an unobstructed view

true colors

His name was Victor Concepcion. Unlike most painters, he didn't drive a pickup or a van. Instead, he tooled around Miami in a retrofitted Cadillac. Sleek with pointy fins, it reeked of style and comfort—just like Victor. The first time I met him was in 1985. My husband Michael and I had stretched our budget and purchased our dream home. The house, complete with window treatments and virgin rugs, was a bargain. The only thing it needed was a little paint. "Who's the least expensive painter you know?" I asked my friend Phyllis. "Victor. He's cheap, he's good, only...." "For cheap and good I'll deal with anything," I replied. "What's his number?" A week later, Victor knocked on my door. I was in my early thirties. He was at least ten years older. A full head of black hair, green eyes, tanned. When he smiled, he beamed sparkling white teeth. "Buenos dias, Senora. I believe you need an estimate?" He offered his right hand, and I stuck mine out. But instead of shaking it, he slowly turned it so my palm faced down. Then he took his left hand and patted mine like a cheek. It was as if he were saying There there. I know how hard it is to deal with workmen. The time sucked out of your life—the hassles, the wasted money. But here I am. The Superman of the service industry. Your worries are my worries. Victor never used a tape measure or a clipboard. He just scanned each room and added figures in his head. He peeked into the kitchen to see what was cooking, then he headed towards the front door. "Ha sido un placer." He took my hand again, and this time, he kissed it. "It's been a pleasure." Then he rattled off some absurdly low numbers and didn't walk so much as glide back to his car. I watched him open the Cadillac door and ease his way in. Each step looked like dance, his shoulders rolling to an internal beat. The following Monday the Cadillac pulled up in front of my house with a truck trailing behind it. Out clambered his crew. First came a young skinny kid in his twenties. He sported a Led Zeppelin tank top, muscles, and a scowl. A middle-aged guy with a pregnant-looking gut appeared next. The only one who looked remotely happy was a guy named Carlos. Or at least that's what it said in red cursive letters on his shirt. When he flashed me a grin and asked where to start, I ushered him into the den. Victor loitered in their wake. While the cans were pried open and the ladders set against walls, he lay down on a tarp in the middle of the room. Then he closed his eyes, clenched his fingers across his stomach, and proceeded to snore. For the next three hours, he stayed in that position. Whenever workers are in my home, I pretend I'm busy. I rattle around the kitchen slamming cupboards so they know I'm there. That day I cooked a roast chicken plus a batch of chocolate chip cookies for my kids. "Somethin' smells good." Victor was in the doorway, combing his fingers through his hair and smacking his lips. He sat down on a stool by the table and grabbed a cookie. "Mmmm. Delicioso." He looked me over and smacked his lips once more. "You don't have any Cuban coffee, do you?" Suddenly I felt naked. "Sorry, just decaf." Without a care in the world, he sat there humming and smiling and eating his way through my kids' dessert. In between, he talked. "The fat one, el gordo, is my cousin. The smart alec, el sabelotodo, is my wife's nephew." It seemed that Victor employed most of his family. A parade of losers, all of them. "The only one who makes me money is Guillermo. Gracias a Dios." "You mean Carlos, right?'' He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. "No, that's not Carlos. Only Carlos's shirt." For the rest of the day, he either napped in the living room or nipped at my heels. He enjoyed looking at women from behind. Without missing a beat, he kept the banter going. All I needed to do was throw in an occasional glass of milk. "You know, I like the ladies with a little meat on their bones! Your husband's a lucky a guy! You're too young to have such grown children!" Usually I dressed in jeans, no makeup, and sneakers. Michael and I had been high school sweethearts, married for over a dozen years. I suppose I had let things go. There was only one man I bothered with lipstick and heels for and that was my gynecologist. All of a sudden, I started gazing in the magnifying side of my compact. As the crew worked their way from one room to the next, I took a little more care in my appearance. Tuesday, I put on eyeliner and mascara. Wednesday, I bought a new blouse. By Friday, I toted home two shopping bags from Victoria's Secret. My husband never knew what hit him. Then Phyllis called. "How's Victor working out?" I heard kids screaming in the background. "Fine. Fine," I said. I decided to play my cards close to my chest. Whatever he charged me had to be ridiculously lower than what he charged my friend. I oozed smugness like perfume. "Did he follow you around the house and make those smacking sounds?" asked Phyllis. Then she started laughing. "Did he wolf whistle when you bent over? Did he tell you how he liked his women big-boned?" On and on she went. A regular Jerry Seinfeld. She was just finding her rhythm when she lobbed a grenade. "My friend Jackie wore her tennis outfit," said Phyllis, "and he pressure-cleaned her roof for free." At first I felt cuckolded, spurned. Then I was insulted! Tray after tray of homemade chocolate chip cookies had gotten me nowhere. I spent an hour at the Lancome counter, and did he even notice? In two months, Victor was scheduled to come back and do some outside work. I seriously thought about canceling. That's when my next door neighbor knocked at my door. As shapely as a clothes hanger, Nancy ran marathons and grew organic vegetables in her backyard. She was probably a size two. Everyone hated her. "I noticed you had workmen over. They looked like painters. Were they painters? My kitchen really could use a few coats but I'm not looking to spend an arm and a leg. Were they expensive?" A tsunami of words poured out, all in one breath. If there was an Olympics in pushiness, Nancy would score a gold medal. I fished in my handbag for Victor's number and handed it over. The paper was crumpled and sticky with bottom of my purse crud. For a few seconds that made me happy. Each morning after that, I checked the curb for a sign of Victor. I'd walk the sidewalks, glance from one block to the next, crane my neck around street lamps. Finally a few weeks later, his Cadillac and truck pulled up in front of Nancy's house. They clocked in two nine-to-five days, and then they were gone. I was hoping to casually bump into her. I hand-watered my plants. Pruned the roses. Walked the dog. Finally I ran out of patience and called Nancy on the phone. "How'd the painters work out? I hate to recommend—" Nancy was not the type to let you finish a sentence. Too many things to do and so little time. "He was fine. Fine." She huffed and puffed like she was on an exercise machine. "He left his guy Carlos in charge." The words came out in bursts. "Said to mail him a check." I gently laid the phone back on its cradle and grinned. There's no Carlos. Only Guillermo who buys his shirts at the flea market in Hialeah. And Victor liked to be paid cash. He would never settle for a check unless... I did a little touchdown dance around the kitchen. I don't know if God or heaven exists. I don't know if there's a master plan or if life's just a roll of the dice. But somewhere in the universe, there's a painter who has the good sense to know which women are worth staying home for and which women should just drop you a check.

Marlene Olin's stories have been published by Upstreet Magazine, Vine Leaves, The Saturday Evening Post online, Emry's Journal, Biostories, Edge, Poetica, Arcadia, Ragazine,and The Jewish Literary Journal. In the coming months, her work will be featured in Meat for Tea, The Broken Plate, and Poydras Review. Her stories will also be included in Love on the Road, an anthology distributed by Liberties Press and Escape Your World, a collection distributed by Scribes Valley Publishing. Born in Brooklyn and raised in Miami, Marlene attended the University of Michigan. She presently lives in Coconut Grove, Florida with her husband but spends part of the year in Jackson Hole, Wyoming as well. She has two children and two grandchildren. She recently completed her first novel.

For more work by Marlene Olin, check out our Online Sundries site here.

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