A cold morning. There was frost in the air and snow on the ground. He was a big fucking dude. Eyes squinted sideways and gave me one of those "who-da-fuck-is-this-guy" looks. Baritone strong against the diesel's chatter:
"Hey-yo! Whitebread! You — Steve, yeah? You're in luck. Riding with me today." Large would have done a discredit in describing the man's stature; he towered over the recipient, meaty hand closing around the younger's in a lopsided handshake.
"Sean"
"Steve, nice to…"
"Nah, stow that shit. Hop in the truck, let's roll…" and he eased into the driver's seat, chassis of the crew cab Dodge shifting beneath his bulk as he settled in. The younger man went for the passenger side, climbing inside only to find a bright yellow hardhat shoved in his lap, still fresh in its crinkling plastic wrap. He kinda gave me one of those "hope you know what to do with this" looks before popping the truck into gear and tearing out of the parking lot.
"Feel that bounce, kid?" The 'kid' nodded — face serious behind short blond hair and the scraggly beard of a young man — though his attention remained on the packaging, tearing the thing open and sliding interior webbing loose.
"I like em' stiff. Manual says 40 PSI, but that's some pussy shit. Tires go way higher. So I swing into the shop for an oil change and tell em' 'pump them bitches up, I really wanna feel that shit'." The larger man gave a whoop as they bounce over another pothole, before turning to eye his passenger's progress. The task was already finished, plastic straps snapped in place, helmet settled neatly on the dash. Sean's lips curled into a fat grin, and he shoved the other with a playful punch on the shoulder.
"Not bad for a fucking new guy. Been here long?"
"Couple months. But I did some summer work back when I was a kid, not totally new to the scene."
"Mmmhmm. It's an alright crew, but — word to the wise, yeah?" The younger man raised an eyebrow, itched at his chin.
"Yeah…?"
"Most just dudes. But there's Jade, new PM — gotta lay it out clear for you — hands off, yeah?"
"Yeah, yeah. Not that kinda guy." Sean gave him a dubious once-over, before nodding:
"Last guy that sat there had other ideas. Let's say… he doesn't work here anymore."
"Understood."
"Hey, you smoke?" Steve shook his head, then admitted:
"Well, kinda. Just quit yesterday."
"Aww. Fuck that shit man. You can still quit today — besides, these are lights. Some real fake news shit. They can't even hurt you." He gave that grin again, handed over a cigarette before lighting up his own. Inhale. Exhale. Smoke poured from a cracked window into the cold.
"Last one's always the best one…"
I couldn't help but remember him as I stared at the ghost of another almost-empty packet. One precious smoke remaining. Last one. Words filtered back through the years since; a big man with a big heart, but even the biggest can't pump its way through a clot…
"Thought you quit man?" The speaker squinted up from beneath his crooked hardhat, high-vis vest tight against a bulging gut. Recipient — bushy blond beard, blond hair — seated behind the wheel of an idling pickup, windows down with the air full blast.
"Eh, yeah. No. Not anymore. That your way of asking for one?"
"Nah. Fuck that shit. Only gaybos smoke lights. Got my own today." Conversation paused as both men lit up.
"Yeah — so Ricky says it's a no go on the plumbing until Wednesday, and then the elevator guys came bitching…" I drew in a cloud of smoke, letting John's word wash over and past me. Same shit. Different day. Sometimes I wondered, how Sean's old lady and the girls were getting on. Sad, that. Too damn young. Maybe I should'a stuck around? Sure as hell could use a shoulder — any shoulder — now; try not to look at the wedding band, wonder why I'm still wearing it. Couldn't stick around. Things got too weird. His eldest daughter kept looking at me funny…
"…So long story fucking short, Friday earliest they can get in for another go at the electric, but then he's pissed because the fucking Mexicans you brought in for drywall —" the seated man interjects:
"Guatemalans, actually." Exasperated exhale and a cloud of smoke followed before speaker continued:
"Yeah, whatever — they covered up half the lightboxes in unit four…" The speaker paused, took another drag from his cigarette.
"You even listening, man?"
"Yeah, yeah."
"Hmm. You good, man? Heard about you and Cindy." Steve just shook his head. Anyone, maybe. Just about anyone else. But not him. Not here. Not now.
"Nah, it's fine. I think I'll get out of it with the dog and the truck, at least." Half-hearted grin from the man seated in the cab.
"Yeah. Fuck women anyway. Me? Been married three times now myself, last time…" I'd heard this one before. Didn't feel like hearing it again. I didn't tell him the rest — didn't know if I'd ever get to see Rebecca again…
"Alright, so Friday. I'll get the crew back over here to fix the lights."
"Well try to get least one that speaks English this time, yeah?"
"No promises." Was the response as window slid shut, truck shuddering into gear and reversing out of the lot. The man left standing took a few more drags, before flicking his butt toward the storm drain and sauntering back to the job trailer's air conditioned shade.
I still remembered, those early days in the truck…
"Hey kid, you wanna pass me one of them sparkling waters? Behind you." Steve leaned back, found a half-dozen individual gas-station specials rolling around the floor mat; he pulled one up and handed it over.
"Have one yourself, if you want. Old trick, yeah…?" The younger man tilted his head to the side, bemused.
"Sometimes you get the urge for a cold one — little bit of this fools the body. Thinks it's getting a beer." A snorting chuckle followed.
"That right? Not sure if that's pure genius, or sheer retardation." Both men laughed.
But that was then and this was now, and I didn't work much anymore, these days. Phone didn't buzz much anymore, these days. Couldn't remember the last time I'd heard from Rebecca — didn't mind much what she wanted to do with her life, but I guess she minded that I might. Thought that's what fathers were supposed to do. Past always silent, but goddamn if it doesn't want to judge: like that last message from Sean left on read two weeks before he died. I guess it makes you think. There's a lot — a lot that could of been different.
There are more than a few flecks of grey in that bushy blond beard now, peppered hair silvering toward a receding hairline. Thin metal table against peeling paint of another crumbling trailer porch; beer cans — some smashed, some reeling — just a man and his dog lounging in the fading light. A pack of smokes.
"Know what, Gus?" and the dog looks up, tail thumping idly against dirty floor as hopeful eyes gaze toward master. There are no treats this time. Just the flick of a lighter as sharp scent of paper begins to burn.
"Last one's always the best one."
"Hey-yo! Whitebread! You — Steve, yeah? You're in luck. Riding with me today." Large would have done a discredit in describing the man's stature; he towered over the recipient, meaty hand closing around the younger's in a lopsided handshake.
"Sean"
"Steve, nice to…"
"Nah, stow that shit. Hop in the truck, let's roll…" and he eased into the driver's seat, chassis of the crew cab Dodge shifting beneath his bulk as he settled in. The younger man went for the passenger side, climbing inside only to find a bright yellow hardhat shoved in his lap, still fresh in its crinkling plastic wrap. He kinda gave me one of those "hope you know what to do with this" looks before popping the truck into gear and tearing out of the parking lot.
"Feel that bounce, kid?" The 'kid' nodded — face serious behind short blond hair and the scraggly beard of a young man — though his attention remained on the packaging, tearing the thing open and sliding interior webbing loose.
"I like em' stiff. Manual says 40 PSI, but that's some pussy shit. Tires go way higher. So I swing into the shop for an oil change and tell em' 'pump them bitches up, I really wanna feel that shit'." The larger man gave a whoop as they bounce over another pothole, before turning to eye his passenger's progress. The task was already finished, plastic straps snapped in place, helmet settled neatly on the dash. Sean's lips curled into a fat grin, and he shoved the other with a playful punch on the shoulder.
"Not bad for a fucking new guy. Been here long?"
"Couple months. But I did some summer work back when I was a kid, not totally new to the scene."
"Mmmhmm. It's an alright crew, but — word to the wise, yeah?" The younger man raised an eyebrow, itched at his chin.
"Yeah…?"
"Most just dudes. But there's Jade, new PM — gotta lay it out clear for you — hands off, yeah?"
"Yeah, yeah. Not that kinda guy." Sean gave him a dubious once-over, before nodding:
"Last guy that sat there had other ideas. Let's say… he doesn't work here anymore."
"Understood."
"Hey, you smoke?" Steve shook his head, then admitted:
"Well, kinda. Just quit yesterday."
"Aww. Fuck that shit man. You can still quit today — besides, these are lights. Some real fake news shit. They can't even hurt you." He gave that grin again, handed over a cigarette before lighting up his own. Inhale. Exhale. Smoke poured from a cracked window into the cold.
"Last one's always the best one…"
I couldn't help but remember him as I stared at the ghost of another almost-empty packet. One precious smoke remaining. Last one. Words filtered back through the years since; a big man with a big heart, but even the biggest can't pump its way through a clot…
"Thought you quit man?" The speaker squinted up from beneath his crooked hardhat, high-vis vest tight against a bulging gut. Recipient — bushy blond beard, blond hair — seated behind the wheel of an idling pickup, windows down with the air full blast.
"Eh, yeah. No. Not anymore. That your way of asking for one?"
"Nah. Fuck that shit. Only gaybos smoke lights. Got my own today." Conversation paused as both men lit up.
"Yeah — so Ricky says it's a no go on the plumbing until Wednesday, and then the elevator guys came bitching…" I drew in a cloud of smoke, letting John's word wash over and past me. Same shit. Different day. Sometimes I wondered, how Sean's old lady and the girls were getting on. Sad, that. Too damn young. Maybe I should'a stuck around? Sure as hell could use a shoulder — any shoulder — now; try not to look at the wedding band, wonder why I'm still wearing it. Couldn't stick around. Things got too weird. His eldest daughter kept looking at me funny…
"…So long story fucking short, Friday earliest they can get in for another go at the electric, but then he's pissed because the fucking Mexicans you brought in for drywall —" the seated man interjects:
"Guatemalans, actually." Exasperated exhale and a cloud of smoke followed before speaker continued:
"Yeah, whatever — they covered up half the lightboxes in unit four…" The speaker paused, took another drag from his cigarette.
"You even listening, man?"
"Yeah, yeah."
"Hmm. You good, man? Heard about you and Cindy." Steve just shook his head. Anyone, maybe. Just about anyone else. But not him. Not here. Not now.
"Nah, it's fine. I think I'll get out of it with the dog and the truck, at least." Half-hearted grin from the man seated in the cab.
"Yeah. Fuck women anyway. Me? Been married three times now myself, last time…" I'd heard this one before. Didn't feel like hearing it again. I didn't tell him the rest — didn't know if I'd ever get to see Rebecca again…
"Alright, so Friday. I'll get the crew back over here to fix the lights."
"Well try to get least one that speaks English this time, yeah?"
"No promises." Was the response as window slid shut, truck shuddering into gear and reversing out of the lot. The man left standing took a few more drags, before flicking his butt toward the storm drain and sauntering back to the job trailer's air conditioned shade.
I still remembered, those early days in the truck…
"Hey kid, you wanna pass me one of them sparkling waters? Behind you." Steve leaned back, found a half-dozen individual gas-station specials rolling around the floor mat; he pulled one up and handed it over.
"Have one yourself, if you want. Old trick, yeah…?" The younger man tilted his head to the side, bemused.
"Sometimes you get the urge for a cold one — little bit of this fools the body. Thinks it's getting a beer." A snorting chuckle followed.
"That right? Not sure if that's pure genius, or sheer retardation." Both men laughed.
But that was then and this was now, and I didn't work much anymore, these days. Phone didn't buzz much anymore, these days. Couldn't remember the last time I'd heard from Rebecca — didn't mind much what she wanted to do with her life, but I guess she minded that I might. Thought that's what fathers were supposed to do. Past always silent, but goddamn if it doesn't want to judge: like that last message from Sean left on read two weeks before he died. I guess it makes you think. There's a lot — a lot that could of been different.
There are more than a few flecks of grey in that bushy blond beard now, peppered hair silvering toward a receding hairline. Thin metal table against peeling paint of another crumbling trailer porch; beer cans — some smashed, some reeling — just a man and his dog lounging in the fading light. A pack of smokes.
"Know what, Gus?" and the dog looks up, tail thumping idly against dirty floor as hopeful eyes gaze toward master. There are no treats this time. Just the flick of a lighter as sharp scent of paper begins to burn.
"Last one's always the best one."