(Continued from part 1)

You knocked and he came to the door in his painting whites. He pointed for you to sit at his kitchen table while he was on his cell phone, yelling over the CD player that was blasting Lupe Fiasco.  “The deposit is non-refundable,” he yelled on the phone. “And I will have a guy out there this morning for certain, for sure.  He’s right here,” he said looking at you, the door of his dishwasher in the kitchenette was open and sparking clean paintbrushes hung from the upper rack. There were ski’s everywhere, leaning on walls, stacked on the floor. Dusty trophies in cardboard boxes by the fireplace.

           But now, here in the Persian Rug Emporium, you just want to get home to your wife and hug your daughter, be done with the day.  Gary tucks his loose blond bangs behind his ears, adjusts the rubber band that holds his short ponytail. He stands and walks to get another beer. Frank is pissing off the loading dock.        

           “Jesus Frank. Use the fucken john.” Gary says, throwing up his hands in disgust. “There’s a lot of rich fuckers who come here. Do you ever fucken ever think before you do anything?” 

           Frank shrugs his shoulders, slowly zips up and adjusts himself.

           “You know what, Frank?” Gary says, looking at his watch. It’s about five-thirty, and it’s about time to kick your fucken ass.  You fucked around all day!  But Fortune 500 over here,” Gary says, looking at you and then back at him. “He fucking trimmed out Saddam’s office today, cutting in all day long, steady as a train, man.  No splatters.  You’re working ‘till midnight with me, Frank. I’m gonna fucking increase your efficiency one way or a fucken other.”

           Wafa Yakhlef, “Saddam” to Gary and Frank, owner of the Persian Rug Emporium, appears in the doorway that leads from the warehouse loading area into the rug showroom. He pulls a thin cigarette case, a chrome flicker, from his vest pocket and pops it open with a flip of his wrist.  He shakes his head and looks at you and then to Gary.

           You look at Frank. He looks ghostly, evil, his moist eyes slightly askew—a sign of his wicked and depraved life, you think. His particle mask now rests on his forehead, leaving a flesh colored triangular shadow around his nose and mouth, amidst the drywall powder.  “Where do you get your workers, Gary? I don’t have much hope for this one,” he says in his thick accent and points his cigarette case at Frank. “In Persia, he would be dead.”

           “Yeah, like you Islamics ain’t fucking nuts?” Frank says. He stands and lopes toward the case of beer. “Terrorists blowing up shit, torture and shit,” he says. He draws a can of beer from the cardboard box, flipping the aluminum container in the air and catching it just before it hits the floor. “President George fucken kick ass Bush, president of the United fucken States of America hammered your sorry asses and he’ll do it again if he has to.”

           “Shut up, Frank,” Gary says.  He looks at his customer. Yakhlef has now drawn a cigarette from the silver case and is tapping the filter on his long thumbnail.  He’s wearing a nice tweed sports jacket and he brushes some plaster dust from pressed his navy slacks. He flicks his Zippo and lights the cigarette. He shakes his head.

           “You’re a lucky guy, Gary,” Yakhlef says, half smiling, now leaning on the unfinished door frame.  Beyond, you can see the imported rugs covered with huge plastic dropcloths.  The room looks more like a morgue than a rug store. “You’re lucky still to be working for me. You are two weeks behind since you started and now it’s down to the wire. Tomorrow is the downtown street fair and we are kicking off our annual Blowout.  If it is not done, Gary, things will become very serious.” He now blows a stream of smoke from his lips. “Very serious, Gary.”

           “We’ll finish tonight,” Gary says. “You’re gonna work too, right, Fortune Five Hundred? Time and a half, you know. I know you need it.”

           Frank shuts his eyes and clenches his fist and presses his thin lips firmly together. “Fucking Islamic,” he mutters to you under his breath. His face is a plaster death mask. This job is just temporary, you remind yourself. Just, temporary, please God, just temporary. And, you remember the place where Frank lives. One day last week you picked him up on your way to work when his car wouldn’t start, a beat up Chevy Nova with only one seat remaining inside, the driver’s torn leather bucket seat. It was parked in front of a duplex with a dirt yard. Inside, there was a bong on a makeshift coffee table, a worn green sofa. His girlfriend’s two daughters were peering into the living room from behind the dirty white walls of the kitchenette. There was a poster of a long-haired barbarian and a big-breasted woman in a tight superhero outfit riding a saber-toothed tiger, chasing a dragon flying by the rings of Saturn in the background.

           The rug merchant says, exhaling smoke as he speaks, “Finished, Gary. All the plastic gone and the scaffolding out of here. Finished. Done. Absolutely. By eight A.M.”

           “Hey man, don’t worry.  We’ve got it covered.  A little more sanding of the sheetrock and we’ll spray it out like fucken madmen,” Gary says and looks at you. “Our felon here is gonna be masking ahead of us. And it’s gonna look great.”

           You shake your head. You just want to get home, send out more resumes, but twenty-five an hour would help with the insurance.

           “Gary, don’t forget that you have promised that you will re-paint the ceiling in the main gallery,” Yakhlef says.

           “The white is fine. Jesus.  In fact, I think it looks fucking great. You wanted it white, we painted it white and it has a fresh coat of white just like I said I’d do.  We gotta finish the rest of this place.”

           “The ceiling looks horrid,” the Yakhlef says. “The white does not work.  You should have known the pipes and cracks would show up more. It doesn’t make the place seem lighter; it makes the place look like shit, Gary.  This has to look good. We sell valuable rugs here.”

           “Two coats.  White. You agreed. It’s done.”

           “You have agreed already to repaint it black, Gary. Look at it, Gary.”  Gary stands and goes around the rug merchant. He passes through the doorway into the showroom gallery, swaggering with a hitch in his right knee, like he always does when he walks.  The owner follows him, and you and Frank follow along.  Gary looks up at the ceiling and walks around the space, going between the stacks of the visqueen covered rugs, a labyrinth of small aisles.

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           “I said I’d do it, if , if, I could fit it in. I said I might  do you a favor,” Gary says. “If there was time.” He casually sips his beer.  He has nerve. You can say that much. You’d try to please the customer at any cost if it were your business, especially when the job looks as bad as this one.  Now that the ceiling is white in this old warehouse building, your eye is automatically drawn to the high ceiling, and you can’t help but notice the disturbing, dandruffy shadows of flaking layers of paint, at least fifty years of stratified sediment that Frank half-hearted scraped. Flat black would have made it all invisible, unobtrusive, even stylish, if they’d taken the time to roll it in.

           “Okay. How much, Gary? A black ceiling?” Yakhlef asks and shuffles expensive eel skin shoes over plastic covered cement floor. “Just to get it done all done by tomorrow.”

           “Another two grand,” Gary says, standing with his thumb in his belt loops, head thrown back, still eyeballing the mess he knows he has made, the bad advice he’s given.

           “You’re joking,” the Iranian says.  “Two grand? You could hang ceiling tiles for two grand.”

           “Fucking A,” Frank pipes in. “Let’s fucking pack up.”

           Gary eyes the merchant. “I’m gonna eat it. What about seven hundred?  That’s just barely covering the cost of the paint, though.”

           The merchant laughs and tosses his cigarette butt on the floor of the aisle and grinds it with the toe of his shoe, twisting the plastic covering. “Listen Gary, I have a special carpet for you.” The merchant says. “A thousand dollar rug.  Gorgeous. We can trade.  I’ll give it to you if you just paint the ceiling black tonight. Tonight, Gary.”

           “What am I going to do with a rug?” Gary laughs.

           “Let me show you.”  Yakhlef waves Gary to follow him over to a back corner of the showroom.  Gary finishes his beer. “I need your help, guys,” the merchant says to you and Frank.

           He directs you and Frank to carefully peel back the thin plastic drop cloth covering a stack of rugs.  “It’s like you’re unveiling some fucken treasure in Timbuktu,” Frank whispers, his breath smoky.

           As you pull the dropcloth back, plaster and paint dust rises like pond fog.  Yakhlef then orders you and Frank to lift rug after rug off the pile. When you come to a thick rug, a black one with intricate geometric designs, the Iranian pauses for a moment and then regards Gary. Even amidst the smell of construction, the room suddenly seems to smell of Middle Eastern coffee and black tobacco. “It’s yours for a black ceiling.”

           Gary crosses his arms and looks at the rug. He closes one eye and nods his head.  He furrows his eyebrows and brings his finger to his lips after shaking his bangs away from his eyes. Then he moves closer and feels the pile.

           “It’s a weird fucker.  No wonder you haven’t sold it.” Gary bends back the corner of the rug. He rubs his hands over the dense wool. “It seems pretty fucken well made.”

           “The best quality in the world.  But I have not wanted to sell this rug. You don’t sell a rug like this.”

           “So why in the hell would I want it?”

           “Women, Gary.  Women like this carpet.  It shows impeccable taste.  They melt on it. “

           Gary laughs. “Women! Ha. I’m done with women.”

           “A fucken magic carpet,” Frank says and hoots at Gary. “Fly it over to Sally Rippy’s, Aladdin.  Sweep her off her feet.” He starts singing and air guitaring, “Close your eyes, girl. Look inside, girl…Why don’t you come with me…on a magic carpet ride.” He grins.

           “Gary,” the Iranian says, exhaling a drag of another cigarette. He rubs his forehead. “Please shut him up. My brain is about to burst.”

           “Yeah, yeah,” Gary says and shakes his head.  He looks at his watch. “Jesus fucken Christ. I can’t believe this shit.”  He looks at you. He says to you.  “We should’ve sprayed it black. Home Depot is still open, I guess, but paint’s more expensive there.”

           Yakhlef motions you and Frank to cover the rugs.  “It’s yours if everything is absolutely done tonight.”  He pulls his key ring from his pocket and spins it on his forefinger.  “It is a holiday for us today.  My wife has been cooking all day. I must go.”

           The rug merchant walks briskly to his desk, picks up his briefcase, and walks through the front entrance to his Mercedes parked in front of the glass storefront.

           Gary shakes his head, rolls his eyes and scratches his head. He looks at you. “You can work late tonight, right?”

 

(to be continued)