The Gambler

I think that some people need another person in order to live to their fullest. Sometimes that need is symbiotic and at others it is parasitic. Reciprocity is a beautiful thing. Rare. There is great truth in the statement that the one that loves the most is at a disadvantage. Strange creatures creep into your life, at night, when the moon tends to not shed its light in the nooks and crannies. You can never really tell exactly what those creatures are all about. They just loiter around waiting for the day to break and then you see them for what they really are, no longer shadowed by love and lust. You see resentment, lack of respect, depression, and selfishness. Loneliness. You see tiny, savage monsters that wait to twist kindness and appreciation into ulterior motives. And then the worst monster of them all shows its face. It's the moment you realize that those other monsters are just as much your conjured nightmares as they are anyone's. It's not their fault or your fault. It's everybody's fault.

Companionship is an amazing thing, powerful. It can turn a bad day to good. It can warm cold bones and steady the stumbling steps we tend to take. There has to be reciprocity. If you love me today when I am in good spirits, smiling, and my eyes are clear; then you must love me when I would rather bleed than breathe. I’m going to love you if you’re sad, happy, manic, or asleep. We all need a friend, a companion, a lover, and a confidant. We all need those things to exist within one person. One person that we can look at and feel safe with. One person who looks at us and their eyes say, “I’m right here. Everything is going to be alright.” It’s the love of God and the love of Mothers and children.

All things stem from that. There can be no passion, not lasting anyway, without that unassuming love. There can be no honest discourse without that love. There can be no future. Without that love you dwell in the caves of your past.

I’m not a gambler, never have been. I prefer the consistency of a sure thing. That being said, I have rarely ever not taken a chance. The only thing I have ever been good at is being bad. But I’m damn good at it. I can type a whole lot of words and hope that two or three of them make some sense to somebody. I can talk my way into anything and back out again. I’m not making judgments about my own character. I’m flawed and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I don’t revel in those flaws. I don’t hide them either.

What I’m getting at is this, through all of those flaws and the animalistic nature that sometimes abounds, the willingness to bleed rather than breathe; only one thing has ever settled me down. Been the music. The only reason I have not self-destructed and blown apart everything is that I have been blessed to be able to look over, from time to time, and see eyes looking at me. Those eyes, they would gaze at me from a beautiful face, and in them I could see, “I’m right here. Everything is going to be alright.”

What I’m getting at is this, I talk a whole lot and I just hope some of it makes sense.

 

Blue Skies

Here's the thing. I need for you to look over to the right just a tad and put your email into that little spot that says, "Follow By Email". You'll have to do just a tiny bit of work but it'll pay off in the end, I promise. I don't have to write this shit, which I think is obvious since until about a week ago I hadn't written anything since July. It's already in my head, I know what it says, I know all of it, even what I forget to put down here. I know the allusions and half-assed metaphors. I understand it completely. I know who the Christ figure is and what fatal flaws every hero has. I know exactly when the denouement happens. Every single time. I know how it's all going to play out and when I'll take another five or six month break only to pop up out of nowhere, again. I also payed attention in Mrs. Huey's class. I guess what I am trying to say is this, I have a real strong need to know who is reading.

I'll be 37 in a month. Shit has changed. The qualities and characteristics I look for in both friends and companions of a softer nature have changed, substantially, over the last decade. I might go a year without hanging out with people I consider my closest friends. It doesn't matter. I know that things will pretty much be the same when I do see them. I also know that if I need them, they will be there. The same is understood of me, I suppose. I need you to have my back. I need you to be able to back my play, all night, even if you know I am dead wrong. I need you to understand that telling me I'm a damn fool should only be done when no one else is around. I tell you what you get for being able to do those things. You will get exactly the same. All day, every day. I don't care if you think I'm right or not. You can think I'm dead wrong, and you can tell me so. As long as you don't let anyone else know.

You and I can be walking down the street on a sunny summer day and as we pass by other folks you can turn to them and say, "Hey, the sky is PURPLE!" And I'm going to stand there, head tilted a little to the right, eyebrow arched, a scowl waiting to bloom from my face, and wait for someone to say any different. "Purple, are you crazy? The sky is blue." Nope, hell naw, what? "Did you not hear what my amazing walking partner of the day said? The sky is purple." Then you and I will continue on our purple haze shaded way. The discussion is over, the sky is purple, and those other guys are idiots. If they want to press the matter of what primary color the sky is then we can have a dust up in the middle of the boulevard.

That is about as simple and as pure of a relationship as I can imagine. You back my play and I'll back yours. When we get back home and it's just us sitting on the front porch, drinking a beer, and talking about metaphysics or the price of a gallon of gas, then you can call me a dumb ass and we'll laugh. "Purple? You big dummy."

I'm too far into this thing to be worried about having to watch my back. I'm fully committed to seeing things through at this point and I don't have time to worry about who is backing my play. You can call it selfish, self-absorbed, and short sighted. I'm going to call it love, respect, and admiration. And if anyone is around I'll agree with you and you can agree with me.

Two months ago it was the day after I had a routine extraction of a wisdom tooth. I knew something was not right. I mean, shit, I couldn't breath, swallow, or talk. This was not normal. I waited a day or two because I'm a stubborn fool and when I went to the ER, finally, I told the doc, "My throat is not sore, it does not hurt like a sore throat, I have had a sore throat. This is not a sore throat. Something is not right." He, looked inside my mouth, told me I had a sore throat, and sent me home. Two ER visits, three doctors, and a lot of cussing later I finally got someone to listen to me, they did a CT scan and within 10 minutes I was on my way to have emergency throat surgery. Let me quote the smart doctor, "We're calling to see if General has an ENT on call because you've got to have surgery before you die." Hey, thanks doc, I appreciate that. I'm pretty positive that the only people who believed me, backed my play, were my dear mother and father. Mom never left my side and pops was debating whether or not to go strangle the original doctor.

When you commit to loving somebody you commit to backing their play. Save the dissension for later when it won't affect the morale of the troops.

Death of an Auger

“We need twenty-four posts, 12 ten foot 2x4s, 6 sixteen foot 2x4s, 36 eight foot deck boards, 10 ten foot deck boards, and 8 2x6x8s.” “Wait a minute. How many posts?” “Twenty-four.” “I ain't digging 24 damn holes. That auger will kill me.” “It's only 16 holes, 8 are on concrete.” “It's 9:30 and already 91 degrees. Somebody ain't gonna make it through the day.” They loaded the posts last and as he laid every one on the trailer they seemed to come to life and taunt him. The auger laid in the back of the van, the dull blade laughing. “Is that it?” “We need 16 bags of concrete.” “What size?” “80 pounders.” “For the love of Jeff.” “Who the hell is Jeff?” “Nobody. Will you drive, please?” “Sure thing.”

They headed down the interstate and he slowly fell asleep. He dreamed the same dream that kept him from sleeping at night. He was stuck in the middle of a huge crowd, there were people everywhere, bumping into him and keeping him from going anywhere. He couldn't move, he couldn't see, he couldn't breathe. Somewhere in the sea of people she was out there, separated from him. He would catch a glimpse now and then. He could always spot her face even if he couldn't keep track of her for long. He could feel something about to happen. It was palpable. Alive. He saw her again, she was looking in his direction but not at him, he waved his arms and yelled. The crowd was too big. Suddenly it all turned to chaos and it was no where near controlled. She was gone, swept away in the sea. He heard someone calling to him, “Wake up.” “What?” “We're at exit 42, you want a drink?” “Sure do.” “You were dreaming weren't you?” “Yeah.” “It was bad, huh?” “A big crowd, got separated, couldn't get close again.” “Sorry.” “It's just a dream. Doesn't mean anything. Let's get a drink and head on.”

About an hour later they had their lumber and tools unloaded and set up. He looked around and wondered why there was never any damn shade in the ghetto. “What's the temp?” “It says 96 degrees.” “It isn't even noon yet.” “You want the auger or the post-hole diggers?” “Well I got asked this morning how come we've been through 5 pairs of post-hole diggers.” “What did you say?” 'I told him because I've been digging holes.” “What did he say?” “What would you have said?” “Nothing.” “Give me the auger.” “You sure? You're down 0 to 2.” “It's a battle of attrition. I'm gonna win, eventually.” He took the auger, primed it, flipped the switch to choke, and pulled the cord. Once, twice, three times; he pulled the cord.” “Turn it on.” “Shit.” He flipped one switch to on and the other from choke to run; and pulled once more to start the auger.

The sun beat down on his shaved head and the sweat slowly dripped into his eyes. He had a death grip on the handles. On hole done, two, three, four. He stopped for a moment, left the auger running, and drug it across the ground like he'd drag some wannabe out the door if he was still in his twenties and 80 pounds heavier. He grabbed a gallon of water out of his cooler, took a nice long drink, and went back to digging. Five holes done, six, seven, eight. Halfway there. “I'll finish.” He looked to his left, made a face, and shook his head. “That auger hasn't done a damn thing to you.” “The hell it hasn't!” “It's an inanimate object.” “It's the damn devil. It's the stumbling block. The auger and I are at an impasse.” “You're crazy.” “So.” Nine holes done, ten, eleven, twelve. The engine sputtered and almost died. There was plenty of fuel. “Hey, there is something wrong with the auger.” “There's something wrong with you.” “I'm serious.” “The blade is dull.” “The damn blade has been dull. That's normal. There is something different.” “I don't know. Has it got fuel?” He nodded his head and went back to his work. Thirteen holes done.

He started on the next and about a foot into the dirt the auger let out a whine, it started to smoke, a bead of sweat fell onto the exhaust and sizzled away into something beyond steam. He pushed the auger down harder and held the throttle as fast as it would go. The blade twisted and corkscrewed down another foot into the earth. “Let it cool off!” He didn't hear the warning, it wasn't for his benefit anyway. He pushed with his arms, laid his chest against the engine, gritted his teeth. He bent his head in close to the auger, “You're done.” He pushed the throttle down, the engine whined again, the smoke was as black as night. Six more inches to go. He finished the hole and pulled the spinning blade out of the ground as the engine caught fire and died. He reached out to his right and took the post-hole diggers that were waiting for him. “That's the only pair we have, there's two holes left, try not to murder those before you're finished.”

The World

When you were little what did you want to be when you grew up?” “Different things, the usual little boy dreams.” “Like what?” “An archeologist, paleontologist, caped crusader, fireman, pirate.” “A pirate?” “Sure, why not? Plunderin' booty and pillagin' ships sounds like a fun time to me.” “Scurvy.” “That's why you set aside time to pillage a ship that is carrying various tropical fruits and what not.” “Eye patches.” “If you see a man walking down the street with an eye patch on, you automatically have a unfounded sense of respect for his possible aptitude towards danger.” “True.” “What did you want to be?” “Cap'n Crunch.” “I'm not even going to ask.” “Good.”

He grabbed a few 3 ½ inch screws from his tool belt and put the last board down. “We're done. Let's get this truck loaded and get home. It's a long drive and I don't want to miss supper again.” He reached inside the open window of the truck, grabbed the paperwork, and headed inside to get a signature. “Y'all did a good job on that ramp. It looks real sturdy.” “Thank you, mam, we try.” “Be safe going home.” “We will.” He walked back outside grabbed a toolbox and loaded it inside the cab of the truck along with his cooler, tool belt, and the paperwork. He eased his way into the passenger side and closed the door behind him as his partner turned the truck on and started backing out of the driveway. He looked at the arrival time on the GPS, an hour and 48 minutes. He might just make it.

Half way through his cigarette the silence was broken, “So now you're learning the trade of carpenter. There isn't a whole lot of booty to be plundered in carpentry.” “Sure there is. When was the last time you walked in the door still covered in sawdust, some dried blood on a knuckle or two, and wearing your tool belt?” “I don't know that I have, why?” “Never mind.” “Seriously, why?” “Jesus was a carpenter.” “You're not Jesus.” “I wasn't saying I was, sir. I'm just making conversation.” “You're about to go off on a tangent aren't you?” “It's always a possibility.” He finished his smoke and sat quiet for a minute, thinking about younger days and gravel roads.

“You know when I was out of high school there were these old back roads my buddies and I used to drive around on, drink a beer or two, and just talk.” “What did you talk about?” “Saving the world.” “Caped crusader antics.” “To a point, sure. They were good friends, smart dudes, they possessed empathy and a convoluted sense of right and wrong. I was lucky. So damn lucky.” “They still you're friends?” “I suppose they are, the world kind of send folks on their own paths. Geography and time can be a bitch.” “If they showed up tomorrow how would it go?” “They same it went almost two decades ago.” “Then they are still you're friends. Now, tangent please.” “You like them don't you?” “It passes time.” “Such high praise!”

“When you're young, you have no roots, no responsibility to anyone. When you're full of righteous anger at the wickedness of the world and the injustices done to the poor and sad people that live on that world. Well, you either ignore it, laugh at it, or you want to change it. You want to “save” the world.” “The world is a big place.” “Nothing is bigger than you are when you're young and angry.” “You still want to save the world?” “Of course I do but my world has changed.” “How so?” “If you live as good a life as you can manage, stay alive, and don't lose sight of things your world gets smaller. If you're real, real, lucky you look over one day and sitting next to you is the most beautiful woman in the world. Strong and soft at the same time. Lovely. Her walk makes you weak. Maybe there are some little ones, still innocent and fresh.” “You passed caped crusader antics a while back.” “My world changed. I still shake my head at the wickedness and I still feel for the sad and poor of the world, but they're world exists outside of my world.” “That's a little selfish.” “You're damn right it is.”

He stopped talking, lit another cigarette, and sat quietly for a moment. He though about the selfishness of it all and wondered whether it was okay. “My world got smaller. The Earth was no longer this huge place to trample and wrestle with. My world exists of my few close friends who I might see once every couple of months, my family, and it exists inside the most beautiful woman in the world and her children. I have no desire to exist outside of that sphere. I have no need to see anything else. The grass on my side of the fence is the greenest.” “How does that feel? To you.” “Perfect.” “No desire to fight any more?” “I didn't say that. There are times my blood still boils and I clench my fists. I just think longer these days is all.”

They pulled into his coworkers driveway and they said their goodbyes for the day. He noticed as his cohort walked up the driveway towards his house and his most beautiful woman in the world, that he was still wearing his tool belt and had not brushed away the saw dust. The door opened and he saw a smile shine out from the shadows of the dusky night. He smiled himself and silently wished his friend good luck as he sat down behind the wheel and headed back to his world.

Dirty

“I can't get the lock back on. I can't turn the key.” “You've got to get that checked out, soon.” “Why? It's either going to be nothing or bad news and I can't afford either with no insurance.” “It ain't going to get better.” “Probably not, but I can get used to it. It won't be the first time.” “Your legs?” “Yeah. My legs.” “Why are you even doing this?” “There are a multitude of reasons.” “Multitude? Really? You do too many crossword puzzles.” “I've got a thesaurus you can borrow.” “Give me a reason, just one.” “My dad, that dude can build anything. Give him a hammer, some nails, and some lumber and he'll build a furnished house. I never had any interest in it. I never asked any questions. I rarely ever offered to help. I want to be able to help the next time he as something he needs to build.” “That is a perfectly rational and valid reason. I'm kinda shocked.” “I can be rational. Lock the the door and let's roll. It isn't going to get any cooler.”

He climbed into the passenger seat of the truck and lit a smoke. “You've never smoked in the truck before.” “Didn't know if I could.” “Did you ask?” “Nope.” They pulled onto the highway as he looked at the address and set the GPS. 98 miles to go, almost 2 hours, must be some rural highways he thought. “Long drive.” “Imagine that.” He took a drink of his Diet Coke, attempted a smoke ring and watched as it was sucked out of the open window. “I bet you bleed caffeine and smoke.” “You've seen me bleed plenty. It's red.” “Bad day?” “They're all good. Some just ain't as good as others is all.”

They sat quietly the rest of the trip. He appreciated the silence. Even the radio was quiet and the only sounds were the tires on the road and the clank of the trailer when they hit a bump. They turned down one last gravel road and saw their work site. “Shit.” “Most likely.” “I'll start unloading the concrete while you frame it out.” “I can help with the concrete. There's 26, 80 pound bags.” “I got it, besides there's just 25 and two 40 pound bags.” “You're the most hard headed son of a bitch that has ever walked the Earth.” “I've never heard that before.” He started unloading bags of Quikrete as his partner unloaded and stacked lumber. By the time he had the concrete unloaded the frame was finished and he grabbed the auger to start digging post holes. “Let me do a couple.” “Just get the frame set and once we get some posts in the ground I'll start decking and you can finish.” The sun was beating down, his hands were slick with sweat and on the 4^th hole the auger hit a root. The auger quit moving but he lost his grip on the handles and they swung around, hitting him in the left thigh, and threw him like he weighed about 150 pounds, which he did. He reached out just in time to grab a spinning handle and drag the auger with him.

“I'm just going to lay here for awhile.” “Give me the damn auger. Let it go.” “Damn that, this is my auger. I'm going to finish every hole.” “Tell me another reason why you're doing this and don't get up 'til you're finished. Make it detailed.” “Brevity is the soul of wit.” “Sarcasm is the lowest form.” “A man needs to know how to fix things. He needs to be able to take care of his own shit and anybody else's shit that might not have a strong back to take care of it themselves.” “You're gonna break you're back.” “Nah.” “Just keep landing on your head.” “”If I come home and there is a leak, a toilet seat needs changing, the little rod that holds the clothes in a closet broke, whatever; I'm going to fix it. If we get a new house and she says, “A deck would look nice out here.” Then I'm calling dad, we're gonna go to the lumber yard, grab a couple drills and the miter saw, and build a damn deck.” “Valid, not sure about rational.” He got up, grabbed the auger, and headed to the next hole. “That first ramp we built, that was the first time I ever built anything. I've torn a lot of shit up in my life but building something was foreign.” “Is that a metaphor?” “I don't think so.”

He started to crank the auger but it was almost out of gas. He laid it down and went to get the post-hole digger. “Will you quit once you're comfortable that you can build whatever you want?” “I might. I'm sure there is a mechanic out there somewhere who needs a helper that he can teach. I'm no good with cars.” “You're going to die dirty.” He grinned, ear to ear, “God, I hope I do.”

Ham Sammich

“Look at those two guys over there.” “What about 'em?” “Just look at them, standing in line with their 2x4s, OSB, and plumbing supplies.” “We're standing here with the same.” “I know.” “You know, that will be us in 20 years.” “It'll be you in 20, I've got 30.” “You got fat, real fat.” “And you got skinnier. How in the hell did you get skinnier?” “All the softness is gone, son, hard as iron.” “Even iron breaks.” “Eventually, but I'm more worried about rusting.” “Stay out of the rain then.”

They paid for their things and walked out just in time to hear thunder and feel the wind bring in the rain. “Great, you had to mention rain.” “We'll be inside.” “I know. In some shitty, literally, prison cell sized bathroom. It makes me claustrophobic. I can't take it.” “I get it now.” “What?” “Why you hate driving through Memphis.” “Shit is too crowded.” “Have you always been that way?” “Nope.” They loaded the van, he got in the driver's seat, lit a cigarette, and headed towards Memphis. “Want me to drive?” “Nah, you can drive home, it'll be worse then.” “Alright. I'm gonna take a nap. I didn't get any sleep last night. The baby woke up three or four times.” “You get him every time?” “Yeah” “You're a good man.” “Eventually.”

He opened his cooler and felt around for something that he could eat with one hand, an apple. It worked. It was cold from the ice and had a nice fresh taste to it, crisp. On his last bite he felt eyes on him from the right. “You eat real loud.” “It's an apple, not oatmeal.” “I was having a nice dream.” “Tell me about it” “It was just an ordinary day, well what most folks think of as ordinary. It was perfect.” “Details, sir, details. Use your vocabulary.” “I was mowing the yard, finally. It was hot but not brutal. The babies were playing on the front porch and she was sitting down, acting like she was reading a magazine, but she was really watching me. She was watching me like she did when we first met. It's been 10 years now. Since we met” That's nice, the watching.” “Yeah, it is.” “Carry on.” “I stopped the mower and walked up to the porch and sat down next to her, but not too close, I was sweaty and filthy. She asked me to come inside and cool off but I told her I wasn't fit to be inside.” “When are we ever besides right before we leave for the shop?” “She got up and went in the house, I thought she was upset, but she came back a few minutes later with a cold ham and cheese sandwich, “Sammich, it's called a sammich”, some plain chips, the ridged kind, and a beer, already opened. She didn't ask, she just brought it.” “I get it, I'm the same, I hate to ask for anything.”

“She smiled at me, handed me the plate, the beer, and a napkin. Then she sat close and told me I smelled like yard work. She told me I smelled like a man, then she whispered in my ear that she loved it.” “That's Heaven. It's got to be.” “Everybody was happy, satisfied to be right there, nobody wanted to be doing anything else.” “That is a spectacular dream. I'm sorry I woke you up.” “It's alright, it ended just like it should. What's your perfect day?” “You just crawled into my head and drug it out.” “I'm so damn tired.” “Me too, brother, me too.” “When is it going to end?” “The tired?” “Yeah.” “It ain't. At least not until it don't matter any more. Just keep mowing the yard, stay out of the rain, and hang on. We're here. I want to leave early; we can stay later tomorrow.” “Why?” “I'm going to grab some Ruffles on the way home and mow the yard.” “I think I will too.”

Cooking

She looked beautiful, calm and relaxed. She was a sight at any time but when she was sleeping, really sleeping, she was radiant. He bent down over her and listened to her breathe for a moment. Then he reached out to put his arms under her and hug her, she hugged back almost immediately if a little groggily. “I love you, so much.” “I love you just as much.” He didn't let go, didn't want to. He kissed her cheek and smiled as she moved her head to the side to refuse him a kiss on the lips. “I hope you have a good day, sweetheart. Good-bye, love.” “You too, good-bye, love.” He walked out of the room, looking back one time to see that glow again, smiled, and counted his blessings. Nothing hurt when she was holding on to him.

He grabbed his cooler off of the kitchen floor, checked for the third time to make sure his insulin was there, put his wallet in his back pocket and headed out the door. It was 6:30 in the morning and he had time to stop and get ice for his cooler, some smokes, and much needed caffeine. Not that the caffeine really woke him up any more, it just kept him from sleeping. He would get to the office early and have time to sit in the sun for a few minutes before anyone else got there. It was going to be a long day today, he would probably miss supper, and he was worried he would be too tired to do anything but shower and sleep when he got home.

“Good morning, ready to get started?” “I'm ready to be finished.” That was the end of that exchange. There wasn't a lot left to be said. He put his drink down and headed back to fill in his time card, at least he didn't have to “punch” it. It would be another 12 hour day, busy week, and he hopped that the boss man would get a little tight and give him Friday off. He could get some chores done around the house and be home when everyone else got home.

His cohort walked in the door. “Morning.” “Morning.” “You ready for this?” “Everyday.” “Let's roll.” “Alright, you drive and I'll drive back.” “Works for me.” He grabbed his cooler and headed for the van, he had to wait for the door to be opened from the inside because it didn't from the outside. He sat his cooler down, grabbed an apple, buckled his seat belt, and put his sunglasses on. “I'm glad she finally talked you into wearing sunglasses.” “Why?” “Because, and don't take this wrong, there are some times when you've got this look in your eyes like you're about 4 minutes away from burning down the whole city.” “Well, I don't have a poker face and sometimes I am. It's usually more like 6 or 7 minutes though. There would be time for you to have a head start.” He took his shades off and looked to his left. “You're an asshole. Stop looking at me like that.” “Change the subject.”

“What did you do when you got home last night?” “Cooked some shrimp kabobs and red potatoes on the grill.” “How did you cook the shrimp?” “I took a cup of honey, a cup of Italian dressing, some chili powder, mixed it all in a big ass Ziploc bag, let it marinate for about an hour, then cooked then for a few a couple minutes on each side and used the marinade as a baste.” “Sounds good, was it?” “I cooked a couple pounds of it, and she and I ate it all.” “Guess it was then.” “You like to cook don't you? You talk about it a lot.” “I love to cook. It's the closest thing to making love that you can is safer to do with your clothes on.” “What?” “What, what?” “You're crazy.” “It runs in the family.” “Explain what you mean.” “It'll take a minute or two.” “I'll listen.” “I'll lay it out plain, it's metaphorical, but you're a smart dude.” “Thanks.” “You've got to get things warmed up first, then you get everything laid out in front of you, within easy reach, you need some room.” “Aw, come on, man.” “I”m done, turn the radio on.” “I'm kidding!” “You don't need a recipe, unless you're baking, just some ingredients, some love, a general idea of what you're doing, and then you make a mess. That's it.” “You're still crazy but I appreciate the imagery. I'm going to stop up here so I can wash my ears out.” “I could have went into way more detail like the difference in cooking roux and cooking gumbo.” “What's roux?” “The base for a good gumbo.” “You don't make any sense.” “I make plenty of sense to me.”

“You think if I've got over 40 hours Thursday that he”ll tell me stay home Friday?” “He didn't tell you?” “No, tell me what?” “We've got a rush job Friday, has to be finished that day.” “How big?” “Two days worth, easy.” “Shit.” He tossed his apple core out the window, put his sunglasses back on, lit a cigarette, and opened his phone to send a text. “I miss you, love.”