My Encounters with a Paper Bag

Chapter Three

I unloaded my cargo one can at a time.
"Time to get to work," I said aloud remembering I had no brushes no a crow bar to own the cans.
Before I could protest with my own stupidity, I noticed a cluster of objects sitting on the weathered porch. I hesitated. As I got closer to the assortment, I realized its content. Brushes, rollers, bars, ladder, etc.. I began to fill with delight. I knew these were left for me.
"Am I really that predictable? Did he see me coming with the paint and realize I only had paint? I wish I could thank him. Wait... I don't even know who 'he' is. It may very well be a 'she'. How am I to know? I'd better start on work. I'm not being paid to stand and question my job. Heck, I might not be paid at all."
I reached for the ladder, roller, crowbar, and plate. I wedged the steel bar to the edge of the can and forced it to separate. The can complied and I began to paint. During my inspection of the building, I noticed how small it was. the ladder would be tall enough to reach even the high of the walls. I hosed it down and prepared my work while it dried. I began. I had forgotten the sun's constant existence until I had nothing else to think about. Once I was forced in a fixed position, I began to realize how humid and hot it was. Hot. That was not he word. Burning, exhausting, sweltering. Sweltering... That was the word,
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Wall one coat one...
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Wall one coat two...
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Wall two coat one...
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Wall two coat two...
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Etc...
I retreated to the road for a better angle. It looked improved. So far, it only brought out the flaws of the rest of the house. The shutters, the porch, missing shingles, yard, and windows. I almost wanted to work on the windows. Maybe then I will see what's behind them.
I felt very complete with this accomplishment. I walked around the house inspecting each panel catching blotches, runs, and overall imperfections. I ran my fingers along the sides in hopes of feelings any faults I hadn't caught with my eyes. I started for my back, but a yellow paper caught the corner of my eye. Like Déjà Vu, I remembered the first paper I had see taped on. This was tacked with even less quality like t had been done in a frenzy. "The owner works in mysterious ways" I thought.
I pulled the paper from its stick with the tenderness of a child conserving the wrapping on a present. I was never one of those, but now, I was preserving the note as if I would need to later use it.
"With my luck, he will end up as a felon and o will have to use these notes when protesting in court"
As the paper disconnected from the door taking bits and flakes of paint with it, a single green slip dropped to the floor. I began reading the note and bent over to pick up the fallen sheet all the while never taking my eyes off of the note.
"I see you have done a wonderful job painting the house. Although next time you will be provided with more money. I did not realize you would be painting so soon..."
"Forty dollars was plenty enough for five cans of paint. After all the only cost about $4.60 since the depression. So, he hadn't known I would buy paint. He must have seen me coming which means... He has been here the entire time. The writer is inside this building for sure... Well of course he is here who else would put the messages on the door."
I still felt clarity.
"... I will give you some money for your troubles and an additional cash fund for your next home improvement. "