The Holiday Lipstick Flip

1

“No more gay shit,” I said halfway up the steps to the house.

In the front window hung one of those vinyl clings, this one in the shape of the pride flag or the progress flag or whatever the fuck we were supposed to call it.

It hadn’t been there yesterday. And I had an idea who’d hung it, mostly because her rape van—currently parked in my driveway—had blacked-out windows and a rusted-out spare and a ladder racked on the roof, but it also had two of those gay-as-shit flags poking out of the front windows.

When you rode in it, with those damn flags snapping and humming, it sounded like you were in a fucking motorcade.

I shifted the saw to my other hand and went inside. Then I took down the cling.

“Si,” I shouted as I went through the house. “No more gay shit.”

She didn’t answer. Of course.

I made my way toward where I’d last seen her, and as I did, I took stock.

Floors looked good. Walls were taped and mudded, ready to paint.

We’d already been testing colors, just little patches on the walls to see how it looked in each room, and the smell of fresh paint was nice mixed in with the sawdust and kerosene and cold metal.

Two weeks.

Two weeks meant we were almost there. Finally.

Two weeks meant we had a lot of shit to get done.

Si wasn’t on the stairs where I’d left her. I called up, “Si?”

Nothing.

I started for the basement, shouting ahead of me, “Si, you down there?”

A grunt came back.

Basements could be where an old house like this crapped out on you—sometimes they had dirt floors, or low ceilings, or cinderblock walls, or all three.

Sometimes you were looking at a real torture-dungeon situation.

But Si and I had lucked out with this one: no major cracks in the foundation, walls that were mostly square and more-or-less plumb, no history of flooding.

It was cold as balls, sure, but the whole house was cold as balls—that’s what you got when you worked on a house at the end of December and you were a cheap-ass son of a bitch who wasn’t going to run the furnace above fifty.

I found her standing on a work stool, drill hanging from one hand as she studied something above her—one of the joists, maybe.

Si was six-three—if she stood up straight—with short dark hair that was mostly gray on the sides.

Sawdust made a line along her forehead, and she had her cheaters perched on her nose.

The padded coveralls she wore kept her nice and warm and made her look like the lesbian version of the Michelin Man.

“Si,” I said.

She grunted again.

“Si.”

“Do you see where that jackass ran a telephone line? Maybe it wasn’t a telephone line. It was definitely something.”

“Si!”

She glanced down. “What?”

Displaying the vinyl cling, I said, “No more gay shit.”

A long moment passed as she stared at the cling. And then finally she said, “What’s that?”

“You know what it is. No more window clings. No more signs on the lawn.”

“Why not? You don’t believe in science?”

“No more cute little flags at the front door.”

She grinned. “You know what I thought you said? No more cute little—”

“No more gay shit.”

“It’s our brand.”

I swallowed what I wanted to say to that.

It was Si’s brand. Si was single-handedly running the Rainbow Coalition’s entire construction and handyman services division.

Si spent four hours on the internet trying to figure out how to get her horn to play “Born This Way” by Lady Gaga.

And great. Fucking fantastic. That worked—for Si.

“No more,” I said.

“Fine,” Si said. “Don’t get your shorts in a knot. Now grab a flashlight and help me look at this.”

“You’ve got two hands.”

But Si didn’t answer, because she was currently pawing at the coverall, trying to find her phone.

Instead of groaning, I grabbed a flashlight. And I even got out my own phone. I had a tripod and stuff upstairs, but most of the good content we shot like this, on the fly.

“Hey, everybody,” Si said into the phone’s camera. “Your lesbian dad here. Howie and I are looking at this joist, and we’re going to see if we can’t figure it out between the two of us. So, what we’ve got is—hold on. Howie, say hi.”

I lost this battle a long time ago. When she pointed the camera at me, I did what had become my schtick on the @yourlesbiandad channel: a single, uninterested wave, a quick glance at the camera, and trying my fucking hardest to let everybody know how very fucking annoying this whole situation was.

As soon as Si turned her attention back to the joist, I brought my camera up and started recording.

Si might be the lesbian Michelin Man, but she knew her shit, and this kind of content was gold for my own account—@secondchancewamo.

Sure, for the most part, social media was for little dick tuggers like Auggie.

But when Si had shown me the numbers she had on her own account, and when she’d explained how the account was her single largest source of clients, I’d decided maybe even little dick tuggers got it right sometimes.

Not that I was going whole fucking hog on it.

I didn’t do Si’s dad jokes. I didn’t mug for the camera.

I didn’t do twenty different videos about attending the Pride parade, and showing myself with rainbow stickers on my face, and shit like that.

My account was professional. My account was legit.

I showed people the houses we worked on.

I explained the problems we ran into. I talked about how we fixed things, or complications we ran into, or tips you could try if you ran into something similar.

It seemed kind of stupid when I thought about it—there were plenty of other people out there, plenty of people who knew more about this stuff than I did, who were happy to make jackasses out of themselves for the camera.

But I guess people liked seeing us restore the old houses, because I had lots of followers, and the number kept going up.

“First thing we’re going to do,” Si was saying, “is try to figure out if we need to sister this joist. Howie, give me some light up here.”

I flicked the flashlight on and aimed it up between the joists.

Si made a considering noise. “Scooch it a little more over here.”

I scooched it.

“No, over here.”

I moved around the stepladder.

“Where I’m looking, Howie.”

So, I shone it in her eyes.

Si shouted, put a hand up, and almost knocked herself off the ladder in the process. An instant later, she was laughing, steadying herself, still shielding her eyes with one hand and already talking into the camera. “Did you see what he did? Did you see?”

Her audience would eat it up. They always did.

I flicked the beam of the flashlight back between the joists. Si was still yammering into the camera about how I almost made her break her neck. And then my phone buzzed.

There was a time in my life when I wouldn’t have answered an unknown number, but the job with Si had changed that; subcontractors had questions, clients had emergencies, sometimes shit just hit the fan.

I ended the recording on my phone, set the flashlight on Si’s stool, and answered the call as I moved toward the stairs.

Behind me, Si was telling a dad joke for the camera.

“Hello,” I said as I went up to the kitchen.

“Yes, hi, I’m trying to reach Howard Cartwright.” It was a woman’s voice, confident, a little husky.

“This is him.”

“Mr. Cartwright.” The woman laughed. “You’re a difficult man to find.”

Which was…strange. Because sure, there’d been a time when that had been true.

When I’d been, well, gone, for lack of a better way of saying it.

But it hadn’t been true in a long time. I had a business.

I had property. I had a driver’s license.

Anybody with five minutes on their hands could find me.

And the old part of my brain, the cop part of my brain, rolled over in its sleep.

“My name is Amanda Martinez. I represent Jonathan Reynolds.”

Which was a name I hadn’t heard in a couple of years. “Oh, God. Is he—”

“No,” Amanda said with another husky laugh.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea.

I’m simply updating some paperwork for the trust, and I needed some additional information from you.

” With what sounded like the faintest hint of irritation, she said, “As I explained to Noah when I asked him to have you call me.”

I leaned against one of the plastic-wrapped kitchen cabinets. In the next room, the kerosene heater made a hissing sound.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why do you need information from me?”

“It’s standard practice to make sure all the information for the trust is up to date.”

Which was probably true; lawyers had to make their money somehow. “No, I mean, why me?”

“Well, because you’re named in the trust.”

It took me about three seconds to say, “I am?”

A trace of…something entered Amanda’s voice. Concern, maybe. Or doubt. “Mr. Cartwright, you signed the paperwork.”

“Yeah, but that was—” I changed what I’d been about to say. “—years ago.”

“Hence the need to make sure all your information is still up-to-date. Now, is this the best phone number—”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t understand. I’m still in the trust? Jonathan didn’t—I don’t know what it’s called. He didn’t take me out?”

Now the concern or doubt or whatever it was shaded Amanda’s voice in layers. “I spoke with Mr. Reynolds just last week about the organization of the trust. He was very clear that the trust should include you as his son’s husband.”

I didn’t say anything.

From downstairs came a thump, Si’s laughter, and then muffled words as she played it off for the camera.

The kerosene heater was still hissing.

Across the call came the sound of papers shuffling as Amanda searched for something. Then, with a pleased little note in her voice, she said, “Hey, congrats on the four-year anniversary!”