Just Joe ~ Jen Luerssen Read online

  Just Flamingo

  THE NEXT MORNING, WE HAVE cereal in silence. I guess this is my treatment until I give up some information. She has no idea how up for the challenge I am. Since she seems uninterested in talking, I send her a text.

  Me: Your contractor was wondering if you wanted to visit your house today?

  Bestie: Oh, he does?

  Me: Yep—you have some decisions to make.

  Bestie: Is there some reason you’re texting me when you are sitting right next to me?

  Me: You don’t seem like you’re in the mood to chat.

  Bestie: I’m not.

  Me: Meet me at my truck in 20?

  Bestie: Fine.

  She gets up, puts her cereal bowl in the dishwasher and heads up to her room. Twenty minutes later she meets me at my truck. I smile as she gets in, continuing her silent treatment.

  “I think you’re going to be excited about the progress we’ve made upstairs,” I tell her. We are waiting on some architectural decisions from her for the downstairs so we’ve been working on the second floor which are basic bedrooms, the bathroom proving to be the biggest project. I have a surprise for her that I pray she likes. “There’s a surprise for you,” I say and she looks at me.

  “A surprise?” she asks—breaking her vow of silence.

  “She speaks!” She punches me hard in the shoulder and I rub the spot. “Ow, I’m fragile, don’t hurt me.”

  “Stop being a whiny baby. You’re lucky I didn’t junk punch you,” she says and I instinctively cover said area with my hand. “A surprise sounds scary when it comes to my living space and you making any decisions.”

  “I promise you’ll love it,” I reassure her. “If for some reason you don’t, I’ll change it.”

  She looks skeptical. “I better love it or I’m reconsidering that punch.”

  “When did you get so violent?” I ask, laughing.

  “You bring it out in me,” she says with a half-smile.

  We pull into her driveway and she doesn’t get out right away. “You ready?” I ask.

  “I just got nervous,” she says. “Not sure why, I haven’t been here in a while.”

  “Nerves are not necessary, just wait until you see all the awesome shit we’ve done to your money pit.”

  “Somehow that did nothing to ease my nerves,” she says but then opens her door and gets out.

  We go in the front door and she gasps. It’s a lot different, even like this, before we’ve put up sheetrock. The walls are all down to the studs, but she is able to see where we’ve put in new electric and new pipes.

  “I know it’s not too obvious down here but just wait.” I direct her to the staircase and her hands fly to her mouth. Denver has worked his Jesus magic on the staircase and banister. “We used a lot of the original wood and then added new where it was needed. My carpenter is great at matching and restoration. Let’s go up. You don’t even have to watch your step.”

  Her hand moves up and down the banister. “It’s so pretty, it looks like it’s been here for years. I’m impressed so far.”

  I lead her up the steps and into the first guest room. We’ve already installed sheetrock up here and this room has wainscoting, baseboards, and painting done. I like to have one full room completely done as soon as possible for showing off purposes. I can tell she’s happy. The walls are a light dove gray that she selected and the light fixtures are understated but pretty.

  “Wow, this looks great. This will be my office because of the window.” There’s a giant picture window that faces the street. It would be a cool spot to work. I know she sometimes works from home so it makes sense.

  “I’m glad you approve. Come on,” I say and lead her to the smaller guest room which hasn’t been painted, and then her master. “We still have another coat in here but I wanted you to see the color.” She chose a lavender so light it looks white during the day. I stand in front of the master bathroom door blocking it until she faces me, the biggest smile on her beautiful face.

  “I don’t know why I was so nervous. It all looks so good, thanks, Joe,” she says and then surprises me with a hug.

  I hold her to me, stroke her hair and kiss her head. “Wait until you see the bathroom,” I say and turn her, still in my arms and cover her eyes with my hand. I maneuver her so she’s got her back to my front and we walk to the bathroom. I walk her into the middle of the room and place her where I want her, then release my hand.

  She opens her eyes and I watch her expression, praying for a positive response. Don told me I was nuts to do this, but I don’t listen to that old asshole—he doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body. Her eyes go wide in surprise as she turns a full circle to take in the bathroom. It’s no longer the hideous pink and black monstrosity it once was, but it has a little bit of the essence. By the window is an enormous white tub and the spout has a funny rubber flamingo over it. The tile is all white subway except for a strip about two-thirds of the way up the wall. This strip is handmade painted tile by my brother. In an alternating pattern, the tiles have a flamingo, a raven, and a Poe. It’s subtle but quirky and something I thought she would dig. By the look on her face, I am right. She is smiling wide as she glides her hand over the painted tile. She admires the fun flamingo patterned bath mat I found online and the shower curtain with an excerpt of The Raven written on it. That was harder to find, but book nerds like to put quotes on everything. Including shower curtains.

  She turns to me, her eyes watery. “Joe, this is, like, the best thing ever.”

  I wipe a tear that has reached her cheek. “Why are you crying then?” I ask her.

  “I just, I don’t know why I’m surprised you would be so thoughtful. I guess I’m just not used to someone thinking about me.” I move my hand to cup her cheek and then lean down to kiss her forehead.

  “I think about you more than I should,” I say. “I’m glad you like my Flaming-Poe bathroom.”

  She laughs. “No, let’s not call it that. It’s more Flamingoth.” She runs her hand over the tell again. “Are these hand painted?”

  “Yeah, I had Jack do it. He was excited to do something for you.” At this news, tears flow a little faster.

  I take her face in my hands and wipe the tears from her cheeks. “I’m sorry, it’s just a weird feeling. You guys have become so dear to me so quickly. My emotions are confused.”

  “You are very dear to us too, Bets. There’s no confusion there,” I say and want to say more, I want to pull her in and kiss her lips.

  She smiles and then claps. “Shit, Jeannette needs to see this. Can we bring her over?”

  I laugh at her infectious enthusiasm. “Your neighbor?” I ask and she nods. “Sure, let’s go get her.”

  “I’ll text her so she’s not startled by us ringing the bell.” Betsy takes her phone out, texts her friend and then takes a few pictures of the bathroom. I’m feeling the full wonderful feeling of giving someone a gift that makes them happy. Especially when that someone makes you happy all the time.

  We head downstairs and over to Jeannette’s house next door. Her home is similar in style to Betsy’s and although lived in, in far better shape than Betsy’s was when she bought it.

  “She’s lived here for a long time and has taken great care of it. Honestly, I wasn’t sure about buying until she invited me for tea to compare. Once I could see how fantastic her place was, I could visualize how mine could come together.” She rings the bell. “She’s going to shit a brick over that bathroom.”

  “Well, at least it’s an appropriate room for that action,” I say and she punches my arm, flex.

  “Behave,” she says as the door opens and a tall, well-dressed woman appears. Her hair is short but stylish, complimenting her delicate features. I know she’s 72 but she looks closer to 50.

  Jeannette chuckles and gives me the once-over. “No need to behave, bunnies. You must be Joe, I’ve heard all about you,” she says slyly and holds her hand out and she nearly crushes my hand with her grip.<
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  “I hope she told you good things about me, like how tempting I am and how it’s so difficult for her to be away from me that she often ends up in my bedroom.” Betsy punches me again and Jeannette gives me a half smile.

  “Something like that,” she says and I like her. “Are you two coming in?” she asks rhetorically as she turns and walks into her home, assuming we will follow. We do.

  “Jeanette, you have to come see what Joe did to my master bath. It’s inspirational,” Betsy gushes.

  “Ooh, an inspirational washroom? I can’t wait.” We follow her into her kitchen, a brand new, stunning kitchen. “Come sit, I have lunch.” She gestures to a table with built-in benches banked against a huge window that looks out into her small, well-kept yard.

  We sit and are treated like royalty. Jeannette serves us homemade squash soup and delicious bread she claims to have baked earlier in the day. It’s all remarkable and Jeannette is one of those cool San Francisco people you meet that moved here because it’s an oasis of acceptance and love and has been for a long time.

  Just Lying to Myself

  THE FLAMINGO/POE BATHROOM IS A hit with Jeannette and I win a bunch of points with her. She pats my cheek and tells me that she’d fuck me if she liked dick. I stand with my mouth agape as she walks down the stairs. Betsy is laughing.

  “I thought she was married to Bert?” I ask. She had mentioned Bert a few times during lunch and I assumed it was her late husband.

  “She was, they got married about ten years ago and then Bert or Bertha, a name she apparently hated and never used, got breast cancer about five years later and died. Hasn’t slowed Jeannette down at all. She is a bigger ‘ho than you and me combined. She’s got a new lady friend every week.”

  “I can see that, she’s pretty hot for a 72-year-old,” I say seriously.

  “She told me after Bert she just wanted to fuck around and not settle down again. No one gets that more than me.” I look at her now. Really look to see if she’s 100% believing this bullshit. I can see the vulnerability in her eyes and even though she shuts it down quickly, I see her wistful look.

  I decide to push her on it. “Why do you get it?”

  She shrugs. “I guess it’s because I’ve been on my own emotionally for so long, it’s something I’ve closed myself off from. The possibility that I could have that kind of relationship seems out of reach.” Her eyes flash to me and she laughs but it feels hollow. “We’ve gone over this Joe, I’m not built for monogamy and intimacy.”

  “How do you know if you’ve never tried?” I ask. “I could argue that you’ve experienced intimacy with me and Jack. Maybe not romantic,” I say when her eyes look terrified at the mention of Jack, “but you can’t deny that we have a closeness with you. You are my best friend and Jack sees you like the older sister he’s always wanted.”

  She looks like she wants to say something but instead hugs me. We stand in that embrace for a few minutes and I wrack my brain for what to do to get past this. I want more than this from her, but she’s so stubborn.

  “Come to my show tonight, Joe,” she says as she pulls from the hug, resting her head on my chest where my heart is beating wildly.

  I clear my throat. I want to say yes, but something is stopping me. “I can’t tonight, I promised Frank I’d listen to his crying about Mikey while I grill him a steak.” It’s a total lie, I have one plan, to go see her for the third night in a row. Not sure why I can’t just nut up and admit that’s where I’m going.

  She looks disappointed and I’m about to tell her I’ll ditch him. “Oh, that’s good of you, Joe. I guess coming to see a sexy burlesque show wouldn’t cheer him up much?”

  “Nah, it would get him all sad and horny and then I’d have to fight him off,” I joke and she huffs out a laugh. “I promise I’ll come see you soon, I can’t wait.” Neither of those statements is a lie.

  “Don’t wait too long, I am working on something new,” she says as she passes me to leave the bathroom. Her tangerine scent lingers and I close my eyes, take a deep breath and follow her out.

  * * *

  Betsy holes up in her room, music blasting when we get back. I don’t see her again until she comes to tell me she’s leaving to go to work hours later. I’m in my room reading a biography of Robin Williams fully reclined on my chair. She walks through the open door and sits on the ottoman. She looks gorgeous in her purple dress. Her hair and makeup are done for the show and it’s wild to see it up close. Stage makeup is thick and exaggerated, so she looks like Betsy, but not.

  “When does Frank get here?” she asks and I look at the time. Shit, it’s eight.

  “I think he had a late session today so in a half an hour or so. I lost track of time,” I say and it’s true, not that it matters since he’s not coming over. “I’ll text him in a minute.”

  She picks up my phone from the floor where it fell earlier and hands it to me. “Here, now you can text him,” I take the phone as she sits on the edge of the ottoman waiting.

  I open my text app and select Fucking Frank’s name.

  Me: Hey best friend, what are you up to tonight?

  I ask because I have no idea. He told me to go fuck myself yesterday when I asked him if he needed a shoulder to cry on. He hasn’t answered my texts or calls since. Normal Frank shit.

  FF: Why are you the way you are?

  Me: Awesome?

  FF: No, the opposite.

  Me: Hurtful.

  FF: You’ll get over it.

  Me: I told Betsy I’d check in on you.

  FF: You just saw me yesterday and I’m fucking fine.

  Me: Whatever you say, buddy.

  FF: Are you angling for me to come there and throw you down the stairs?

  Me: I’m just trying to be there for you.

  FF: Fine then, be there. . . . and stay THERE, where you are.

  Me: I love you, Frank.

  FF: Joe, shut up.

  I lock my screen after the exchange so Betsy doesn’t get curious. “He’ll be here soon. He was just stopping to get some beers and a bottle of tequila. You know, man drinks.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Okay, don’t let him get too drunk and sad, and make sure to hide his phone first.”

  I nod and she sighs. I’m not liking this, lying to her about stupid shit. All I want is to pull her onto my lap and just be with her. She’s right here but out of reach. She stands and runs to go.

  “Break a boob,” I say and she snorts giving me a look. “What? It’s a saying, I’m sure.”

  “Goodnight, Joe, don’t wait up.” I close my eyes and lean my head back. Not sure what she means. I rarely wait up because I suck at staying up. Maybe she’s letting me know she’ll be out all night getting some. I don’t like that at all so I pretend that’s not it. Definitely not.

  I get up and put on my black jeans and a dark gray sweater. I’m going inconspicuous tonight.

  * * *

  The club is packed as I take my seat at my table I paid for for the month. I know, I’m ridiculous, but I can’t stay away. I’m addicted to watching Betsy dance.

  My usual waitress brings me a gin and tonic without asking and I’m officially a fucking regular—a regular creep. I take a minute to look around and people watch a little. Most of the crowd are in groups and are celebrating something. There are a few couples here and there and even a few other lonely pervs like me flying solo. The floor is packed with tables in the center of the floor and then flanked by two long bars along the side where people can sit or just loiter near the booze source.

  Up here in the balcony, there’s a bar in the way back and along the railing, there are several different size tables. The atmosphere is fun and light, with a dash of sexual tension. Perfect for a burlesque show. I make eye contact with a few ladies and gentlemen who are staring at me. I know, it’s a hardship being this handsome. I smile at everyone, because I like to spread the goodwill—I’m a philanthropist. One young lady boldly comes to my table after I smile at her.

/>   “Hi, I noticed you here by yourself,” she says gesturing to my table for one. “You waiting for somebody?”

  I nod toward the stage. “My best friend is a dancer here and I’m waiting for her.”

  “Wow, that’s fun having a stripper for a friend.”

  I frown at her.

  “She’s not a stripper, she’s a professional dancer.” I take offense for all of the performers here. I feel like I know them now that I’ve been here like some stalker three nights in a row. “There’s a difference.”

  She rolls her eyes and shrugs. “You seem like you’re the expert. Enjoy the show,” she says and walks away. Did I just pull a Fucking Frank? Or was I too nice? Probably. Frank would have told her to go away before she even got to the table. He wouldn’t be making eye contact with anything but his whiskey either.

  I send him a quick text, feeling like our last convo was unfinished.

  Me: I feel like you are crying out for help.

  FF: I’m crying out for you to fuck off.

  Me: I know you’re lashing out at me because of the pain, but just know you can push all you want but I’m not going anywhere.

  FF: Even if I push you off a cliff?

  Me: Don’t be silly, I’m a good swimmer.

  FF: Why are you bothering me?

  Me: I’m at Betsy’s burlesque show and I’m waiting for it to start.

  FF: Alone?

  Me: Yeah. . . . it’s weird, isn’t it?

  FF: No, not weird if you’re a creepy creeper. Please tell me she knows you’re there.

  Me: . . .

  FF: Joe . . . no.

  Me: Don’t tell on me. She’s amazing, life-altering. I’m addicted.

  FF: Jesus, Joe. Beware the restraining order.

  Me: No, it’s not like that. Well, maybe it is a little like that.

  FF: I have to go put my head through the window, brb.

  Me: Haha. I’m going to talk to her tonight, I promise.

  FF: Ugh, I hate myself that I let you think I give a crap.

  Me: Of course you do, you’re my best bud.

  FF: GN, Joe.

  Me: Nighty-night, Franklemintz