Fucking Sam. She’s probably interrupting The Wave to have me listen to some Allison Iraheta song.
But when I turn around, it’s not Sam. It’s Steve Miller and he’s standing there in his bathrobe, holding a big mug of coffee, dark hair disheveled, dark eyes looking like he had a rough night. This is not the first time I’ve seen him in his bathrobe looking like this.
“Oh, Mr. Miller.” I take out my earbuds. “Hi.”
“It’s Steve. How many times are you going to paint my dining room before I convince you to call me Steve?”
“Steve. Right.”
This first-name basis thing is both good and bad. It’s good because I’m pretty sure he’s a year or two younger than me, so it always feels weird calling him Mister. But it’s weird calling him Steve because, well, he’s a lawyer and I’m doing work in his house. I don’t really care about the lawyer thing so much – after all, I could have been one if I hadn’t agreed to go into business with my dad – but one thing Big John always instilled in me is that it’s important not to get too familiar with customers so as to maintain a more professional business relationship. Of course, some of my customers don’t make this too easy.
“Katie let you in all right?” he asks, referring to his wife, who I’ve never seen looking rumpled in a bathrobe and who always gets off to work on time.
“Yup,” I say, self-evidently, “we’re here.”
“And she got off to work OK?” Before I can even nod, he adds, “Good, good.” He gestures at my earbuds with his mug. “What are you listening to?”
“The Wave.”
His eyes light up. “I love that show! What are they saying about the Mets’ chances this year?”
“Oh, you know,” I say, and I launch into pretty much everything I said to Leo back at the coffee shop, including the stuff about Beltran.
“That sucks,” he says, very unlawyerly. Then be brightens. “Hey, Johnny, you should come to Opening Day with me. My firm has season tickets.”
Before I can answer, I hear a snort from the other side of the room.
I look over Steve’s shoulder and open my arms in a “What the fuck?” that I direct at Sam. But she just shakes her head and smirks, putting her own earbuds in before going back to taping.
“What was that all about?” Steve asks.
I don’t know and I’ll have to wait until later to find out, but in the meantime I figure I’ll fix Sam’s wagon.
Laying my finger next to one nostril, in a hushed voice I confide, “Major coke problem.”
I can’t believe I said that, just to get back at Sam. What kind of employer would say such a thing about an employee? Big John would never say that to a customer about me. But Steve doesn’t seem bothered by my indiscretion.
“Oh, that’s sad,” he says. “Such a pretty girl. Beautiful, really.” A thoughtful look crosses his face. “You two ever…”
It takes me a while to realize what he’s getting at here, and when I do…
“ Sam? ” I shake my head vehemently. “God no. She hits for the other team.”
“Oh,” he says wisely. “What? Red Sox fan?”
“No,” I say. “Lesbian.”
“Oh!” Enlightenment dawns. “Oh.” Disappointment. Then: “Well,
“Actually,” Stanley, one of the co-hosts of The Wave cuts off Sexy Caller, “we were focusing on the Mets this morning.”
But Sexy Caller’s not having any. “I remember how you laughed at Ryan last fall,” she goes on. “What did you call his color-coding system again? ‘Football for Preschoolers’? I just think you should man up and admit – ”
But I never learn what she wants Stanley to admit because there’s a tap on my shoulder.
Fucking Sam. She’s probably interrupting The Wave to have me listen to some Allison Iraheta song.
But when I turn around, it’s not Sam. It’s Steve Miller and he’s standing there in his bathrobe, holding a big mug of coffee, dark hair disheveled, dark eyes looking like he had a rough night. This is not the first time I’ve seen him in his bathrobe looking like this.
“Oh, Mr. Miller.” I take out my earbuds. “Hi.”
“It’s Steve. How many times are you going to paint my dining room before I convince you to call me Steve?”
“Steve. Right.”
This first-name basis thing is both good and bad. It’s good because I’m pretty sure he’s a year or two younger than me, so it always feels weird calling him Mister. But it’s weird calling him Steve because, well, he’s a lawyer and I’m doing work in his house. I don’t really care about the lawyer thing so much – after all, I could have been one if I hadn’t agreed to go into business with my dad – but one thing Big John always instilled in me is that it’s important not to get too familiar with customers so as to maintain a more professional business relationship. Of course, some of my customers don’t make this too easy.
“Katie let you in all right?” he asks, referring to his wife, who I’ve never seen looking rumpled in a bathrobe and who always gets off to work on time.
“Yup,” I say, self-evidently, “we’re here.”
“And she got off to work OK?” Before I can even nod, he adds, “Good, good.” He gestures at my earbuds with his mug. “What are you listening to?”
“The Wave.”
His eyes light up. “I love that show! What are they saying about the Mets’ chances this year?”
“Oh, you know,” I say, and I launch into pretty much everything I said to Leo back at the coffee shop, including the stuff about Beltran.
“That sucks,” he says, very unlawyerly. Then be brightens. “Hey, Johnny, you should come to Opening Day with me. My firm has season tickets.”
Before I can answer, I hear a snort from the other side of the room.
I look over Steve’s shoulder and open my arms in a “What the fuck?” that I direct at Sam. But she just shakes her head and smirks, putting her own earbuds in before going back to taping.
“What was that all about?” Steve asks.
I don’t know and I’ll have to wait until later to find out, but in the meantime I figure I’ll fix Sam’s wagon.
Laying my finger next to one nostril, in a hushed voice I confide, “Major coke problem.”
I can’t believe I said that, just to get back at Sam. What kind of employer would say such a thing about an employee? Big John would never say that to a customer about me. But Steve doesn’t seem bothered by my indiscretion.
“Oh, that’s sad,” he says. “Such a pretty girl. Beautiful, really.” A thoughtful look crosses his face. “You two ever…”
It takes me a while to realize what he’s getting at here, and when I do…
“ Sam? ” I shake my head vehemently. “God no. She hits for the other team.”
“Oh,” he says wisely. “What? Red Sox fan?”
“No,” I say. “Lesbian.”
“Oh!” Enlightenment dawns. “Oh.” Disappointment. Then: “Well,
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