A Tale of Two Trucks Read Online Free PDF Page B

idea, and we began moving his furniture down into the basement in preparation for the all-out painting frenzy that would commence the next morning. We were hoping to get the whole house interior done in just two days, which was ambitious, but even if we didn’t completely succeed, it would change the feel of the house dramatically.
     
     
    W E got off to a good start, with Joe painting the ceilings and the upper half of the walls and me doing the lower half, the edges, and the trim. The first snag we ran into was that two of the cans of paint hadn’t been mixed properly and were very obviously a shade off from the rest. While Joe went back to the store with those cans and the receipt, I continued painting and, since I was alone, set up my iPod with speakers so I could listen to Gloria Estefan while I worked.
    I love to paint to her upbeat songs and had chosen for my playlist all the best ones: “Get on Your Feet,” “Conga,” “1, 2, 3,” and “Live for Loving You” to name a few. It made the time pass by so quickly that Joe was back before I knew it—literally!—and when I turned around he was standing in the doorway with a huge grin plastered on his face, having listened for who knows how long as I sang along to “Turn the Beat Around” at the top of my lungs, no doubt shaking my booty as I always did without even realizing it.
    “You are so gay!” he pronounced and roared with laughter. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten the fact that I had an extended paint roller in my hands, which, of course, I now used to roll a streak of burgundy-red paint on his tattered T-shirt.
    “And you are so dead !” I declared.
    The glint in my eye must have tipped him off that he was in deep doo-doo, because he took one look at the red roller I was poking at his face and sprinted off through the dining room and out the back door. I followed in my sock feet, never even considering the grass stains they would incur, brandishing the paint roller like a trident and yelling threats at Joe like a banshee.
    He ran around the corner of the house to head for the front yard, and when I hollered “You are so dead meat!” he glanced back to see how close I was on his heels. It almost proved to be fatal—he tripped over the rainspout and went sprawling across the front lawn, skidding to a stop mere inches from the sidewalk, where an older couple (presumably his neighbors) were pushing a baby stroller with a baby (most likely their grandchild) in it.
    “Beware the crazy interior designer!” Joe gasped at them, deadpan, before scrambling to his feet and tearing across to the other side of the yard. I had to admire his aplomb in a situation that could have been mortally embarrassing. Not to be outdone, however, I plucked one of my business cards out of my breast pocket and extended it to them with my best poker face. The poor old gent was so astounded, he took it without a word.
    “Open house dates to be announced,” I told them solemnly, then resumed my pursuit of Joe, still wielding the roller.
    He tried to evade me by hiding in the garage, but I flushed him out, and then we did a few laps around the house. At one point I caught a glimpse of us mirrored in the glass sliding doors at the back—we looked like a German shepherd being chased by a Chihuahua. Joe was beginning to tire, though, and he finally fled into the house, crying, “Uncle! Uncle !”
    I followed him in with a bloodcurdling “ Aiii-yaaaaah !” that must have been audible to the entire block (on a Saturday morning, no less) only to be grabbed and wrestled to the floor as soon as I stepped in through the doorway. He got the roller away from me and pitched it into a corner, then collapsed on the drop cloth, still holding me in a hug—which was all it took for him to keep me immobile, he was so strong and big!
    In fact, I could feel his thick chest muscles heaving against my back as he panted for air, laughing, and his arms were wrapped around me like bands of steel.