Joe

Call me, I text Didi.

Call me.

Call me now.

Call me or I am calling Martha.

My phone rings.

“Guess where I am,” I say to the phone as soon as I hear the call connect.

My voice echoes in the large, dusty room, probably dislodging whole generations of spider families from their ancestral homes.

“You’re in Willowdale,” she answers with a defeated sigh.

“And what am I looking at?”

There’s a pause.

“A pretty crappy storefront, probably,” she admits.

I don’t say anything, instead choosing to breathe slowly the way my yoga neighbor has coached me. In for three… Hold for three. Out for three…

“This is why you were so insistent that you should finish the trip,” I say, mostly to myself.

Obviously this is something she already knows. I am just saying it out loud because I can’t believe this is the mess she left me with.

“You have ten days until the opening,” she answers meekly. “I mean, that should be plenty of time, right? What could it possibly take? A coat of paint and some lights? A sign guy? I mean…”

“An ADA-compliant bathroom? Floor refinishing? Replace the suspended ceiling, for Chrissake? And I’m supposed to plan and install a show with a goddamn party for three hundred people? Are you kidding me with this?”

She mumbles some response, but I can barely hear her. The blood is rushing in my ears like a speeding train. I force myself to slow down my breathing because sparkly fireflies are dancing around the edges of my vision, and I’m afraid I’m going to hit the floor in about ten seconds.

“Okay… I guess I didn’t realize it was that extensive.”

I walk to the front window again, peering out through the dust-streaked glass, hoping this view will seem more optimistic. For the sidewalk, I need benches and some planters. This is doable. The printer I like is actually located in Florida and I can probably rush a job to get brochures and signage delivered. I’m a pretty good graphic designer. I should be able to make it happen.

But when I turn around and face the interior of the storefront again, my hope deflates like a popped balloon. It’s just one big empty room. It’s been empty for years. I don’t think there was a store in here once we reached middle school. It’s a monumental amount of work.

“Oh my God, Didi,” I choke out. “What have you been doing? Why isn’t anything… Anything at all… Even started?”

She doesn’t answer for a few seconds. I know she’s calculating what to tell me truthfully and what to artfully edit to make herself look better.

“You know what? It just got away from me, Joe. Every time I tried to get started, it seemed like there were ten things that I needed to do at once. I couldn’t just pick one, so I’d put it off… Then I would get distracted…”

“Then you’d have to go out for drinks…” I add unhelpfully.

“Hey, that’s not fair,” she pouts. “It’s a lot of work!”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you!” I yell back, losing my patience. “It’s an amazing amount of work! It’s an impossible amount of work! Didi… you are so fucked!”

There is a tiny sound on the other end of the line and after a few seconds I realize she’s crying. Or, she’s sniffling. Actually… she’s probably crying for sure. I can just imagine her pert little nose going all red like we were kids. We’d screw something up and as soon as she knew we were caught, the waterworks would start. Not that she isn’t sincere—she totally means it—but it irritates me because it’s not helpful. It gets absolutely zero done.

“How much of this does Martha know about?” I ask, though I probably know the answer.

“She thinks we’re on schedule,” Didi sniffles. “The invitations already went out.”

“Great. So I can’t delay it. Half of Naples got invited to Martha Adler’s brand-new gallery, which I am supposed to magically materialize in ten days.”

More sniffling. It’s a good thing we are two thousand miles apart.

“Joe, I am so sorry. Like, really sorry. I know I have put you in a horrible position.”

“If your leg weren’t broken, I would make you come down here.”

“And I would be on the next plane!” she wails. “Absolutely the next plane!”

Reality starts to sink in, and I get a sense that time is ticking away that doesn’t have to be. I’ve got a mountain of things to do. Walls, ceiling, lighting, HVAC, flooring… Oh my God.

“I know you can do this, Joe,” she babbles encouragingly. “It’s totally the plus side of being a control freak! You’re actually really good at getting things done!”

“You’re a jerk,” I announce and thumb the call to disconnect it.

Before my hand even drops to my side, I feel guilty. I shouldn’t talk to her like that, even though she is kind of a jerk. Even though she did create this entire catastrophe and then stick me with it.

Now it’s time to get to work.