Author's note: the following story is purely a work of fiction and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. The author wishes to express his gratitude to Copperbutterfly for her editing to make this a better story.
The night was young when I left the house. The sun was still up, although it was far to the west and would be below the horizon in another hour. It had become my habit to leave every Friday evening for a little entertainment and relaxation for myself.
Several years ago as a hobby and to work off the frustrations of a 9-to-5 job that I hated but which paid the bills, I bought an old house and began working on renovating it. I had grown up working for my dad in the construction business, mostly working on individual residential houses, so I had some familiarity with the building process. This time I applied those skills to houses that were already built but had deteriorated somewhat over the years and were in need of some tender loving care.
As it turned out, my city had a plethora of old row houses, buildings that in their day had been quite nice but had little upkeep applied to them over the years. I had to be careful about what I bought, since many of them were money holes: termites had eaten away the foundations and joists to the point that it would cost more to repair than to tear down and build from scratch. Others at least had been treated for the little wood eaters and were still solid enough, so all they needed was cosmetic or minor repairs or, in some cases, a little redesign work to become very nice homes again.
I spent 12 to 18 months working on each treasure, doing most of the work myself on nights or weekends, taking out a lot of my frustrations with a hammer on wood that didn't strike back. The only things I didn't do myself was plumbing and electrical work; I hired a subcontractor for those items. By the time I finished each project, I was able to sell it for two to five times what I paid for them. Since I lived in each house while I was working on it that meant that I moved a lot but I enjoyed the work.
Two years ago, I had made enough money with the renovations that I was able to thumb my nose at my boss, tell him where he could stick his shitty job (where the sun don't shine) and lived on what I made with the renovations.
I was now four weeks into my latest project, a four-story brownstone in a middle-class neighborhood. It looked terrible because the last owner had rented it out as a multi-family dwelling and then he had spent virtually nothing on its upkeep. By the time I looked at it, he had no tenants because nobody wanted to live in it. He finally agreed to a price that was far below what it should have brought, if he had kept it in decent shape.
Having moved in the first week, I began work in the basement with some shimming work to level the floors again, a not too difficult task with some rented jacks and a project that made a world of difference in the floors all the way to the top level. Of course it had taken me two days just to get enough junk out of the basement to get to the joists that required shimming!
My plan called for some realignment of rooms on the first and second floors, changing three rooms into two on both floors. The other rooms on both floors would remain as is but would be insulated and dry-walled before being repainted. New light fixtures and carpet would make a world of difference.
Since this was my own work on my own time and because I enjoyed the work, I often put in 12 to 14 hours at work. I knocked off when I felt like it, took time to prepare myself three good meals a day, and generally enjoyed life as my own boss. However I did leave Friday nights open, usually knocking off about four o'clock to use the sunken tub in the basement for relaxing my muscles. Then after a nice dinner, I'd go out for a few drinks before calling it a night.
With a busy avenue just two blocks over from my street, I had found a nice little neighborhood bar that I could walk to for my down time. They had a couple of billiards tables and I had played a couple of times. The bartender was friendly, if the place was not too busy, and we had talked enough to be comfortable with each other. The clientele was mostly local and he seemed to know most everyone who came in, based on his greetings with their names. There was a jukebox that was frequented by many of the patrons but, since it specialized in C&W music, it wasn't so loud you couldn't hold a conversation, even though I didn't know many people to speak to. Still I tried to be friendly when people came by.
I am a people watcher, I admit it. I like to watch people and see the things they do, so if the bartender was busy, I'd turn around and watch the customers. There frequently were one or two couples on the small dance floor. Or someone would be standing at the jukebox dancing while they tried to decide on tunes to play. Or they'd be waltzing around the pool tables with each other. Some just sat at the tables or booths scattered around the bar, nursing one kind of drink or another. It all made for interesting watching, especially seeing who was watching whom.
This Friday was like most others. There were a group of blue collar type males at a couple of tables near the back; they kept one of the pool tables going and the little waitress spent a lot of her time bringing them new beers. Three booths were occupied by couples talking in low tones. Another booth and a table were in use by two couples each, laughing and drinking together. A group of four women sat at another table huddled closely together, drinking and laughing but keeping a close eye on other people too. I noticed a few glances come my way. Two other single guys occupied stools at the bar besides me but neither of them seemed inclined to talk.
Finally a few minutes after eleven, I decided I had had enough. I paid my bill, said goodnight to Lon, the bartender, and headed for the door. Standing just outside, I drank in the cool, refreshing night air and slowly turned toward home. I wasn't in a hurry, because the night felt great and I wanted to soak it in.
I had strolled less than a half block when I became aware of soft footsteps rapidly approaching from behind me. I turned to look, spotting a smallish figure hurrying in my direction. It wasn't until the figure passed under one of the rare street lamps that I could tell it was one of the four women from the table at the bar. I waited to see if she was coming after me or going to pass.
"Hi," she said. "Are you going up Turner Street?"
"Yeah, for a couple of blocks."
"Oh? Me, too. I thought I'd walk with you, if you don't mind."
"Heck, no, I don't mind! I never mind keeping company with a pretty lady." I smiled at her to show that I was only semi-serious.
"Oh, hell, honey. I know I'm past the pretty days. But it sounds good to hear anyway. Thanks. My name is Toni Lee."
I stuck out my hand to take her proffered one. "Hi. I'm Gene Hicks. How are you?"
We started slowly walking side by side the same direction I had started.
"I guess I'm feeling no pain, sugar. I had a couple of drinks and I was beginning to feel them. So I decided it was time to stop. Hey, mind if I ask ... I haven't seen you in this neighborhood very much. Are you new here?"
"Yeah, I just moved in about a month ago. I bought a house on 24th that I'm in the process of remodeling."
