A Builder's Tale - Chapter Three
Audio is Female Hal- Think Space Odyssey.
CHAPTER THREE
The best laid plans may go astray
When you think it’s going just your way.
Tim Stevens was attempting to pull into traffic as a truck sped by too close, covering the windows of his Lexus SUV with mud and water. Behind him rose a burger, a giant, spindly legged, small eyed, plastic sculpture, dripping ketchup and oozing mustard, a twenty-foot-tall statement of his wealth and prosperity. He owned thirty-five Mighties, and thirty-five sculptures. His plans were to visit every one of them over the next six weeks — to spy without notice, and to speak with his managers, search out inefficiency, examine the books and attempt to squeeze additional funds from his operation. He might be in trouble this time. Cash was tight.
It would take two, three weeks, if he visited them all, as he did every year...five in Grand Rapids, two in Holland, two in East Lansing, none in that hated Ann Arbor to its South. The rest scattered around Big Ten towns and Northern Michigan. This year held more urgency. Financial problems hovered on the horizon. Damn, he thought, he was going to need to pay attention during the summer.
He could monitor the Mighties from his office, but somehow, if he didn’t show up, if he skipped a year on one, or two, or five, while relying on reports, charts, statistics and the accuracy of his managers, there were always unanticipated problems. His big picture, seen from a distance eye, often spotting what an onsite manager missed.
In short, if he failed to visit, things became situation normal… A.F.U.
Today, he was headed to Holland. No, not that Holland, Holland Michigan, south of Grand Rapids, on the lake and home of the Tulip Festival, USA.
And thinking f****ed up. What a messed-up weekend. Too much booze, that fight with Daphne. And Wilson? He sure couldn’t read him. Who would want to do it all? Perhaps selecting Wilson was a mistake? But he had come highly recommended. The guy wore a tool belt in his pictures, and he was proud of it… Some executive, some architect?
However, Tim’s concerns over Wilson were nothing compared to the problem that had caused him to hurry home…that old grandmother in Iowa City. The old lady, Wilma Stokowski, claimed she became ill after consuming a number four, and her shyster lawyer had just hustled him out of 20,000. Ouch! Still, he supposed it was better, cheaper, than adverse publicity. The doctors claimed it was the beef. Couldn’t have that out there! And then his manager, an idiot, had said to the local press, “not mad cow”. What a moron. He would fire Jenkins when he got the chance. But at least he hadn’t needed to visit Iowa...flat, flat, flat...and then the hills…and all that f****ing corn.
It had not been a pleasant day. His employees were rude when he ordered unrecognized at the drive-in window. And like always, they wanted more money. And Corporate Mighty wanted their ‘pound of flesh’, too. Demanding that he lower prices, their reasoning, to gain a greater market share—and this at his expense and well-being. Tim didn’t believe in the elasticity of demand when applied to a few cents off on millions of burgers. Big Mighty is full of it on this one.
On top of this, it was raining and bleak. The air was wet, and his suit, his fine Armani, had become dirty from the mud and damp. That’s what he got for dressing up for gourmet when he was going to be munching Mighties, but it had felt right that morning.
He needed a drink and no more fast food today. It had been breakfast at one, and breakfast at another, and lunch at a third. He was farting with indigestion. Mighty fine, mighty burger, mighty farts.
All that, and Daphne had just called, consumed with their new house in Beauville. And he didn’t want it, or wish to pay for it, and he wasn’t sure of his ability to manipulate that builder. Wilson, who might just be too different, too smart? He did not seem ready to play the game. Abernathy seemed too proud.
Tim farted and belched. Mighty Burgers—The worst was having to smell them, having to eat them. A fine lunch of quiche and a good Chardonnay, or a crab omelet at the Yacht club, would have been much better…Instead of the two Mighty muffins and the Big Mighty he had consumed in the third place. The one with the uppity black manager. Another manager he should fire. But then, what the hell, the whole place was black. What possessed him to build one there? Tim belched again while gobbling antacid tablets. Damn, maybe she was right. Maybe it was midlife crisis time?
There was a break in the cars and he turned the wheel, banging the SUV into the puddled curb, speeding just in time to miss the Semi, honking-bearing down, the driver shaking his fist in road rage. Enough, enough. Where was he staying tonight? The Hampton of Holland—nice bar tender. He had bought her drinks before, all night long. Maybe this time, he could get her in the sack.
His cell phone rang. It was Daphne, shit. “What kind of tile do you want in the shower?” Tile? They did not have a plan, and the woman was questioning him about tile? “Beige,” he said. “Not beige,” she said. “Not now,” said Tim, “later, tomorrow, I’m tired.” He belched again and hung up the phone. Where was he? Almost there now. Turn up ahead, then towards the lake, and he could take a shower. Stevens sped up, barely missing a pedestrian, sliding around the corner in a hurry to escape his day.
Tim checked in, found his room, and jumped into the shower. Thinking, standing beneath the scalding (he liked it hot) flood, that something was wrong. Maybe she was right. Perhaps he was in a crisis? No. He was a gourmet, a fancier of food and wine. He attended the Aspen Wine and Food Festival every year. He cooked, he sipped, he loved fine things. There was the rub. He loved fine things, and he was a greedy gourmet. He knew this, even in college, during the Vietnam war.
Even then, when half the kids his age were going off to war, and the other half were protesting. Even then, he knew where he was going. He could give a shit! He was looking out for Number One. He had stayed in school (hotel and restaurant management) to avoid the draft, and then Mighty had come along and students liked burgers...borrowed money from dad...been one of the first franchisees...launching his fortune...already looking ahead to the next Big Mighty.
Hell, he had even worked in that first one, coming home foul from French fries — that glutinous, oily stench hanging all around him. Back then, girlfriends had said he smelled. Silly women, hadn’t they known, seen, he would someday be rich? His stomach hurt. Where were the antacids?
He knew who he was and who he had been — And today he hated Mighty Burger — Been planning to sell out, but shit. The equity was down. That fucking Clinton had done it to him. Clinton and that big ass’d wife of his. Trapped with thirty-five Mighty Burgers, but without them and their equity…No Daphne (well given this crazy house project, I mean what was wrong with the condominium) Perhaps dumping her would be a good thing…a lot of years though… and then what, no Master Mind Two, no membership in the proper church with the Chosen, the elite, the heroes of Grand Rapids — The Scamway Billionaires?
Why — Without his and her money, and her Dutch background, that Calvinist church would kick him out. Ok, not exactly kick, there would be no big beefy bouncers of God tossing him out the doors. Nothing so dramatic. But he would no longer be ‘Chosen’. It would be more like the Amish. They would shun him. Shunned, left off the lists, no more getting his pictures taken with Presidents. Why—he’d have to join a cheap church, middle class. He might have to become a Baptist! Yes, there was something to be said of his decision, years ago, to launch his life into fast food. Look at all he had. He would figure how to keep it.
Tim grabbed a couple more antacids and a towel. A thin, lithe fellow stared back at him through the half-fogged mirror. Not bad for fifty-one, not bad at all, and his face still looked young. What was that Oscar Wilde story, but where was the picture? Perhaps Daphne had it...painted it in his sleep. No, she couldn’t paint... what an idea, Dorian Gray. The fan hummed, the mirror appeared and Tim, too, in greater detail. Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall. He toweled himself dry and found some casual attire. I think I’ll go look for that bartender.
He walked down the hall, by the ubiquitous pool, and found the bar—faux English with pictures of foxhunting, men with white pants, red topped with hunting dogs and Irish setters, deep-dark paneling. It didn’t work; it was too pretend, the decor misplaced in space and time, and too new. Where was that pretty bartender? She was absent. Instead, an old frump of a woman dressed in doilies stood behind the bar.
“Sharleen around?”
The woman frowned at Tim as if to say, ‘I know your game buddy — you’re my age, you idiot.’
“She’s off till nine. Can I help you?”
“Whiskey, and a splash, no ice.”
She set down his drink. “You want a tab?” Tim nodded yes, looking at the green and white plastic badge above her breast, Shirley. “Sure Shirley, thanks.” He took a soothing sip, staring at and through the rows of bottles, and at the dark reddish oak framing the mirror and fabricated bar. The carpet was green with gold and blue dot patterns. Tim twisted his stool. No one else was in the room. He felt split. Seeking solitude, but wanting action, and not wishing to go anywhere. Maybe that young cutie will come in. He tried to remember if the place had the porn channel.
Sipping again, an extended flowing sip, he nodded toward Shirley. “Another,” while dripping the last whisky drops into perfect teeth. She set the next one before him. “Make it a double.” The bottle gurgled. He picked it up with thin fingers.
“I’m moving, thanks.” He left a small tip.
There was a table in front of a window — curtain draped, green, tied and bowed at its edges, the rest covered cheesecloth white. Outside, rain fell on black asphalt, the parking lot.
Noise at the door... some women were coming in laughing, high and squeaky, secretary types dressed for power but arriving from computer chairs. He took them in. One was pretty. She smiled and pointed at him. He smiled back. Then they all started laughing...Damn!
Tim’s pocket buzzed like a trapped bee. He hated these things, too. Everyone had one, now. Why, you had to have one. ‘Let me give you my cell’... ‘What’s your cell?’ Shit, everybody talking to everybody. Didn’t contribute to anything that he could figure...Everybody chatting and filling the airwaves with gibberish. Why did so many succumb to this need to stay in touch, to spend so much time asking questions, instead of trusting their own talent, minds, opinions? The people were growing weak…He was certain resultant inefficiencies would haunt the nation. Tim answered. “Hi, honey.” It was Daphne.
“I thought we were going to talk tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow.”
“I know, but I had to tell you. Our problems are solved.”
And which problems were these? She didn’t have any problems! And he hadn’t told her much about the Mighty mess. She’d heard about the sick old lady in Iowa, but her reaction had been (exactly what he did) “Just give her some money, that’s all she wants.” An old grandma, and her lawyer…dam lawyers.
“Which problems are these? I didn’t know we had any.”
“Our problems with the house. I had cocktails with Joanie and the girls…”
“How can we have problems with something that doesn’t exist?” He frowned into his hand. “You weren’t driving, were you?” It had cost a bundle to hush up her last drunk driving, and his friend the judge had said, “This one’s the last time.”
“No, of course not, and you know, I don’t drink much, anymore, well that’s not true, but you know...if I drive…only one wine per hour. Remember, I went to counseling.”
Counseling, that had cost a bundle too, and look how sober and pleasant she had been Saturday last, right in front of Wilson! The ‘Honeymooners’, the ‘Kramdens’… Drunk, on a yacht... For God's sakes...Jesus, what a scene. ‘To the moon Alice, to the moon’.
But the house. “Honey, Joanie knows the perfect fellow. He does everyone’s. He just did her kitchen and redid Margie’s master bath, and he’s doing the De Groot’s. Their whole new house.”
“What is he?” questioned Tim.
“Why he designs them, silly, and then he supervises everything…All the girls love him.”
“Yeah, but Daphne, we already hired Wilson. I thought you liked him.”
“Oh, I do, I did. Wilson can still build it. We’ll just let Philippe design, keep track of things.”
“From Grand Rapids?” Tim said.
“We can let him use the plane.”
“Come on, Daphne. How is that going to work? I don’t want to pay for some yahoo flying in my plane up to Beauville all the time. And we already hired Wilson for this. I have a contract with him. And remember, he wouldn’t come back from Colorado unless I promised to have him design the house. That’s what he does. He may be different, but he won’t like this! We can’t just throw him away. It might cost me money!”
“You’ll work it out dear, you always do.”
“Have you even met this Philippe yet?”
“No,” she said. “I have an appointment tomorrow at ten. But I’m sure he’s the one. Everybody likes him. And that kitchen! I saw pictures. It was special.”
“I don’t know about this, Daphne. Let’s talk tomorrow. Don’t agree to anything until we discuss it, don’t!”
With that statement, he could hear her resulting pout through the phone. He didn’t even have to be there. He knew the face, the circumstance, so well… her pinched nose and puffed cheeks, her dipped mouth.
“Ok,” childlike now.
“Later.” He felt like throwing the phone across the room. The rest of his drink went with one sip and he ordered again…What the hell? Now she wants someone else, Philippe! Jesus Christ with a name like that… ‘All the girls love him.’ The guys got to be teetering in his loafers. Gay! He’d bet a thousand dollars right now, on the barrelhead, Philippe. As if he needed additional confusion?
He could imagine the scene with Wilson now. “What! You’re hiring who? Him! To replace me!” That would be my reaction, thought Tim, continuing to roll the tape behind his eyes, as an imagined Wilson shouted “We had an agreement!”
And after all, he had promised. But promises were only promises. And the money? It might cost him a bundle to get out of the contract. Even when he won, there would still be…Lawyers…fees. And if Wilson gets pissed off? I’ll be careful here, pacify him. Or maybe, just maybe, Daphne will not like this Philippe. Nah, ‘all the girls love him’.
And if Wilson quits, then who will build it? He knew he wanted Wilson for that. The guy was good. Who will she find? ‘Oh, everybody loves him’... Bruno... Horace... James. What the hell...let’s get a Grand Rapids builder... fly him up every day on the plane. Hell! Fly up the whole fucking crew... make a party of it...Damn! He needed peace and resurrection. Fuck it, he was going to get drunk!
Daphne sulked after her conversation with Tim, then resurrected, anticipating her morning meeting with Philippe.
Tim was on his way to maximum inebriation.
And in Northern Michigan, Wilson was sitting in front of his computer, drawing. Drawing walls and roofs, porches and interior spaces, then spinning them around the screen in 3D, to make certain that what he saw in his head agreed with the information he had entered in the computer. He was usually right about the space, the proportion, but sometimes the 3D image would help him catch something amiss, a mistake or a detail warranting improvement. And then there were the Eureka moments when he thought of a detail or shape, entirely new.
Where was that piano? He grabbed it from the file folder and dropped it into the drawing—just to see if there was enough room in the Great Room. Whatever happened to the Living Room?
His computer reflected an imagined sphere of space, the X and Y, and the Z coordinate that provided the third dimension. It was amazing how this machine could transmit his mind’s eye to the screen and then the page. First, type the X and Y—the plan view—and then add the Z to locate that point, that dot inside the sphere surrounding his drawing...a sphere invisible... providing the spinning 3D image in front of him.
He went back to the plan view, the flat view, deciding that he needed to stretch the Great Room a bit. But what would this do to the central gabled space, and how would it tie in with the entry roof planes? And did this impact the porch radius and the room below?
Wilson believed everything went hand in hand. The outside should corroborate the in. A home’s heights, while dramatic and spacious, should not diminish. A residence must never become like a cathedral where worshipers are intentionally diminished by architectural majesty and the soaring vaults of God. Houses must be otherwise...spaces providing satisfaction and comfort to life.
He paused, then stared at his screen, spinning the building again, thinking of the sun in summer…Analyzing this new home’s orientation, which would be different because the house was different. Looking at the Sun, his azimuth tables, where the sun would set on the longest day, and where in high summer? Far North in these latitudes. And this would be a summer home.
Face the home too twisted West, with too many windows? At sunset, with no provision for orientation and expansive glass, with gables and no westward overhangs, the structure would be stifling and excessively bright. Unpleasant, even with air conditioning. And who would want a compressor roaring on a beautiful Northern Michigan afternoon, with a North or West wind fetching, turning the sky’s display, a clear, bright, blue?
Too bad they had not liked his first plan. Because this one? So far…it was going to be a hotbox. “Put him in the hotbox (the tiny torture chamber of death from ‘Bridge on the River Kwai’)
It doesn’t work; he thought. Damn. Well, nothing but to try again. He named the drawing Stevenson1New and started over. Grabbing a piece of paper, rapidly sketching…no, no, no, nothing worked. He did not have it… He would have to put his mind on autopilot and let it fly a bit.
What about a whiskey, a beer? He popped a beer and poured two fingers of Old Draper, straight, into a glass. And music.... a piece quiet and beautiful... He placed a Mozart CD, his flute and harp concerto, on the player. Pleasant, perfect, and not overwhelming.
Wilson sat sipping and listening, thinking, staring out the windows into the green of birch, ash, oak and maple, studying the leaves for difference and similarity. And with thoughts of the Victorian Mackinac bluff, ideas arrived, and he again built houses in his mind.
At the same moment when Wilson again found her structure, or some potential version of it…sketching and looking at the pictures taken on the island. Daphne cuddled in a chair in the TV Room of her Grand Rapids residence.
Her dog, an English setter, lounged at her feet. In front of her were piles and piles of magazines. Magazines on tables, magazines on chairs, magazines stacked atop the big screen TV, magazines bursting the seams of the room, dominating the space. All were house magazines. House and home, Architectural Digest, Modern Home, Better Home, Custom Home, Traditional Home. These and more... issue after issue... stacked and piled... (imagine a hoarder’s home) … a veritable litter of homes about her.
Some of these were open to articles ‘How to be your own decorator.’ ‘How to manage your contractor.’…. ‘Seven traps of seven buildings.’… ‘Do’s and Don’ts to the perfect Kitchen’. Daphne picked up this one and began to read, first looking at the pictures, and then at the words. At reading, she was, unfortunately, slow. The piles of magazines represented months of perusal, weeks of study, a full-time job of time.
I gain so much from these, she thought. This article on kitchens, for example. She would not have known this. It paid to do your research. ‘Always get’ (In big letters it said this) ‘Always get a Certified Kitchen Designer, CKD, to help with, and design your Kitchen. Those who have this distinction are professionals, others may not be.’ The heading on the article said Alice Bartlett, CKD professional, Dallas, Texas. At the top right of the page was a picture of a blonde with ‘big hair’ and large hooped earrings.
‘You cannot imagine the nightmare of homes I have seen when this was not done. Remember, poor thought, and poor planning, will result in a poor kitchen.’ Wise, she thought...I wonder if that Wilson is a CKD? I saw Philippe’s, he must be... and I have seen Wilson’s kitchens too...too open. Wilson had said that he could do any style...She liked Philippe’s.
Boy, she was excited, looking forward to tomorrow and brunch. She was certain she would like him. Joanie’s new kitchen was wonderful, with all that stainless steel, the big range, the distressed whitewashed oak cabinets, and all that shining granite—Delightful. Why, she was as excited as Christmas. Daphne looked into her gardens. Something I do know about, she thinks. And she must have, because they were rich with summer colors and scents. She would select a few roses for the table.
Daphne located gloves and picked up her clippers. The sky wore a mushroom cap of dirty light gray that seemed to float on a muted gold pudding of horizon light—Its dark edges curling and rising into first, a soft beige. The air smelled of rain, freshly clipped grass, and the rich, sweet, almost cloying odor of roses...yellow, red, pink and white. She clipped a few and went back inside. Better check the windows. The vases were in the kitchen. A kitchen that she had once loved, now dated by the magazines, with its brown blond varnished oak, hidden Sub-zero, and Mexican tile, and no stainless-steel appliances. She wanted stainless now, and a large commercial Viking…and no more tile… granite and marble instead.
The clock on the white range said 7:00. No wonder I’m hungry, she thought, opening the freezer and searching through the boxes, the Stouffer and the lean cuisine, the frozen pizzas. Not the Swedish meat balls, not the Turkey Dijon, not the Veal Parmesan, not the Tombstone Pizza. Where was that menu? She pulled a folded paper menu from the drawer and grabbed the phone... Then she ordered Chinese.
At the same moment, Daphne was opening the sack of her dinner and wondering what had happened to her egg roll. Wilson was drawing again. He had it this time—the building was growing on the page as fast as he could make the transfer from his mind to the computer. His fingers flew on the keys, the mouse darting up and down. This one! He had it. But was he sure? No, of course not. But he was close. The questions flew around his head, almost immediately transferred.
How wide, how to deal with the sun, where should the master bedroom go? Ground floor, of course, and how many other bedrooms? They had said four, well OK, four. Where to put them? Second floor-Ok. And the Great Room? Let’s see, how about forty feet by twenty-eight feet?... doing the calculations in his head. Twelve-Twelve pitch (45 degrees), forty feet by twenty-eight, and how tall should the walls be with the room’s central gable? And will the great room ridge meet with the ridge of the second floor? It will be higher. But how much? Should he mirror the entry on the other side? All this, lighting up his head…How about fourteen feet four, for the height of the great room walls?
Ok, the ridge heights again. Make the room 28 feet wide. One half of this is fourteen feet, less one foot for the walls. 13’ 6”. Add the wall height…The ridge beam will be twenty-seven feet 10 inches for the great room’s central gable. Too tall? Was it going to be a barn? (He hated walking into a house and feeling like one should be listening to livestock moving about, the cattle lowing) No, this will work. And how tall is the main ridge line?
Let’s see. Minimum height of first floor master walls — ten feet. Ok. Add a foot for the floor system's thickness. The height on the second floor becomes ten feet two. No, that’s too high. Nine-foot three works for these bedrooms. It allows for the standard eight-foot window and the header beam. Let’s see, make the second floor 24 feet wide, two stories, same roof pitch. The interior ridge will be 33 feet, just over five feet higher. Well, that works. And what to do with the roof below, over the larger first floor? That additional ten feet? A porch roof, sure. Make it less steep, with porches towards the lake, allow the same roof line to wrap the building, with laundry and kitchen and butler’s pantry underneath.
All this spewing out almost too fast to deal with. It was, of course, easier each time because he had so many dimensions stored: doors, windows, tubs, tiles, so much he never even needed to look up these days.
And where should he put the stairs?... Behind the fireplace... That worked, and how wide, how long? Let’s see. He again quickly did the calculation in his head. Ok. Second floor is eleven feet above the first. 131 inches. Rise, the height of the step, determined it. So, 16 rises, at seven and a half inches that would be fifteen inches for two, thirty inches for four...ten feet for sixteen. He needed eleven more inches. Add a step and increase the rise? That would work, or add two and decrease it. Either way, the stair would fit. Add an immense stone fireplace. Now print for examination. The printer whirs. No! The stairs don’t work. Ok, try…try…Got it! Place them in a turret, round and climbing, here by the entry gable, thrusting skyward above the adjacent valley. Daphne liked that Mackinac house turret. Do it in stone… A castle. A flag on top, a moat perhaps, a spiffy spinning lightning rod….?
The printer buzzed, did nothing, then whirred. And there it was, the new first floor plan. He took the 8x10 upstairs for further examination. Bizet and his Pearl Fishers opera played in the Great Room, filling the room with balanced soaring beauty. The famous duet. With tingles running up his spine, then broadening at his shoulders, Wilson let the sound consume him, flattening his mind until with the end of the duet, he opened a bottle of red to breathe and join the steak he was about to throw on the grill for dinner.
He loved it when it all came together, a surge of satisfaction pouring through him to the page. Fulfillment? Self-worth? Perhaps, but just a little more Jack Daniels while the red wine breathed.
That same evening Alicia was comfortably alone, with Kenny off on business. She had already been at the luncheon with the ‘girls’, and lunch had left her hollow, dissatisfied, questioning the rewards, the bother. Her wants and needs were shifting, the boredom of these events becoming overwhelming, the conversation insufferable. Houses, new and old, trouble with their kids, vacations, vacation homes, their busy non-busy, unimportant self-important, transitioning, pampered lives — accompanied by golf games laden with the chatter of money, who had it and who did not, and how much…Whose husband was leaving whom, and their physical ailments, changing hormones combined with middle age aches and pains.
Why hang with a bunch of middle-aged women trying to hold off their rapidly arriving matron? Why any longer? It might cause her to age more quickly, like catching a disease. Alicia had watched this matron’s descent before. The Goddess of the biological clock biding her time, waiting to spring upon middle-aged women and leave them frumps, their lifts and tucks, no longer adequate or working.
She was younger, and if her genes said anything. If ‘past was prologue’? She didn’t need to worry. She might resemble a scrawny stork someday, but Alicia did not see bags of cellulite in her future. Her boobs would sag. That was about it.
She had never liked that crowd much, anyway. Last weekend near that ditzy Daphne. And then Daphne had just up and left, and Alicia had been expected to straighten up. Kenny was not going to… What self-indulgent people! Assholes, really!
But they were Kenny’s friends. Tim was, and the other husbands too. That had been the bargain and part of the job, what Kenny needed from her to be part of it all, to sell the paint. Socializing with the wives, get on with them, travel with them, play golf with them... It was becoming boring... Possibly I would be better off with less stuff, she thought. Or maybe it is that Kenny encouraged me to take those classes, and now I finally have my degree. Not that the degree would provide a job, but she had learned a lot. These women had never been about learning. They had gone to school for husbands. She would try to discuss a book, a play, an idea new to her... They would talk of Boca and Aspen, and the book, written decades back, that Oprah had recently recommended. Yes, she could do without them. I wonder what Kenny will think when I say… No more?
Her thoughts turned to the past weekend. Alicia was worried about Wilson. He differed from the men who made up Tim’s set. He was more like those idealistic kids at the college. She doubted if he knew what he was getting into. Alicia had watched the Tim and Daphne show before. They did not care about those they hired and employed. Their concerns were ‘whim of the moment’.
She remembered. On the Stevens’ last project, the landscaper died, and the builder developed a heart condition. But it was not precisely true that the Stevens did not care, more that empathy was not part of their skill set. The Stevens were oblivious to caring. Daphne missed the point entirely. But Tim considered and was aware of the ‘workers’. Alicia’s observations were that in Tim Stevens’s case, caring for the average man, and owning Mighty Burgers, did not fit well together, other than maintaining Mr. Average’s fat supply. It was his accountants, his lawyers, the insiders at the country club, who Tim cared about, at least until they offended him, or voted Democratic.
Alicia understood Daphne better than she comprehended Tim. The result of too many lunches, too many fetes — Too many golf games with the ‘girls’. Alicia’s opinion, acquired over years, was that Daphne had been given everything from birth, that she was not too bright, and that there was no one close to her possessing the resolve, or desire, to tell her what a fool she was, except for possibly her husband. And that the world was Daphne’s oyster, while Daphne was either too dumb, or too insulated from reality, to appreciate it.
She moved to her kitchen and made some pasta with grated parmesan and romano cheeses. Then she put on her My Fair Lady DVD and watched Stanley Holloway dance from bar to bar, “God gave man an arm of Iron, but...With a little-bit of luck, with a little-bit of luck…”
She hoped Wilson had some stored.