Concrete Evidence

We bought the condo late last year. Earlier this month, I hired Bill the Contractor to rip out the master bathroom. I wanted no part of the clastrophobic shower stall, with its hexagonal tiles the size of toenails. I want sliding glass doors and clean, white ceramic squares that gleam in the overhead light.

Yesterday, Bill the Contractor hired two men to carry out the demolition. I stopped by to inspect their progress. The pair whistled radio tunes and smoked Pall Malls as they carried chunks of the old bathroom down the stairs. They loaded the old vanity onto their battered pickup. They took the commode (it shattered when the rusted bolts were loosened) to the dumpster.

I pulled out my Motorola flip-phone and called Bill the Contractor with a last-minute change. “Bill,” I said. “This is Mark.”

“We’re making great progress on your place today,” Bill said. “Lots and lots of progress. But this bathroom — it’s kicking my ass. You know what was under that tile? You know what that shower stall was made of?”

I blink. “No…”

“Concrete,” Bill says. “Poured concrete. The entire thing. Two inches of concrete, poured over some kind of wire. I wouldn’t have gotten involved if I had known that. It’s just too much. I’m standing here now, looking at it, and I’m telling you, it’s kicking my ass.”

The bathroom is the size of a small closet. I’m inside it, looking at the exposed wooden skeleton of my house. “You’re there now?”

“Yeah, been working on it all morning,” Bill says. “I’m here now with two guys I had to hire because I didn’t expect all that concrete. That concrete, boy … it’s really kicking my ass.”

“Bill,” I say. “I’m here.”

“What?”

“I’m here,” I say. “I’m calling from the condo. I’m in the bathroom at this very moment.”

“Oh,” Bill says. “Oh.” He is silent for several seconds; over the phone, I can hear the radio in his truck. The cars passing him sound like distant ocean waves.