Pepe arrived at the bar. It would later become evident that he was itching to share what was on his mind with someone else. It would later become plausible that this itch was the primary cause for asking me, in a rushed, but polite tone, "Hey, is there a bartender here or what?" as he hoped to itch this itch with her.
I looked down from the TV that was showing the soccer final above the bar.
"Yeah, she's..."
I looked to the right.
"Well, she was right there a second ago. She'll be back."
I did not explain that I had just ordered a fajita salad from said bartender, thus sending her to ferry the order to the kitchen. I kept my poker face, and he was none the wiser.
"Ahh ok."
Pepe swung around in his chair, looking for a member of the waitstaff, I supposed. I looked back at the game on the TV above the bar. It was still in the first few minutes of the first half. There was no score. Soon the bartender returned. She was met by the eager eyes of Pepe the painter. It would later become evident that Pepe wanted a Modelo Especial.
"I'd like a Modelo Especial."
And in San Antonio, beers get a bonus question.
"Dressed?" asked the bartender.
"No,, thanks."
He really paused between that 'no' and that 'thanks.' By now the itch to share what was on his mind had moved beyond the itch-phase. In Pepe's mind, there were very few desirable options. It was Cortizone, talk to somebody, or death by un-itched itch.
"Man it was hot today, I was working painting this roof and just got off," he said.
Unfortunately for Pepe, and confusingly for me, the bartender had already turned her back and begun moving the other way to attend to the couple four seats to my right. Noticing both his conversational error and my attention to it, he audibled, quick, and turned to face me.
"So, this is what, the semifinal or something?"
"Actually it's the final. Jamaica upset Mexico."
"Oh riiight I didn't even know."
He closed his mouth, hummed a little laugh at himself, then continued.
"My name is Pepe, by the way."
He extended his tattooed arm over the vacant barstool between us. I shook it and told him mine.
"Nice to meet you, I'm Will."
There was a few minutes' pause. The sort of pause guys at bars take when there's a game on, and you don't know each other. But soon Pepe was at it again with the hot roof and the painting. Unfortunately I could not turn my back to him and walk over to attend to the couple four seats to my right. That would be all sorts of confusing, seeing as I was a customer, not a bartender, or even a member of the waitstaff.
"It was hot out today. I was painting this lady's house."
"I bet it was. Just around here in the neighborhood?"
I hoped to god Pepe understood I was talking about where the house was, not some new micro-weather pattern of heat. It would later become clear that he had fully understood.
"Yeah, just a few streets over. Biiig house, man. Like, big. She's from Ireland."
Pepe probably did not hope to god I understood he was talking about the lady, and not some migratory house. Most people don't self-analyze their grammar like I do.
"Ireland! Wow."
And Pepe the painter began to scratch his itch.
"Yeah, man, I've been painting this lady's house for a few weeks now. I've painted it seven different colors. Blue, yellow, then pink, everything. Ralph Lauren colors. You know how Ralph Lauren makes paint?"
I didn't know Ralph Lauren made paint.
"You know how Ralph Lauren makes paint?" Pepe repeated.
Apparently it was not rhetorical.
"I didn't know Ralph Lauren made paint."
"Yeah, man, she and her husband started painting the house, but then her husband died. So she called me to finish the job, because, you know, the husband had hired all the painters and she didn't know who to call or how to organize it. So she called me."
Something didn't add up, I thought. Why would she call Pepe?
"You know Home Depot?"
"Yeah sure."
"Yeah everyone knows it."
That one may have been rhetorical.
"So a month ago I was at Home Depot and I see this older couple loading a bunch of paint into their car, and I offer to help. So I help them, and I ask if they need anyone to hire to paint, because that's what I do. They said they already had hired some people, but I gave the wife my card and they said they'd call if they needed help sometime. I didn't think much about it."
It was starting to add up.
"And then, three days later, the husband died."
It all added up.
"And so a few weeks pass and finally she calls and asks if I can finish painting the house that she and her husband painted. And man, I had no idea about what had happened. But all the photos of her husband were turned face down in all the rooms. Eventually she tells me what happened and, well, I don't bring it up anymore. After the first time she asked me to repaint the house, I moved all the photos of him to another room out of sight to maybe help her. And I keep painting, and she's like super chill, she'll cook me lunch and we get along really well, just talking. I don't think she knows that many people in San Antonio. And then she asked me to repaint a third time and I said, 'I'll repaint it but I can't take your money.' Because I genuinely enjoy spending time there, you know?"
And then it gets really juicy.
"I mean by the fourth and fifth times, we were like,, smoking, you know, smoking, and laughing."
He really paused before that first 'smoking' and took a look around the bar.
"She even took me to the lake one day and it was great."
"It sounds like she likes you, Pepe!" I said.
"Yeah, I mean, nah, man not like that. I even told her. 'You know I'm only here like a friend and stuff. Only for your company, like I genuinely enjoy your company' I told her. She told me I was lucky that Latino guys weren't her type!"
He hummed a little laugh here, followed by a shorter but fully vocal laugh.
"Anyways so I told her I would only repaint her house seven times, max. And she said that's fine."
