Male Call

“Uh…” Marnie stepped back and the dogs yipped in protest. “I was just…” She trailed off.

Wait a minute. She was just having a pity party because Barry had rejected her and she’d been thrown for a loop by the construction guy.

She needed to make some changes and here was an opportunity being handed to her. Just because it was attached to a couple of high-strung dogs shouldn’t distract her.

The bottom line was that she wanted a boyfriend. A serious boyfriend. A potential husband boyfriend. There was even a technical name for that—fiancé. With her commute, it was hard to date either in the city or in Pleasant Hill. Renting this apartment would give her a temporary base in the city.

She’d just about decided when the sound of gears grinding announced the imminent departure of the flatbed truck. The construction foreman was still there sweeping leftover debris off the sidewalk.

Oh, yes. And as an added perk, she’d wake up to him outside her window.

Marnie looked back at the doorman, who’d been remarkably patient when she sensed that he wasn’t the patient type.

“Yes, I’d like to rent the apartment for two days a week.” It was the first impulsive thing she’d ever done.

He pulled on the dogs’ leashes. “Monday and Tuesday is all that I have left.”

Those weren’t date nights. “Monday and Tuesday will be fine.” She’d make them date nights.

“Fabulous! But as you see, I am otherwise engaged. When can you come by to do the paperwork?”

“Tomorrow morning?” Marnie still couldn’t believe what she’d done.

“How do you take your coffee?”

Marnie blinked at the question. “Large and strong.” Kinda like the construction guy. She almost giggled.

“Understood. Until tomorrow then. Onward, dogs!” The doorman proceeded up the street, fortunately in the opposite direction.

Okay. She’d done it. Now how was she going to tell her mother that she’d rented an apartment in the city for two days a week? Marnie started walking when a whistle pierced the air. Not from the man with the dogs, but from the crew in the truck.

Instinctively, Marnie knew it was a different whistle than the ones the construction workers used to signal each other. Glancing across the street, she saw two women walking, heads bowed against the wind just as hers was when she walked.

That was the only similarity. Where Marnie was dressed in clunky hiking boots, jeans and appropriately warm clothing for a San Francisco spring evening, these stupid females were wearing heels and skirts which blew every which way as their long blond hair whipped about their faces.

What was this? Blonde Day? And why were they all dressed alike?

The wind carried the murmur of appreciative males. The construction workers, clearly unrepentant, had whistled at the women and now watched as they walked past the truck. Ah yes, the call of the male hominus jerkus.

They hadn’t whistled at her, not that she’d ever had a construction worker whistle at her or wanted one to. Or was supposed to want one to.

And yet, and yet… No. If that was what she had to wear to get whistled at, then forget it.

She stood and watched the men watching the women.

“Hey! Haul that stuff off to the dump!” The foreman glanced at the women then tossed a bag of sweepings into the back of the truck. It drove away and the foreman walked into the yard where he set up two sawhorses and a work light clipped to the open door of the Bronco.

He was still in his T-shirt, impervious to the cold. The muscles in his back stretched, the muscles in his arms bunched and his torso was probably a work of art.

Marnie sighed. If she were going to have a man whistle at her, that was the one she wanted doing the whistling.

But he hadn’t even acknowledged her presence.

She should get going or she’d miss her usual train. Except something drew her to the man in the yard. Marnie stepped off the curb and crossed the street. What would she do if he did notice her?

Put out some vibes, that’s what.

The whine of an electric saw shrieked into the evening. Marnie made the brilliant deduction that he was cutting a piece of wood. He wore safety goggles and looked solid and competent and was concentrating as fiercely on the movements of the saw as Marnie usually did staring at a computer screen. Of course if Marnie made a mistake, she wasn’t likely to lose a finger.

A man at work was a thing of beauty. If that wasn’t a famous quote, it should be. Yeah, if nothing else, seeing more of this guy made renting the apartment worth it.

Knowing that he couldn’t hear her, Marnie shouted, “You’re a thing of beauty! And I just rented the apartment across the street. What do you think of that?”

The saw reached the end of the board. The whine stopped and a chunk of wood fell to the ground. Setting the saw aside, the man picked up the part he’d cut and held it to the light. As he examined his work and blew bits of shaving and sawdust off the design, a huge smile creased his face.

ZACH RENFRO liked nothing more than restoring San Francisco’s grand Victorians. He did excellent work, if he did say so himself. No one could afford him, but since he didn’t charge what he was worth, it all evened out.

People lacked patience these days. People like the actor type who lived in the Victorian across the street. The day Zach and his crew had started ripping off the disgusting dress this pretty lady had worn for the past seventy-five years, the guy had swished across the street to complain about the noise. He’d blathered on about a script and how Zach was committing auditory assault.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Zach had climbed down a ladder to talk with the guy and wasn’t pleased about the interruption.

“I have work to do. How can I concentrate with all this commotion?”

“Earplugs?”

“I, Franco Rossi, should not have to wear earplugs in the privacy of my own home.” He gave Zach a haughty look.

Great. One of those. “Well, Frank.” Zach couldn’t believe anyone would admit to being named Franco and shortened it out of courtesy. “This is my work.”

“But my work is art.”

Zach gestured to the house. “So is mine. Once upon a time, my lady, here, was just as pretty as your house. But she wasn’t treated right and now I’m going to give her a little nip and tuck, get her a new dress and make her a pretty necklace.” Zach reached into the front seat of his truck and grabbed the piece of wood that he planned to use as a pattern to cut gingerbread trim. “Now look at that. It’s a custom design and I’m going to cut it out by hand. Are you going to tell me that’s not art?”

Franco stared at the wood, then raised one well-shaped—probably plucked—eyebrow. “My apologies for not recognizing a fellow artiste.” He bowed. Bowed. Zach glanced around to see if his crew noticed.

“So you will understand if I confess that the call of my muse is so faint that your muse is drowning her out.”

“Hang on.” Zach bent down and rummaged in the open toolbox propped on the front steps. Inside was a package of earplugs. He shook out a couple and handed them to Frank. “Occasionally, my muse gets loud even for me.”

Franco stared at the two pieces of bright yellow foam. “Do you have these in blue?”

“No.”

He sighed, then pasted a brave smile on his face. “I shall persevere.”

Zach hadn’t seen him since. Fortunately.

He liked working in this area of San Francisco. There was a lot of contrast with the edge of the Mission District and the trendy part of Valencia Street. He wouldn’t mind living in a place like this. Of course, he wouldn’t mind living in any of the Victorians he’d restored. That was the secret to his inspiration—he got emotionally involved in them. It wasn’t practical, but he left the practical part of running Renfro Construction to his father and his brother, who had enough practicality to spare. Enough for Zach to be Renfro Restoration. So what if he did get a few pangs at the end of a project? Another one always came along.

Zach took a deep breath of the cool evening air and turned on the saw. The drone of the blade as it cut through the wood served as a soothing backdrop for his thoughts.

In spite of all evidence to the contrary, there was a practical side to Zach and that practical side, a residual of years working in the office side of the business, pointed out that there were thousands of very good commercial patterns and manufacturers of Victorian gingerbread trims. And even if he wanted to continue to provide custom designs, he could recycle his more successful ones to increase the profit margin. It would still be a Renfro Restoration original, but he could outsource the fabrication and carry the designs in stock. Construction time and standby labor time would be less, thus increasing the profit margin.

Lord knew it wouldn’t take much to increase the profit margin. But knowing each house was unique appealed to Zach’s pride and an artistic sense he hadn’t known he had.

He owed his father and brother big-time for letting him run this part of the company. They never said a word when Zach’s penchant for perfectionism ate into the already slim profits.

And he was just so much happier doing this than anything else. They knew that, too.

So, he’d work on this new trim design tonight so he wouldn’t have to pay standby time to the crew tomorrow.

Zach concentrated on working the jigsaw and holding the wood steady. One slip would ruin the design. Yeah, there were nails and wood glue, but that was a last resort.

He became aware of a blob of bright colors in his peripheral vision. The blob could have been there any number of minutes since his vision was partially blocked by the side of the safely glasses. He’d seen that blob before—walking by every day and a little while ago it had nearly been beaned with a piece of wood.

Without turning his head, Zach swiveled his eyes. Gotta be a homeless person wandering the streets—the giant ski parka, jeans, well-worn boots, the bag, the wool hat pulled over his…her? ears, but especially the way he/she stood there and talked to him or herself.

The guy was probably going to sleep in the house once Zach left. At this stage in the construction, Zach didn’t particularly mind, but in a couple of days, he was going to have to secure the place to protect the remodeling and tools from vandals.

But right now, he needed to concentrate on working with a lethally sharp saw.

MARNIE SHOVED her hands into her pockets as she watched the man work. His corded muscles were nicely defined by the T-shirt. His jeans did some nice defining, too. Very nice.

Surprisingly nice. Marnie wasn’t in the habit of noticing nice things like that. Hmm. This was a habit she should cultivate. What kind of trance had she been in the past few years? Oh, Barry had been nice looking in his own way but there was something about this guy…something elemental and real—talk about projecting, but who cared?—that appealed to Marnie.

What type of girlfriend would a man like that want?

Emboldened by the concealing whine of the saw, Marnie decided to ask him. “Hey, you. Yeah, you—big, strong, musclely construction guy. So what’s a girl gotta do to be your girlfriend?”

The pitch of the whine lowered as the saw bit into the wood. Marnie admired the shape of the man’s arms. A girl generally didn’t see arms like that in the computer field.

“You’re probably the short, tight skirt, big hair and makeup sort, aren’t cha, Big Guy?”

Big Guy responded by turning so Marnie had a better view of his chest. “Whoo-hoo! You know, for you, it might be worth it. A girl could get lost in those arms. And I’ll bet you’d never ask your girlfriend to paint or pound nails and then buy her a lousy sandwich. You’re probably a simple man with simple needs.”

Marnie suddenly had some of those same needs. What a coincidence. She and the construction guy had something in common. She could work with common needs.

“And I bet you don’t have a whole lot of brains to get in the way of those needs, do you? Nope. Not you. But you know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking brains are overrated. Men with brains just think about the same things anyway, so what do they need brains for?”

Marnie shifted her bag to her other shoulder and shoved her hands back into her pockets. She should get going, but it felt good to shout out her frustrations with the male population to an actual man. The fact that he wasn’t Barry and couldn’t hear didn’t matter at all.

“Yeah, you’re just the kind of guy I could go for, if only…if only you’d turn around so I could see whether or not you’ve got a cute butt.”

There was silence. An all-encompassing silence. A silence that had begun midway through her last sentence. A silence into which the words “you’ve got a cute butt” rang out clearly. Irrevocably.

Humiliatingly.

She should run. Fast. Now.

She should, but she didn’t.

The construction foreman, aka Big Guy, pulled off the clear safety goggles as he straightened and ran his fingers through sunstreaked hair. He gave her a cocky grin. “Thanks.”

Marnie’s face was so hot, she was surprised little clouds of steam weren’t rising from her cheeks. “I was just—I didn’t say—there was more to the sentence!”

“How much more?”

“What I said was, I wished you’d turn around so I…could tell…” Not helping. Not helping.

He inclined his head and obligingly turned around.

Oh. My. Gosh. First of all, he actually turned around. Second, he really did have a cute butt.

Now what was she supposed to do? Because eventually, Marnie knew he would turn back—the way he was this very second—and she would be expected to say something. Under the circumstances, she supposed witty and profound was out.

“Well?” he prompted. He had just the sort of voice she expected a manly man—and what was construction work if not manly?—would have.

Marnie swallowed. “Very nice, thank you.”

“Nice?”

She nodded.

“Not cute?”

“Oh! Yes! Yes, of course it’s cute.” She was not having this conversation. She simply was not. This was an alternate universe and the construction worker with the cute butt was just a figment of her imagination.

A figment that was walking over to the sidewalk. She should say something that didn’t involve body parts. “You’re doing great on the house.”

What a wonderfully insightful remark. So far, he’d torn everything off the front, so who knew if he was doing a good job or not?

“Thanks.” He came to a stop a careful distance away from her and proceeded to subject her to an unabashedly thorough scrutiny. His gaze flicked over her hat, dwelt on her face and lingered questioningly on her puffy ski parka. Then, of all things, he studied her shoes and narrowed his eyes on the black canvas pouch containing her laptop. It wasn’t a normal laptop case because Marnie didn’t particularly want to advertise that she was carrying an expensive piece of computer equipment when she walked through the neighborhood.

Now, the man couldn’t expect to stare at her like that without being stared at in return, and Marnie figured she might as well stare since she’d already blown the first impression. She truly wasn’t the sort to make lewd remarks at construction workers.

At least she hadn’t been a couple of days ago.

Marnie wished that he’d say something. She wasn’t ready to try her luck again at meaningful conversation.

He drew his hands to his waist and regarded her sympathetically. “You need a place to stay tonight?”

Marnie nearly swallowed her tongue. “I—” Apparently it was very easy to become this type of man’s girlfriend. Too easy.

“You hungry?” He used his teeth to pull off this work glove, dug in his back pocket and withdrew his wallet.

He was going to offer her money.

She took a step backward. “I—I’m fine. I live with my mom in Pleasant Hill.” That sounded very sophisticated. “I’m headed to the 24th Street Mission station.” Continuing to back away from him, she hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “It’s just a couple of blocks this way. I should get going.” Giving him a quick nod, Marnie decisively strode toward the BART terminal. She was walking uphill and her shins began to tingle, but she wasn’t going to slow down.

And she wasn’t going to look back, either.

2

The Legend of The Skirt

by Franco Rossi

Act One, Scene One.

Exterior: Charming Victorian

Camera pans (unless is play) details of Victorian woodwork.

ENTER: (unless is movie, then camera zooms in through window) Handsome, with an air of superiority that he tries to hide, charismatic doorman, clearly bound for greater things.

(Note to self: decide if writing a play or movie)

A Skirt in San Francisco

A Play in Three Acts

by Franco Rossi

Act One, Scene One.

A world-renowned parapsychologist, acting as a doorman, (see above description) successfully rents his apartment to three women who will time-share during the week. The possessor of a skirt, which, legend has it, attracts men (and he must rely on legend since he is immune to the skirt), he awaits the opportunity to study the skirt’s effects firsthand.

(Note to self: keep it snappy, keep it moving)

Ms. Monday-Tuesday is a preoccupied computer programmer. Very smart, but very unaware. Nice eyes and hair—needs a trim—has no clue how to dress, presumably a good figure, but how would one know beneath the sleeping bag she wears as a coat? Wants to give city living a try and a break from long commute.

Ms. Wednesday-Thursday is looking for her father. Something mysterious going on there. Must explore.

Sadly, Ms. Friday-Saturday used to own the apartment and is attempting to get on with her life after a broken engagement.

(Note to self: take notes before writing script.)

(Additional note to self: Wear earplugs only if sitting in foyer, otherwise cannot hear doorbell.)

IT HAD BEEN several days since Zach had seen the homeless person. He hadn’t meant to scare her—he’d decided the person was a “her”—but that might be the best thing if it had sent her on home. These runaways took to the streets thinking it was a solution to their problems. Maybe in some cases it was, but that kid was too soft for that kind of life.

And then this morning, there she was again, dragging her belongings behind her. She hadn’t had the duffel when he’d seen her last week. He wondered if she’d stolen it or accepted a handout from somebody.

Surreptitiously from his perch on the ladder, Zach watched her climb the steps to a Victorian across the street and was more than surprised when that Frank character opened the door and let her in. Moments later, without the duffel, she climbed down the steps and hurried on up the street.

Zach started down the ladder, intending to check on the guy, but stopped. It wasn’t any of his business. Besides, Frank came and went all the time. If Zach didn’t see him by noon, he’d check up on him then.

In the meantime, he had some trim to finish tacking up.

Man, he loved his job. Even when things went wrong, he loved his work.

Zach had cut out thirty-six linear feet of gingerbread trim. This morning, he was tacking it between the bay window on the ground floor and the upper floor bay window, the oriel, to see how it looked.

It was an ornate pattern, full of curves and swoops and intricate cutouts because Zach wanted to show off a little bit. He hammered up the three strips, then climbed down the ladder and walked to the edge of the front yard.

An excellent job, if he did say so himself. But the trim didn’t have the impact he’d thought it would. He tried to imagine various exterior color schemes that would highlight the pattern, but the problem was that the curves and cutouts and curlicues were too small for the scale. The intricacies of the design were lost. Maybe if he painted the house a dark color and the gingerbread white, like icing, it would work.

He was standing there imagining it when he heard a throat clear behind him and was relieved to see Franco from across the street. He was walking three dogs, yet managed the leashes in a way that told Zach he’d done it many times before.

“Would you be adverse to a comment from a layman?”

“Go for it.”

“The trim doesn’t work.”

Zach exhaled heavily. “I know.”

“It’s too fussy.”

“I prefer ornate.”

“I prefer ornate, too, but sometimes, less is more, if you know what I mean.”

Zach had meant the word “ornate,” but he let it pass.

Franco shifted the leashes to one hand and gestured up and down. “Look at the tailored lines of the house.”

Zach knew what he meant. “It’s Sticks-Eastlake style. See the square bay window? And there are still some of the original wooden strips outlining it.” Restoration was Zach’s favorite subject. “When the facade is finished, there will be more strips outlining the doors and the framework of the house and then—”

Franco held up a hand. “My point is that you wouldn’t dress a gloriously statuesque six-foot tall woman in girlish frills and lace, would you?”

“A gloriously statuesque six-foot tall woman can wear whatever the hell she wants.”

“No, she can’t.” Franco was firm on this. “She can wear the clean, dramatic lines and bold patterns and color that would overwhelm a more petite woman. Likewise, your house. Enhance. Do not detract.”

As Franco babbled about Amazons, Zach immediately saw why his previous design hadn’t worked. His curls and curves fought with the clean lines of the house. This particular style of Victorian was known for gingerbread embellishment, but clearly, it had to be the right gingerbread.

Franco had moved on to domes and turrets, equating them with hats and turbans. Zach wasn’t going in that direction, but he did have another idea for a gingerbread pattern with straight lines and spare curves.

“You’ve got a good eye,” he said to Franco.

“Yes. And I’m especially good with colors, should you find yourself in need of a second opinion.”

In spite of himself, Zach felt the edges of his mouth turn up. “I’ll keep that in mind. Hey, have you seen that homeless girl around here?”

“One sees so many.”

“I’m talking about the one you let in this morning.”

Franco’s face was blank.

“Giant coat? Funky hat? I know, that sounds like most of them.”

“Ah.” Franco raised his finger. “I know who you mean. She’s not homeless.”

Zach exhaled. “Good to hear. I thought she looked a little soft for the streets.”

“Not to worry.”

Franco and the dogs walked on and Zach got to work designing a crenelated running trim with wagon wheel spokes that would be a bear to cut out. But worth it.

OKAY. HERE IT WAS. Marnie’s first night in the Victorian apartment.

“Welcome, welcome.” Franco, her new landlord, bowed and ushered her into a jungle. “Mi casa es su casa.”

“At least on Mondays and Tuesdays,” Marnie said. “What’s with the greenery?”

“I’m plant sitting.” He gave her a sly look. “Normally, I would put them on my balcony, but I didn’t want to intrude.”

Marnie knew a hint when she heard one. “I don’t care if you put the plants on the balcony. I like plants.”

“Excellent.” Franco handed her a huge Boston fern. “Go on. I’ll be right behind you.”

Marnie could hardly see around the plant, but climbed the stairs to the second-floor apartment, 2B.

There were four apartments in the old Victorian, but she gathered that Franco was the only one renting his out piecemeal.

She thought it was clever of him, actually. This way, he could concentrate on his script. And he was, no doubt, making more money than if he’d rented it to one person. And, as he had told her, Sundays were his.

Franco had given her a key when she’d dropped off her suitcase and duffel this morning and now Marnie unlocked the door and stepped inside. She set the fern down by the front door and surveyed the apartment.