I’m sitting on my couch reading Bill McKibben’s “Deep Economy.” Outside the drawn wooden blinds, painters are masking the glass doors and windows in preparation for tomorrow’s spraying of the rough-sawn cedar siding.
If all goes according to schedule, the house will be sprayed and dried, the stench evaporated by the time I return home the following day. This whole procedure has been postponed twice when rain was forecast. What a joke. Not a single drop of moisture has graced these hillsides for weeks, and then it was just a quick thundershower, maybe a quarter inch of sorely needed precipitation.
Masking couldn’t begin until after the clematis vines and the star jasmine had been cut back to a nub, the rosebushes, privets and lilacs severely pruned and the eaves, decks and siding power washed.
In a holding pattern for two weeks now, with the patio furniture, the potting table, the hanging flower baskets and herb garden huddled in the center draped like shrouds. Now it appears to be all systems go for tomorrow. As the brown paper goes up, the temperature inside goes down significantly. The air is still. Outside voices muffled. I can no longer see anything but thin brown folds stuck to the glass with a thin strip of masking tape.
The implement used to accomplish this messy task is called a “Hand Masker.” It applies the thin paper and tape in one operation, top first, sides folded at the corners. No scissors, no tape sticking to the wrong surface. Slick. I’ve done this the old fashioned way and it was a royal pain in the begonia. I’m way too old to do this sort of thing anymore.
I had requested that one small window be left open in each wing so the air conditioners could be used. And the two solid doors in the breezeway as ingress and egress for people and dogs. Even so, it’s getting a little spooky in here. The guys are either working at the far end of the house or they’ve gone. What if they taped me in here? I feel like those fearful saps who fell for Tom Ridge’s safety tips when threatened with a toxic gas attack. “Duct tape the windows and doors,” he said. That went away when it was pointed out to Ridge that suffocation would surely follow application of an airtight seal. Oops.
This is getting really eerie. It’s beginning to feel like scene in “Key Largo” where Humphrey Bogart and Claire Trevor et al are sealed up in the house with the bad guys, storm shutters nailed up, waiting for the hurricane to hit. Ceiling fans revolving lazily, at least until the rain pours down and the power goes out.
The wind comes up and rattles the paper, just as it rattled the windows on that little island. My ceiling fan is slowly whirling. Hope the painters aren’t the bad guys. There’s nobody around here to help. I try the solid door. It opens a crack. No tape. No paper. Good sign.
The Border collie whines; I assure her all is well. But her favorite chair is shrouded, she can’t find her water bucket and kibble jar. I check the garage; the side door left unmasked as agreed. The orange cat has split. No fool he. Gray cat is perched atop the cabinets, a bit uneasy maybe but feeling safer on the inside. Food, water and litter box at paw’s length. Little does she know that when I leave in the morning she will be taped inside. The pointer will go to work with my daughter; the newly acquired hound will go into the kennel by the old ranch house. Border collie will know to stay out of the way of men wielding spray guns.
The sun sets, stars pop out. I pack an overnight bag, read another chapter of “Deep Economy” and turn out the light. Then all hell breaks loose. All three dogs are barking their heads off somewhere west of the other end of the house.
Trouble is, with all the doors taped shut, nobody will be able go outside to call them back. My daughter has an awesome whistle, but it’s no use tonight. It sounds like they have cornered a badger or perhaps something feline. A few weeks ago the Border collie treed a bobcat all by herself. The racket continues for hours. Sleep is a distant dream.
Suddenly, all is still. In the ensuing moments, I drift off. Heck, it’s only about 3 a.m. I need to be up by half past six to get everyone out before the painters arrive lest someone get taped inside.
I’m barely out the door with my overnight and computer when the tape goes up on my door. I’ve checked all the windows from inside. Forget “Key Largo,” I’m riding this one out in Malibu.
The orange cat is nowhere to be seen. Oh, well. He’s probably out there waiting for the ruckus to begin and some hapless rodent to escape its burrow right into his waiting paws and jaws. Bon appetit, Kitty. And don’t inhale.