Shirtless & Boxers

Jimmy-Jo and his 85-year old father live together in coastal Florida. Jimmy-Jo owns a nice piece of property here in Florida and in Virginia, where his wife and kids live. As I rang the doorbell of Jimmy-Jo’s house, I heard a voice coming from around the side of the house.

“Hey man, we’re ‘round here.”

I rounded the corner to meet a 57-year old man in board shorts and no shirt. Not my first topless man sales call, just the first to remain topless.

Jimmy-Jo, by the way, is an awesome guy, genuine and sincere. This is a guy I could drink a beer with. Unfortunately, I was working, so he did the drinking for the both of us.

As we toured the property for the proposed job, an old, scraggly, voice emerged from Jimmy-Jo’s work pick-up truck.

“Don’t give him a heart attack, now.”

“Well, if I do, at least you’ll be here to pick him up.”

“I ain’t picking him up. I can barely pick myself up.”

Jimmy-Jo’s father was working on unloading some wood. This guy looked like the crypt keeper. He had about 7 long strands of gray hair slicked back on his head, was weightless with his skin sagging like wet clothes, and was hauling bundles of molding from a pick-up truck. Well, mostly he was letting them fall off the flat bed.

As I was surveying the job and taking pictures, I heard a little father-son squabbling:

“Dad! Damnit. This is the front yard. You can’t be doing that out here man. Go into the house or your apartment, or the damn backyard.”

I rounded the corner in time to see Pops wrangling his pants back around his waist, struggling to manage his chain wallet and zip-up in time to get his uppity son to stop nagging him.

Apparently, Pops was relieving himself in the front yard in broad daylight. Jimmy-Jo might not put clothes on for company, but he knows bathroom behavior in the front yard is a serious faux pas.

Thankfully, I was done outside and suggested Jimmy-Jo and I go inside to crunch some numbers.

After turning down another offer of a cold beer from, I began plugging numbers into the system to generate his quote. Meanwhile, Jimmy-Jo filled me in on his life status. He lived here in Florida while his wife and kids stayed in Virginia. She couldn’t leave her job until that house was sold, and he was not about to give the house away.

“People do not want to pay for anything anymore. They just want you to give it away. Well, I’m not doing that. I’ll keep the house before I give it away. I just miss my wife and kids.”

The irony of being a salesman and hearing this monologue from a man who would later tell me the price was too high was not lost on me.

I continued to plug away as Jimmy-Jo wandered in and out of the house. The next time he entered, I let him know I was ready to show him the contract. At this point, both he and Pops were in the house.

When I looked up from my tablet to show the contract to him, I suddenly realized Jimmy-Jo had returned in less clothing than he had left. He’d ditched the board shorts and was rocking some grey Tommy-Hilfiger button-(thank you Lord)-fly boxers.

While Jimmy-Jo had lost some personal property, Pops had gained some. He had a plastic bag full of fast food joint napkins he was saving, and what, at first glance, looked like a small toolset.

“I’m glad you found that one Dad. He lost the other two.”

“What is it?” I asked as I simultaneously looked closer at the box to see it clearly labeled Smith & Wesson.

“That’s his 9-mill. He lost his other two guns: a shotgun and a rifle.” Jimmy-Jo and Pops explained the other two guns in detail as they showed me the fully loaded handgun.

“Well, he didn’t exactly lose them. His damn family stole them from him. Not my side. His other side of the family.”

Unlike Jimmy-Jo’s boxers, I was not able to close. But that did not stop him from walking me to my car and enjoying some more small talk together. Apparently using the bathroom in the front yard is off-limits, but walking down your driveway in nothing but your boxer shorts is standard operating procedure. I can see why Pops would be confused.