Years ago I had this job up in Snohomish on a drizzly Sunday afternoon. This was when my business was young and I’d go anywhere at the drop of a hat. My conception of joint pain was only theoretical and every job was fun. The customer was a guy in his mid-forties with salt and pepper hair. He lived in a giant modern house, half of it unfurnished. The living room had a huge television and the type of plush leather seating that a 23-year-old finance bro buys with his very first paycheck.

Rick showed me around the house to point out all the doors. He explained that he was in the middle of a divorce and his wife kept coming in to take stuff from the house while he was at work. He wanted to put a stop to that. In the kitchen was a slender young Korean woman in an oversized Seahawks jersey taking something from the oven. The counter was covered in platters of finger food.

“Hi! I’m Young-Mi,” she said with a smile.

“You can call her Yum-Yum. That’s what I call her.”

“Nice to meet you…Young-Mi?” I said. She nodded with approval. “Are you having a party?” There was enough food in the kitchen to feed a gaggle of lost boys.

“No, she just does this for us on game days. Help yourself!” To be polite, I scanned the platters and chose an item that I’d be able to dispatch quickly. It was a pastry bite with a morsel of cured meat and a smear of cheesy spread.

“Mm. Delicious. Thanks. So how many keys do you need?”

I got to rekeying the locks. There were a lot of doors and the game was in full swing when I wrapped up. I waited a little bit for a pause in the action to present the bill. Rick murmured something to his ladyfriend, who then left them room. He paid me from a wad of cash he dug out of his jeans pocket. Then he started chatting with me about the Seahawks’ prospects for the season. I feigned interest as I subtly tried to move our conversation toward the door.  Then Young-Mi emerged from the kitchen with a to-go plate all wrapped up and handed it to me with another smile. He’d been holding me up with football talk to give her time to make up the plate.

There was nothing left but crumbs in my lap by the time I pulled into my driveway.

 ***

About six weeks later on another Sunday afternoon Rick called again. When I arrived he was alone. “It’s time for Yum-Yum to go. That’s why you’re here. She was nice but this thing has run its course.”

Not knowing what to say, I offered, “Well, she did make good snacks.”

“That she did,” he said, seeming to ruminate on that.

When I was about halfway through the job Young-Mi arrived. “Hey! What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Changing the locks,” I said.

“Why? He just got them changed.”

At that moment Rick appeared and rescued me from this very awkward moment that he’d created. He brought Young-Mi out of the room and I continued my work.

When it was all done I wrote up a bill and looked around for Rick. He wasn’t downstairs. I ventured upstairs, calling softly for him. The master bedroom door was closed and I heard muffled sobbing. I went downstairs and called Rick on his phone, which rang through to voicemail. I checked my email on my phone and looked up some football stats. I tried Rick’s phone again. Then I went out the front door and rang the doorbell. That didn’t work either. All I could do was stand around and wait.

After about twenty minutes Rick came down.

“Hey, sorry about that. It got a little messy up there.”

I handed him his new keys and the bill.

“This is great,” he said. “You work fast. The thing is that I don’t have any money. My parents are on their way over. They’ll be here in a few minutes to pay you.”

“How long am I going to be waiting?”

“Not long. I’ll tell you what. I can send Yum Yum down to make some snacks.’

“No, no,” I said, waiving my hands. “That’s really not necessary.”

“Ah, she won’t mind! I’ll go get her.” And he disappeared up the stairs.

A couple minutes later Young-Mi came down. Her face was puffy and her eyes bloodshot. Through gritted teeth she said, “I heard you wanted some snacks.”

“No,” I said. “I just want to get paid.”

“It’s no problem,” she said flatly. Then she started noisily opening and closing cabinets. Moments later she came back to me with a dozen or so dry Ritz crackers sliding around on a plate. “Enjoy your snacks,” she said.

She stood in the kitchen sniffling while I ate my crackers, wishing I had some water.

“Avoidant personality disorder,” she exclaimed, breaking the silence. “He’s afraid to maintain emotional connections. I know about this. I’m a social worker and I see it at work all the time.”

Just then, mercifully, the doorbell rang. The door opened and shut and there were voices at the front of the house. Rick came into the kitchen and said, “David, come meet my parents.”

I left Young-Mi alone in the kitchen with what remained of my crackers. Rick’s parents were affable and robust. The mother questioned me about work and my family for as long as it took for her husband to make out a check. I didn’t stick around long once I had it in hand.

It was a long drive home. The Seahawks game was well underway when I got there. It was already too late to make myself any snacks, but I did grab a beer out of the fridge. I needed it.