Uncle Tom is at my house
M, the interior painter, who has had some brushes with the law lately and is ill-tempered or sweet depending on his level of toxicity – I gather – I don’t know for certain – started giving me the yessa massa routine today when I asked him to paint the ceiling before the electrician got there tomorrow to hang the fans. “It’s your house, mam,” he said.
Yes, it is my house, I told him, and I am asking him to paint the ceiling – “You have something to say to me, say it now, bring it on.”
No mam, just saying I’ll get to the ceiling, mam.
Good god.