It was a simple enough task and one I felt even I could handle. Head to the local paint store and pick up a gallon of white paint. Apparently Terri had spotted little areas of the downstairs powder room that needed touching up.
Generally speaking, any task that starts off as merely a “touching up” inevitably morphs into a multi-hour, possibly multi-day project. But this one seemed about as simple as it gets, and I had confidence I could knock it out and be home in plenty of time for a Saturday afternoon nap.
I stopped to pick up Wilson for company and just in case I needed a second opinion. That was when the first sign of trouble occurred. He exited his house dressed entirely in white, from work pants to t-shirt. Wilson slipped into passenger seat and gave me a big “good morning” while I stared at him.
“Is there a problem?” he asked?
“You’re dressed like a…”
“Painter, right?”
“I’m confused,” I said. “We’re buying paint. Not using it, at least not just yet.”
“You have to look the part, you don’t want these guys thinking you’re an amateur.”
“I am an amateur,” I said.
“They’ll take advantage of you,” Wilson said. “You got to look like you know what you’re doing.”
Never mind that Wilson’s clothes appeared to have just been bought and had probably never seen a drop of paint. They were white and fresh and he looked more like an extra in a movie than a “get your hands dirty” honest to goodness painter.
We found the paint store bustling, hopping with activity on a Saturday morning. Wilson’s outfit drew a few stares and he returned them with a nod of his head like he was a regular and entirely at home in the big paint showroom.
I made a beeline for the counter and was greeted by a guy in his forties. Tim’s name tag identified him as the associate manager. He asked how he could help and before I could respond Wilson did so for me.
“We need some paint,” he said.
Tim’s brow tightened as he took in Wilson in his dazzling get up and said, “Well, you’re in the right place.”
I explained that I needed some touch-up paint, just a gallon or so. I told Tim what it was for and he asked the obvious question.
“Color?”
“White,” I said.
He responded rapid fire, shooting out options I could barely keep up with.
“Off White, Dazzling White, Blinding White, Puffy Cloud White, any specific tone, color or feel?”
“Uh…” I said.
“We have seven hundred and sixty-four whites,” Tim said, just as a guy at the other end of the counter yelled.
“Just sold the last last gallon of BaBa Sheep White.”
“Make that seven hundred and sixty-three,” Tim said.
“Why so many?” Wilson asked.
“You a painter?” Tim asked.
“Kind of. Well, no,” Wilson said.
“Didn’t think so,” Tim said, turning back to me. “Look, you got a picture or a sample or anything we can go on? It’s going to be hard to have you look at the hundreds of possibilities. We need to narrow it down.”
I pulled up a picture of the powder room on my phone and handed it to Tim. He stared at it as if were an ancient scroll, angling his head one way, then another to get a look. It occurred to me it may have been less taxing for him to merely tilt the phone one way or another, but he was deep in thought and analysis, and I dared not disturb him.
Wilson stepped to me and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “Watch him, he’s going to try and take advantage of you and try and sell you an expensive blend, or something.”
I glanced back at at Tim who seemed puzzled.
“This could be the Barry White,” he said.
“Barry White?” I asked.
Tim reached under the counter and pulled out with a little card. One side had a sample of the Barry White, the other side a description.
With soothing and subtle undertones, our Barry White is sure to ease any room of your house into a soft, mellow meeting place.
I handed the card back to Tim. “It’s for a bathroom. Let’s try something else.”
Tim studied the phone some more, at one point pulling a little desk lamp closer for additional light.
“Hmmm, I may have been way off. Now that I look at it, this may be close to another paint in our Celebrity Whites series.”
“Oh no,” I said.
“It may be close to the Perry White,” he said, producing anther sample card.
Why do subtle when you can scream white with our Perry White? This white will let anyone entering the room know who’s in charge.
I handed the card back to Tim.
“I don’t know what to make of this. Maybe we move off of the Celebrity White collection,” I said.
Tim handed my phone back and excused himself. He went into the back room while Wilson and I idled at the counter. Before long, a woman approached Wilson.
”Can I get your professional opinion on these swatches?” she asked, laying out samples on the counter.
“Please don’t,” I said, under my breath.
Wilson studied the shades of blue and asked, “What room?”
“Our son’s room. He’s two and has outgrown the infant stage. It’s a long overdue makeover.”
Wilson nodded and tapped one of the cards. “This one right here,” he said.
The woman scooped it up, elated. “That’s exactly what I thought, but I wanted a professional’s opinion,” she said, hurrying off.
I looked at him and shook my head just as Tim reappeared wheeling a hand-truck stacked with massive binders.
“I’m going to set you up in one of out Paint Study Rooms where you can go over all your options in quiet,” he said. “Follow me.”
I looked at the binders with their hundreds of pages of paint choices and saw my nap disappearing.
“Tim,” I said, stopping him. “I know what I want. Just give me a gallon of this white,” I said, tugging at Wilson’s shirt.
“That’s easy,” he said. “We call that our Faux White, from our Imposter Series.”