Deck
Coco Shell on new redwood,
soaking up sunrays,
chasing a golden tan.
I dip my brush and
slap it on. The open
grain fizzes like soda.
Coco rolls onto her stomach
and undoes her top. I try not to stare.
“Was it hard being a
stripper?”
She laughs.
“It was hard stopping. Men telling you you’re
gorgeous and handing you cash.”
I kneel at the meeting of
house and plank, sliding the stain along the siding, drawing it
forward to take out the laps.
“But you’re still in showbiz,
right?”
A scornful yip.
“And free ocean voyages.”
Her voice sinks an octave.
“They hide us below decks
like slaves. No fraternizing with passengers. Like I’m gonna
run off with some
octogenarian with a blue pill.”
I crank the edges of a can
and fill my tray to the grill. Then I dip the brush and work it
into the cracks.
“Ozzie?”
“Yes?”
“Is this place… private?”
I lean on my paintstick and
scan the vicinity, endless walls of redwood and Douglas fir,
the yellow surprise of
big-leaf maple.
“We’ve got one neighbor up
the road, but I think you’re safe.”
“Good. We’ve got strict rules
about tan lines.”
I hear her shifting on the
chaise but stick to my work, scrubbing the inside of a knothole.
“Oh for God’s sake, would you
go ahead and look? It’s not like you’d be the first. Or the
millionth.”
“Maestro!”
Rupert hails me from the
drive. He’s wearing his client clothes, artfully layered to hide
the splashes of stain
underneath.
“Yo! Bossman.”
He stands at the top of the
steps and leans forward, appraising my work.
“Tremendous! Beautiful work,
Maestro. Do you think we could’ve gotten away with
Golden Tan?”
I take off my hat and use it
to wipe my forehead.
“No. There’s some old stain
on that back section. Too much of a contrast.”
“Did you give it a light
sand?”
“As always.”
He picks up a can and studies
the label.
“Ah yes. Nothing like Coco
Shell to cover the flaws.”
“It’s like dipping your deck
in chocolate.”
“Aha! I may use that on a
female client sometime.”
“As long as she doesn’t
actually lick the deck.”
“Oh! Imagine the slivers.
Well, I’m off. Must do an estimate in Scotts Valley. Wish me
luck!”
“Kick ass!”
Rupert walks to his truck,
tossing micromanagement grenades.
“Remember, stop at five!
Dewpoints! Oh, and tidy up the cans, would you?”
“Gotcha.”
“No fuck-ups!”
He revs the engine and
charges the hill, kicking up gravel. Coco peers around the corner.
“No fuck-ups? Seriously?”
“Our company motto.”
She readjusts the chaise and
settles back down. I take the prior invitation and give her a
once-over. Her skin is coffee
and cream, with subtle gradations: Sumatra, Kona,
Ethiopian, Italian roast.
Guaranteed for three years with normal sun exposure. She catches my
gaze and smiles.
“Do I pass muster?”
“Always, Coco. You’re
gorgeous.”
“At forty bucks a gallon, I
should be. So why does Rupert call you Maestro?”
I press the button on my CD
player. It’s Renata Tebaldi, from Suor
Angelica.
“Nice.”
“Also, I’m good with a
stick.”
She stretches her arms.
“I will just bet you are.”
A swallowtail flutters the
railings and lands on
Coco’s stomach.
I dip my brush.
A breeze feathers the
evergreens.
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