Big Fun with Monsieur Fournier

Background: Me and my across-the-street neighbour both want to get our driveways repaved. We discussed this last summer. While I was in Rafeville, she had a guy, Monsieur Fournier, do an estimate for her. While he was there, she kindly asked him to do an estimate for my drive as well. She gave me his card with the estimate on it and told me to call him if I was interested. He’s kind of gruff, she tells me. And so...

INT: My office. I dial (Ring ring)
MF: ouahg?
Me: Oui? Monsieur Martin Fournier?
MF: ouahg.
(I explain the background.)
Silence
(I elaborate.)
MF: ceqhwhenvoddres?
(Pause. I decipher this. Then I give him my address.)
MF: numwehnelfun?
(I give him my day phone number)
MF: enlammesson?
(I give my home number)
MF: quenesvossnefette?
It’s like Charlie Brown’s teacher, except fast, french and belligerent.
Pause
Me: Pardon?
MF: quenesvossnefette?
Pause. Time to wing it. I tell him the amount of his estimate.
This seems to be the right answer! Yay!
MF: mynahemfphna?
Pause. I have no clue. None. But I don’t let this stop the flow.
Me: Oui.
MF: lleoutrlavacecerr?
Me: Oui.
I’m assuming he’s just asked me if I am going to be home tonight. If not, then I wonder what I just said yes to?
So now I’m waiting. Maybe I’ve already accepted his estimate? If he shows up at 7 a.m. tomorrow with a ton of equipment, boy, will I be surprised!