It was really stupid, what I said that day on the job with Mrs. Tomkins. I arrived at the appointed time, in the sleeper community of Tualatin, Oregon, to bid a paint job on a two-story entry foyer, which included a grand staircase. At the door was a very attractive woman, blonde, statuesque, mid-30s to my mid-50s.
The job included an expansive white ceiling with a flounced-tin chandelier, oversized crown molding above each taupe-toned wall section, several doors, intricately-framed windows, and baseboards, all of which showed the classic yellowing of oil-base enamel. The staircase itself, with a Persian runner down the middle, scores of shop-turned balusters, and an elegant top-rail, wouldn’t have been out of place on Downton Abbey.
The trimwork, including the staircase elements, would have to be primed with oil primer to accept a waterborne enamel, or simply prepped and painted with an oil-base enamel topcoat. You can’t apply water-based paint over an oil-enamel substrate. In my bid I offered both options, the less expensive to jump right into one coat of old-school oil. A few days after submitting, Mrs. Tomkins called to say that she and her husband had gone over the quote and the job was mine. They opted for one coat of oil enamel, choosing Sherwin-Williams’ bright-but-not-hospital “Alabaster White.”
I showed up the first day on schedule to lay paper, tape and plastic sheeting, and double-coated the ceiling with premium flat-finish “White.” Along with her shapely figure and perfect suburban coif, Mrs. Tomkins had a pronounced belly bump. I hadn’t noticed when estimating; perhaps she was wearing loose clothing. But on the ceiling day she was wearing form-fitting stretch pants and a tucked in blouse. I couldn’t help noticing her prominent paunch.
Days two and three were spent applying a fresh coat of a slightly darker taupe to the walls. I’d scuff-sanded the trim and wiped it clean. The following day would begin days four through five, and the application of the enamel. Mrs. Tomkins stopped me at the bottom of the stairs as I was leaving and asked about the toxicity of the fumes that would be generated by the enamel.
“Well, with this much trim, situated here in the middle of the house, there will be a fume level,” I said. “And seeing as how you’re in a family way…”
Mrs. Tomkins’ leisurely comportment turned suddenly chilly, and she fixed me with a devastating stare.
“I’m not pregnant.”
What can a guy do but meekly apologize and leave? That night, with probably in the neighborhood of $2000 in 1990s dollars at stake, I wondered what situation would be waiting when I returned to the Tomkins house. It was Mr. Tomkins who answered the door-knocker. I thought I might be fired on the spot. But he gave me a wry smile, as if enjoying how inextricably I’d landed on his lovely wife’s shit list, and invited me in.
Over two days, under the supervision of the husband, I finished the trimwork and pulled out.
I never saw Mrs. Tomkins again.