— What?
— Oh. I mean, what does the dick say to the rubber? I frigged it up.
Bud shook his head briskly, as if to clear it of the frigged-up joke. Lee chuckled dryly. They finished their cigarettes and got back to the shingles.
When they broke for lunch, Lee went over to the skid to verify that his tool belt was still hidden. It irritated him to think of the dirt collecting on it. He then joined Bud and the others, who’d assembled themselves near the trucks and were sitting on building materials while they ate. Clifton wasn’t around. Bud said he’d gone into town to see why a delivery was held up. Lee sat down and opened the lunch pail that Donna had packed. It contained a ham sandwich, an apple, a Thermos of tea, cookies wrapped in cellophane. He realized he had no idea what he would have eaten otherwise, and how he’d thought he could go the whole day on breakfast alone.
There were three men, not counting Clifton or Lee or Bud. Two of them looked much alike, brothers perhaps, maybe father and son. One of them was the man Jeff, whom Lee had seen tying his bootlace. He and his look-alike had a battery-powered radio sitting between them, and they had it set to a country station. Both of them were nodding to the music. Across from them, the BobCat driver was a big French guy. He was eating a chicken drumstick. If any of them knew who Lee was, they gave no sign of it. There wasn’t much talk at all. Lee ate his lunch in minutes. Then he massaged his shoulder where the shingles had scraped it.
— Okay, said the French guy. You can move the shingles pretty good. But that don’t mean you’re strong or fast.
— What do you mean by that, said Lee.
The French guy grinned at him and said: I mean nobody wants all the good men to be held up because of the slow guy.
Did she mention my name, sang the radio. Lee stood up. He closed his lunch pail.
— I’m just here to work. I won’t hold none of you up.
He carried off his lunch pail and found a tree at the edge of the property to urinate against. He was just bringing out his cigarettes when he saw a truck arriving, and then Clifton getting out.
Clifton clapped his hands and called out: Let’s go, boys. We can’t do it all in seven days, but we can try!
By two o’clock, Lee and Bud had moved most of the shingles up to the roof. They’d spaced them across the peak to distribute the weight. Then they heard someone hail them from below. They went over to the edge of the roof. Bud stood right at the drop, scratching his ass, and Lee hung back a few feet. It was the French guy calling to them.
They went down the ladder. The guy directed them to spread gravel into the driveway from the big mound of crush. Clifton was over measuring the foundation. He didn’t seem to take any issue with this other man giving orders. Wordlessly, Bud went to fetch a wheelbarrow and shovels.
They spent the rest of the afternoon at the gravel. Lee wasn’t aware quitting time had come until he looked around and saw the others packing up. Bud had gone off to piss somewhere.
Clifton waved to Lee and said: That’s a day, mister man.
Bud and Lee stowed the shovels and the wheelbarrow against the wall of the building. The shadows had grown long and blue. Lee recovered his tool belt from under the skid and put it over his shoulder. He picked up his lunch pail and went to where the men were congregating at the trucks. Nobody had anything to say about the work that had been done that day, and to look at the building and the yard around it-other than the shingles having been moved-it was hard to see any difference since morning. Lee figured maybe with a project this big, you didn’t see changes in the short term. You worked a day and then you worked the day after that, and only slowly did it all come together.
He cleared his throat and said: Could any of you give me a lift into town?
— Could always hitchhike, said the French guy.
— I suppose you don’t have a vehicle, said Clifton.
Clifton scratched his neck. The two men who looked alike were over by their truck. The French guy was annotating his day’s hours in a pocket notebook. All at once Lee felt helpless. Clifton squinted at him and looked like he was about to say something, but then Bud appeared, zipping up his fly.
He said: I’m goin’ to town. You want a lift?
That evening, Lee was very sore. He’d stopped at the variety store downstairs to buy himself some provisions, and when he came upstairs, he packed himself a lunch in the lunch pail.
He could not remember when he’d last packed a lunch. For a time he’d lived in a halfway house in the city, working in a furniture shop, and he’d eaten every day from a truck that came around and sold submarine sandwiches. But this wasn’t bad, packing a lunch. This was good. This seemed like the kind of thing you did when you had only yourself to look after and answer to.
Around eight o’clock there was a knock at his door. Mr. Yoon was in the hallway.
— How are you, said the landlord, flatly.
— I’m good, said Lee. Tired out. You know.
— You weren’t here today.
— I was working. First day.
Mr. Yoon nodded and said: Is everything working here?
— Everything’s working good.
— Okay.
After a moment Mr. Yoon nodded and left. Lee closed the door.
He got his tool belt and went back to the window, rubbing his sore shoulder. He sat there, watching the street. Indian summer evening-folks coming and going at the A amp;P across the way, a couple of high school kids acting like hoods on the street corner, boats out on the lake. While Lee watched, he cleaned the dirt from the tool-belt pouches and the hammer.
Bud had said he could drive him the next day as well, would pick him up in the morning. There was that. And it was good to be sore from a day of work, even if he couldn’t see the progress at Clifton’s job site the way he could see how a desk went together. It was good to not have much to think about at all.
Business was slow on Friday evening at the Texaco service station where Pete worked. The Texaco was on the highway bypass northeast of town. The sky above was turning dark and the night was going to be cool. Pete was sitting in a lawn chair, leaning back against the wall of the booth between the pumps, with a Louis L’Amour paperback-one of his Luke Short stories-open on his lap. A Ford Fairlane pulled in and drove over the bell-line and stopped at the pumps. Pete’s co-worker Duane was at the edge of the parking lot, engrossed in conversation with a shift worker from the chemical factory, so Pete put his book down and got up from the chair.
He went over to the Ford. A thin old man, bald-headed, got out of the car and stretched and regarded Pete wearily.
— What’ll it be, mister? said Pete.
— The unleaded, please. You folks have a washroom?
— Yes. Just go in the store and ask Caroline-she’s at the cash-out-for the key.
The old man went into the store. Pete lifted the nozzle off the pump and pushed it into the Ford’s gas tank. The smell of gasoline rose on the air.
— Working hard?
Pete was startled. He turned and saw a man of about forty who’d evidently been in the Ford’s passenger seat. The man standing there did not appear to be all put-together. He had a wide grin and vacant eyes and sweatpants drawn high over his waist. He was wearing a baseball cap, but it didn’t fully hide the edges of a scar near the top of his forehead. He was nodding his head in perpetual agreement.
— What can I say, said Pete. I’m keeping busy.
The man’s head bobbed up and down. He laughed.
— And you? said Pete. Plans for the weekend?
— Oh, not me! I take it easy.
The old man reappeared from the washroom.
— For godsake, Simon. Get in the car.
Simon shuffled back to the passenger seat. Over his shoulder he told Pete not to work too hard.
— I’m sorry, said the old man. Sometimes he wanders away. It’s frustrating.