Shameless Ego
Tom offered to drive her home, as they said their goodbyes at the front gate, but Cindy insisted on riding her bike, “I love to ride my bike… especially when I’m this happy,” she said, “and I’m so happy right now. Miracles happen! And this is a miracle, Tom. I can’t thank you enough, for this amazing day! Your help with the kids, our dance… everything!” She gushed. They embraced. Tom agreed. They kissed, she rode off, looked back and waved, almost hit a stop sign, before disappearing from sight. No idea what time it was, Tom stumbled back to bed, forgot to call Seamus and forgot to plug his phone in.
Max woke him, “Tom!” Bang, bang, bang! Massive silhouette in his bedroom doorway, pounding fist, backlit by light from the wobbly chandelier, top of the steps, “Seamus is freak’n out. Turn your phone on, man! You gotta call him, now. Hey!”
Tom flopped an arm, indicated he heard, felt drugged, knew he had to get up but couldn’t get his brain to work, “Uh, yeah… okay, I will.”
“C’mon man. Sorry but… Blue’s done it again. I’ll tell you later.”
Message delivered, Max disappeared. Tom forced himself to get up, plug in his phone and shower, helped him regain some semblance of consciousness. He had installed, just before Isolt left, a second showerhead at the opposite end, per her request. They liked to shower together and in winter, upstairs always cold and with only one showerhead, you had to keep turning around to stay warm. Now, two large, high pressure heads made showers pure delight, together or alone. Tom turned both of them on his head, wanted to cry but couldn’t, still felt mostly angry with Isolt or numb and wondered what she felt and thought about it? Seemed so… orchestrated, the more he thought about it, like traps were set and he triggered every one of them, plan all along to run him off. Why have him visit if she wanted to break up? Is it them? Is she under the witches’ control? That wasn’t the Isolt he thought he knew… strange. While he dried off, Tom peeked at the Cindy situation, out the corner of his eye, so to speak, not ready yet to open that can of worms. Felt like a perfect storm… reminded himself how much he hated that saying, when others used it, “Do you feel like you worked through those feelings, from when Cindy left?” Isolt asked him once, “No,” he answered without hesitation, “Don’t think I ever had them. Too busy trying to survive to even think about her much. Shock when she left and then tread water until your head goes under,” was all he said.
Back in his room, Tom checked his phone… nothing from Isolt, 10 texts from Seamus, 2 from Max, 1 from Utter, and 2 from Cindy—Tom… I know this s maybe too much for you and I want you to know I understand breaking up the way hurts a lot. No pressure! Today was amazing time of most incredible in my life nk (no kidding) lol (lots of light). All of it! Dance, seeing you again sex cuddling the nap dreams even my bike ride home… I want you in my life Tom!
And—One more and I’m done. Promise! I know how much you hate texting. There’s this amazing place like an hour and half away on the back way to Brightenbush (sp?), called bagby hot springs It’s free and the drives incredible! I'll drive (your truck) if you feel called to soak or chill out after your ideal? Heart, smiley face, heart.
Ideal… autocorrected from an intended ordeal, Tom reckoned, and jotted it down in his notebook⎯autocorrected from an intended ordeal… liked how it sounded. He called Seamus.
“Where the fuck you been? Don’t leave me hang’n like that! Shit’s hit the fan, over here.”
Excuses were useless with Seamus, “Sorry, dead phone.” You just had to hope he wasn’t in the mood to take it out on you.
“Ugh! Fuck’n phones! I hate ‘em! First thing in the morn’n, we gotta get up to Swan Island. Blue… God damn moron! Fucked shit up again. Pick me up. Gotta take the big compressor. You alright trail’n that compressor, Farmboy?”
“Yup! No prob. My truck or yours?”
“Mine. We’re not drive’n your Ford piece a shit. Gotta cut a road and jack some ‘crete, uncover a vault, repair a 12 inch sewer line and make a ‘lectrical splice. Max’s gonna do that. Your boy’s out there—Draymond? What’s his name?”
“Desmond.”
“Yeah, life a the fuck’n party, that guy! And on Blue crew, that ain’t easy. Get here by six. I got coffee here…” Click.
“Wait! Where are you?” Too late, he hung up. Tom thought about calling back but figured Max would know where he was and went to find him. Max, in bed with the door open, lights and boots still on, eyes closed, “You up?” Tom stood in the doorway and asked.
“Ugh!” He swung his feet immediately to the floor with a great thud and stood, “Now I am! Want a drink? I’m a have one. Whiskey?”
“Sounds good a me!” Tom followed Max downstairs. Marveling, as usual, at how big he was. Not many people made Tom feel small but Max certainly did.
“Why don’t you field a fire and I’ll get the drinks. Rocks?”
“Yeah!” Tom would have preferred the tasks reversed, thinking it meant he had to go out the backyard and gather wood but saw, by the stove, several totes full of cutoffs, Max must have brought in; looked dry and easy to light, old cedar shakes for kindling. They kept a propane torch by the Franklin stove and Tom had a fire blazing by the time Max got back, two pint mason jars in hand, full to the brim with whiskey on ice, “Old No. 7, Jack Daniels Sour Mash. Cheers,” he clinked them together himself, before handing one to Tom, “Present from Matilda.”
“What? You couldn’t find any bigger glasses? Who’s Matilda?”
“Shameless’ latest… I’m bump’n out her kitchen while he bumps out her… what? No, let’s hope not.”
“What? She young? Matilda sounds like an ol’ lady name.”
“Oh… how broad minded of ye Tom. I don’t know… what’s old? In her late thirties, forty maybe. Single, no kids, lots of money, she don’t know what to do with, ‘parently.”
“Whole kitchen?”
“Yeah, The Kitchen Magician, they call me… should call me. Backsplash mosaic—some Sufi pattern, tile floor, wants concrete counters and wants ‘em ground down ‘n polished to reveal her stunning collection of ocean glass.”
“What’s ocean glass?”
“Right? Little pieces of colored glass, polished by the ocean. She has a house at Oceanside, I guess, walks on the beach a lot and collects. Seamus s’posed t’ go out there after surgery but Utter talked him out of it. Pretty glass, but come on… gotta grind off like a quarter inch, when it’s all said and done—ton a dust! But she’s loaded, gets what she wants, had an entire dust collection system installed for the job—German name… expensive… uh, Krieger? I think.”
“Oh yeah, where’s Seamus stay’n? I gotta get him, early. What’s up with Blue?”
“Jesus, Tom. What a shit show! Literally! They hit a sewer and power line. Blue dug in the wrong place then kept go’n when he didn’t find anything. Fuck’n nightmare! Amazon warehouse ‘lectrical feed and main drain, I think. Swan Island. I drove Seamus out there yesterday, had to get between ‘em! Holy shit! He lost it! Was already pissed. Joe’s been drive’n him, has a broke wrist and cracked ribs, can’t work, needs the money but they drove each other bananas. Joe walked, left him stranded. Can’t believe it lasted that long.”
“Quit?”
“Fired… but he’s already back. Do’n some for Cat… with one hand.”
Tom nodded, “What happened to Mathis? Thought that was all set, same route, every day?”
“Lasted two days… couldn’t take it and quit. Figured he’d get fired so he took a job with Guy Marshall. I guess it’s his cousin. Seamus hates that fuck’n guy… and the feel’n’s mutual. Guy routinely reports him for unpermitted work, is a friend of Spinks. Another thing’s got him on edge—thinks Mathis’s gonna come back at us, spurred on by Guy, squeal to the Building Department what he knows.”
“Mathis? What’s he know? Dude’s not come’n back at anybody. He like teaches Nonviolent Communication, tried a get me to join his men’s group. He’s just too sensitive to be around Seamus. What happened at Swan Island? Said we gotta pick up the big compressor?”
“Yeah, the compressor… we gotta cut and jack the road. There’s already a big hole. Seamus wants me a do an underground splice on the ‘lectrical. That’s no big, take an hour. But for the sewer we gotta jack out an old concrete vault, find a clean hub. No way t’ splice that big a pipe and the whole section’s trashed, prob’ly loose at both ends. Road’s closed but they found a workable detour. No idea how he keep’n the city out of it. Made some deal with a car delivery company, run’n traffic through their park’n lot. Oh my God! This is hilarious! The hole’s right next to a massive, I don’t know… like… mile square, park’n lot? Huge! We get out there ‘n the road’s blocked off ‘n everyone’s stand’n around as we drive up, look’n towards the river, you know how much Seamus hates that. Got their hardhats and orange vests on, big traffic signs—just for show, got noth’n a do with what’s go’n on, for the most part. Anyway, they’re all watch’n like, I don’t know, what’s it take to fill a lot that size? All these little white cars—Toyota Corollas, I think, start drive’n off one end of a huge fuck’n ship. One whole end lifts up like a giant mouth and six lanes of cars, bumper to bumper almost, drive out and park in the lot, perfectly spaced. Cute little shuttle busses take the drivers back, all wear’n black pants and red shirts. Must have been thousands of them. Like… I don’t know how many cars, all white. Just one of those moments, had to be there, I guess. You couldn’t not look at it. The lot fill’n up. Even Seamus just stood there and watched a minute, until he lost his shit. Anyway, they get into it and Seamus starts lean’n a little hard on Blue, so I pull him away, get him calmed down. Dude makes two phone calls, that’s all I saw anyway, and pretty soon a trailer of port-a-pots shows up for Amazon and somebody, I don’t know who, comes along with a boom truck, like no big deal. Seamus goes up with him and they drop a temporary service off an unused transformer, big enough to run the Amazon warehouse. They routed it through the old meter and no one’s the wiser. Next thing you know, the warehouse is up and run’n and the manager’s happy and agrees not to call the city. All very hush-hush. Two fuck’n calls! Fuck’n guy!”
“Fuck’n guy!” They toasted Seamus with big drinks, who incessantly seemed to pull off what no one else would even try, “Where’s he stay’n?”
“Little Coachman, at the yard. Mostly stays at Matilda’s though, I think. Don’t quote me on that. Says he goes for coffee, early and they talk about the project but I’m pretty sure he stays there. Is always there when I show up, around 7, sit’n at the kitchen table, drink’n coffee and smoke’n weed… in the house, talk’n shit about everyone. I’ll give her credit though, she gives good as she gets. Busts him on the reg. Bright as can be. He seems fine with it.”
“Yeah, I bet. Is she hot?”
“Of course! Hey! How’d it go in Iowa? Speak’n of hot. You move’n? Back to the heartland?”
Tom took a big swig and felt it burn all the way down to his empty stomach… should have eaten something first, “No. Uh, I don’t know what to say. Have you heard any… from Isolt?”
“No. I don’t… Isolt’s not one to keep in touch. Unless she wants something. Not a problem… I’m not either. Do best with those who need noth’n from me.”
“Yeah, well, if that’s the case, it’s because your dance card’s full.”
“Pop’n fresh, very generous. Yeah, no… anyway, what was the question?”
Tom, felt buzzed, whiskey on an empty stomach and little sleep, “Uh, how did Iowa go? It pretty much sucked. We broke up. Don’t really know why, other than she had people live’n with her and didn’t tell me till I got there. Acted like it’s no big deal. But it is or was… for me, I guess.”
“Whoa! That’s weird. Like who’s live’n… was? Is?”
“Is… far as I know. Left there six days ago but haven’t heard any different.”
“Who?”
Tom really did not want to get into it. Would love Max’s feedback but needed as much sleep as he could get before facing Seamus at six. Saw no way to tell it, wouldn’t take a long time and further reduce his chances for a good night’s sleep, “Uh, three witches who seem entrenched, let’s say. Are they run’n the show? Eh, maybe.”
“Witches?”
“Self-identified as.”
“And she’s okay with it?”
“Yes. And that’s fine. She seems fine. But they’re like a united front of… uh, I’d love to talk more with you about it… but I’m toast, gotta go to bed.”
“Heard! Me too. Tomorrow could be rough. Let’s put a… what’s it they say? Pin in it? Pin it? Matilda says that, every time we talk, whether there’s anything unresolved or not.”
“Sounds good. Thanks for the drink,” Tom finished his, went up to bed and fell asleep.
Immediately, two women standing near him argued, both in three-quarter length London Fog raincoats, “Why is it always subtext this and subtext that, with you?” The one in black said, “Why can’t there just be text? Why’s there always have to be a subtext?”
“Of course there has to be a subtext,” the one in white replied, “If there weren’t—the text wouldn’t be on anything. Look,” she stomped her foot hard against the street, “There’s a floor and a subfloor. Take away the subfloor and it all falls down,” they both looked at him when he didn’t want to be seen. Tom felt the floor move and saw newly lain maple tongue and groove buckle from her stomp, couldn’t remember if he put in the subfloor or not? In what was supposed to be a fancy ballroom but now more resembled a twisted mass of Hotwheel tracks he had to put away before bed, “Nothing is frozen in time. The river cannot be tested. Step is a relative term. Change the only constant,” the black coated woman said, as if reading off a list, then pulled a blue checked table cloth out from under what looked like thanksgiving. Nothing moved, far as Tom could see but he feared it would soon fall into the basement if somebody didn’t do something about the missing subtext. The white coated woman, now wearing black diamond glasses, turned into a scientist(?) and maybe man(?) measured the effects, Tom reckoned, would put things to right. Felt himself instinctively backing away however, from what seemed an increasingly slippery slope. He started scrambling but the more he scrambled for the door, the more floor fell in behind him. Until just making it outside, safe and sound, on a cul-de-sac without any houses yet, found himself and realized it was where he grew up before being built—No Home Will Stand Where None Was Built… was written on the street in what looked like letters from a letterman’s jacket. Tom stretched out on the S, that’s how big the letters were and thick as shag carpet. The only shot you’ll never hit is the one you don’t take—his coach always said, and⎯See what you’re looking at… Something buzzed and Tom… awoke to his phone going off, “Yeah?” Answered, not sure if still dreaming. “Farmboy! I need you—now! At the yard!” It was Seamus.
“Ugh…what time is it?” Tom looked⎯4:36? What the fuck? Seamus? Tom felt drugged.
“Time to work! Get over here! Gate’s open! Coffee’s on!” Click. Not dreaming.
The yard was where Egan Construction kept the big stuff⎯concrete abutments, thick metal plates, excavators and buckets, bulldozers, backhoes, dump trucks, crane, giant compressors, boom lifts, etc. Seamus kept Little Coachman there too, if not at a jobsite, left on the inside lights and hung a magnetic SECURITY sign on the side. Tom pulled up and parked, got out and scanned the yard… no one else around. Seamus’ truck was parked behind Little Coachmen. Tom could smell weed smoke rolling out from within. The yard was under the towering overpass spaghetti of the Fremont Bridge. A constant oceanic wash of traffic from above, regular rumble of heavy trucks, even at 5 a.m., “What’s the rush? What happened to 6?” Tom said, as he ducked into Little Coachman. Seamus sat at a classic, metal banded, gold speckled, white formica table, smoking a joint, drinking coffee and looking at his phone.
“Morn’n Farmboy!” An alcoholic, Seamus went to meetings, multiple times a week. Quit drinking and smoking cigarettes, he claims, at Catherine’s request (she disputes this), back when she first got pregnant, by substituting joints instead, “two birds with one stone,” he always said and kept it hid from the kids. Growers and dealers he worked for, back in the day, used to give him free shake but now he gets packs of pre-rolled from dispensaries, people he knows mostly, give him great deals or trade for repairs on their place. Morning routine used to be—go to the man cave and roll up the ‘day’s wage’, as he called it—twenty joints per diem, on average, “Got a hollow leg for the stuff,” he often said. “Coffee’s over there,” pointed to the little stove, where sat a very large French Press, like gallon size. Little Coachman was cramped and full of smoke. Tom’s head touched the ceiling. He poured himself a cup. Seamus made good coffee. “Wanna hit?” He offered up the joint, “Pineapple, some-some Head Glue.”
“No, thanks,” Tom quit smoking weed but driving Seamus, he might as well be, was good and stoned by lunch most days, via second hand smoke, almost never took hits, hard enough keeping up with him sober, “What’s up?” Tom gestured at the phone he seemed intently focused on.
“Oh… fuck’n idiots at the club, banned me again, for smoke’n ‘cross the street. Fuck’n dweebs. Ever’body’s got an opinion. Weed ain’t alcohol! Apples and oranges! Hey, we gotta go!”
Seamus, still in a walking boot, hobbled out of Little Coachman and over to the compressor jack, while Tom went to and backed up his truck. Seamus drove a restored ‘74 Chevrolet two tone Custom Deluxe pickup truck, used to be his grandmothers—V8, three on the tree, nice camper shell, roll down windows, everything like new, except for all the shit in it. Tom preferred automatics. He had to park the thing like twenty times a day and be super careful not to scratch it. The clutch wasn’t hydraulic and he got ‘clutch knee’ after his first week—inflammation in the left knee, from non-stop clutching. Happens to truck drivers a lot, delivery guys, in the city.
“Go around by the hospital. Don’t go over those bumps with this compressor on. Fuck’n idiots! Oughta call this Bump Town not Stump Town! Easy, Farmboy! That hitch’ll pop. Here! Here! Turn here! Slow down!”
“Seamus! I got this. Your phone’s buzz’n,” on the seat, his phone lit up and hopped about.
He answered, “Maxi-millions! You… Yeah, headed there now… ASAP! We need all hands on deck, Dude… I know, but she ain’t gonna call the city on us if… Yes! You have to do it… No! I’m not bring’n him in… No! I got other shit t’ do… I got… No! They filled the fuck’n thing with rock… Yeah, at Ferguson’s, under Egan. Don’t forget the collar! They open at six… the compression coupling! What…? Yeah! Who else’s gonna do it?” Seamus pulled the phone from his ear and gave it a dirty look, “Goodbye to you too! Jesus Christ! What’s up his ass? He all about what he don’t wanna do these days. Ever’body so particular. Pull over by that barricade! There!” He pointed, as Tom, ever ready for split second changes of course, swerved to the curb and stopped, close as he could. Seamus got out, limped over to, opened a combination lock and rummaged around in a big Knaack box, came back with two sledgehammers, two picks and a heavy metal pike, put them in back with all the other junk.
“That our site?”
“Nope. Got a buddy works for ODOT. They’re not here today. Take Swan Island exit, then hop on Failing. He gives me the codes. We borrow shit all the time and lend, too. No reason taxpayer’s tools oughta sit not be’n used all the time. ‘bout a half mile down, take a left at the barricade ‘n up the hill,” he took another call, “Waltz’n Matilda!” It was easy to spot… traffic signs and barricades, blinking yellow lights. Freshly painted arrows routed traffic through a parking lot, now empty but for Several guys from Blue’s crew holding signs, up the road a ways, a few men were in the hole digging but others stood idle, leaning on shovels, something Seamus hated, “Hey Babe, I’ll call y’ back. Gotta bust some ass. Yeah… you too… I hope so… Hey!” Seamus opened the door and jumped out before Tom stopped, almost fell down but caught himself on the outside mirror, “I don’t need you motherfuckers lean’n on your goddamn shovels when we got a shitstorm hang’n over our heads! If there ain’t some’m for you t’ do, then get the fuck outa here! Where’s Blue? MK! Help Tom set up that compressor. Why ain’t the asphalt cut? Fuck’n lines ain’t even marked!” Seamus headed towards Dave Blue’s truck, where he sat, engine running, heat on, drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette and talking to his wife about overdue tax documents.
“What the fuck are you do’n? Get off the fuck’n phone!” Seamus opened the door, grabbed him by the jacket and drug him out of the truck.
Tom, unhitching the compressor, saw this happen and yelled, “Come on!” To several nearby members of the crew. By the time they got there, Seamus had Blue on the ground and was forcing him under the truck with his feet, by shuffling forward and yelling, “What the fuck are you do’n? I said cut it! Ever’body’s stand’n ‘round! It’s not even marked yet! Aargh!” Seemed like he was fix’n to wind up and start kick’n, when Tom reached him.
“Seamus!” Tom yelled and wrapped him up from behind, lifted, spun and pinned him against the sidewall of the truck bed, as the rest of the crew, those not directing traffic, clustered around and helped Blue get up, not hurt but half stuck under his truck. “Chill out,” Tom barked in Seamus’s ear, then in a whisper said, “The line’s been crossed,” something Max said to do, if he ever had to physically intervene like this, if Seamus went ballistic and got violent, “Most a the time he’s toe’n the line fine but ever’ once’n awhile… y’ gotta stop him. It’s what we agreed on years ago. Only had to use it once myself,” but he wouldn’t say for what. It worked and Seamus calmed down, even patted Tom’s chest, once he let him go and said, “Thanks, Farmboy. I needed that.”
Dave Blue’s crew was dubbed ‘Blue’ after him, obviously, but it also referenced their copious use of Adderal and maybe even the Blues itself, in Max’s mind at least, as in how their lives went after they got addicted. As Max told it—in the Fall of 2014, Dave Blue’s good friend and physician, Dr. Jack, prescribed him Adderal. The previous Summer his brother-in-law, Pete, got diagnosed with it and gave Dave one, when their families were on vacation together at the beach, “It worked great, “I cleaned the whole house and the boat, top to bottom and then went fish’n till sunrise, came home and banged the ol’ lady like we were teens again. Figured I must have the ADD disorder and been miss’n out on life, so I said sign me up!”
“You don’t need to say disorder,” Max told him, “That’s the second D in ADD,” when Dave told him the story, on the job one day.
“Bought in, hook, line and sinker man, tell y’ what. Thought it the greatest stuff in the world, from the get-go. Man, I gave anyone who wanted one and sent ‘em to Dr. Jack, who was get’n kickbacks from a wholeseller, lots of free samples. We started call’n him Dr. Jack-eral, but not to his face. He don’t like that.”
Not the only crew with drug issues but Blue got particularly hard hit. Dr. Jack-eral handed it out like candy, to whomever wanted and eventually they were all hooked and selling off the excess until a series of events changed the availability landscape. In response to the widespread misuse, the FDA tightened guidelines in 2017, required you see a doctor and actually take a test to get a prescription and/or refill. Afraid they were going to be cut off, everyone started hoarding, not sharing them. Then, fearing the authorities were closing in, Dr. Jack-eral moved to Mexico and those who wanted to keep their prescriptions had to find another doctor and jump through a bunch of hoops. Then, in the summer of 2018, Smitty, a guy on Blue’s crew, gave one to Jake, Utter’s nephew, who worked with Blue sometimes as a laborer, doing clean ups. Seamus found out, confronted Smitty and went ballistic, punched him several times and broke his nose, according to Max. Smitty didn’t press charges because Seamus threatened to fire and/or have him arrested for giving Adderal to a minor. Utter was apoplectic on both accounts—his nephew being given Adderal unsolicited and Seamus punching Smitty in the face for it. All smoothed over by Max, who, allegedly (he neither confirms nor denies this) reset Smitty’s nose, because he had no insurance. By the time Dez joined the crew, the Adderal stayed hid, no one shared it and only about half the crew were still on them. Tom tried one once but it was not for him. Still very sensitive, he did not want anything which indiscriminately tightened his back and neck, and it certainly did, made his sleep shallow and restless, day anxious and stressed.
A big fan of ‘Vitamin A’, Desmond got his own prescription, when, coast clear again, Dr. Jack-eral returned to Portland, shortly after Dez signed on with Blue. The crew welcomed him with open arms, at first. Breath of fresh air, after a long hard slog and spate of fuck-ups, they all loved Dez and his curious stories. A good teammate, he knew how to blend in and didn’t mind doing shit jobs, made the time go by and fostered a brief resurgence of the live fast and fuck all… of days past, got guys to go out after work again, neglect their families. This limelight was short lived. Stoned and on stimulants, Dez never shut up and it grew old. He worked hard enough but did not acquire new skills, kept finding ways to avoid it. Guys on other crews started making fun of him, when they worked together, questioned the veracity of his stories and discouraged their telling, wanted to listen to NPR or music instead and plugged their headphones in. Tom listened, when their paths crossed, would go out for a drink occasionally with Dez and guys from the crew, but was never quite sure what was fact and what fiction and lost interest. Seemed impossible for him to have done all the things and been all the places he said but he did tell a good story. Blue’s crew, for the most part, liked and stood up for him, something Tom appreciated. Crews were close but very competitive. Seamus kept work coming but lags did happen and fierce competition would develop around the pecking order, everyone trying to convince Seamus they should get this or that bit. Blue Crew’s run of fuck-ups was further complicated by Seamus giving them worse and worse jobs. Dez sensed the crew’s resentment of this and began complaining about Seamus and how he doled out work. A blasphemy few were willing to commit, in the open.
Seamus had a hard time not sparring with Dez and making off color comments, whenever their paths crossed, called him Da Beast and Da Big Ox, even though Tom suggested he not. Dez played along, had been on teams a lot and was used to nonstop trash talk but started pushing the envelope, of late. Something Seamus did not discourage and seemed willing to let things go wherever they wanted to go.
“TB! What up! TB in da house! Or da park’n lot!” Dez shouted, as he got close, concrete saw in one hand, portable generator in the other.
“Da Beast!” Seamus shouted back, “Come on lard ass! We need that shit like an hour ago!”
“What up, Big Boss? You wants me t’ run? I’s ti-erd, so ti-erd,” he dropped both saw and generator, without bending over. Tom could see Seamus cringe at that but he didn’t react.
“Ti-erd? How you spell that? It’s fuck’n sunrise, Boy! Can’t be ti-erd yet. Wheel’s come’n off! We got miles a go before we rest! Man up, boys! MK! Grab that saw! Jonesy, get on the other one! Come on! Jesus Christ! Farmboy get the jackhammer go’n, narrow bit—the sharp one. Yeah! Fire that compressor up. Where’s Shell… Shell! Get on that hammer! Blue! Get the backhoe over here! I’m a be on the hoe.”
“Man, I be on a ho last night, swear to God,” Dez started in, “She looked just like Ellen. Swear t’ God! I know the bitch, looked just like her! Before… uh, you know… Better body though… ain’t hard a do. Freaky! It’s her thang, I guess, look’n like celebrities.”
“She’s a fuck’n lesbian,” MK said.
“Fuck’n A! That’s why it be so hot, brah! All pretend’n she don’t want it but can’t resist the black mamba.”
“You don’t fuck’n know her!” Jonesy challenged, put on his ear and eye protection, fired up the saw and started cutting asphalt. MK did the same, cut the other side from the other way.
Fully light now, Tom peered into the hole—six feet deep, four wide and sixteen long, they’d cut more and more road the day before and dug deep as they could, looking for some way into a concrete vault, only to discover, when they finally drilled a hole, it was filled in with pea gravel and the manhole cover paved over. The broken end of a twelve inch soil pipe, stuck out, all jagged, from the vault. The other section had been removed back to the next hub, across the street. The other hub was inside the vault, they assumed, buried in pea gravel. The hole stunk, sewage had spilled and been pumped out to a makeshift pool down the hill. Tom looked around, wondered again how Seamus kept the city out of things like this? A dozen guys there, a dozen trucks, two backhoes, jackhammer, compressors, lights, signs… amazing.
“Farmboy! Stop gawk’n and get dig’n! We need more room around that hub! Take Da Big Ox! Get me three feet clearance all around. Where’s Codger?”
“Flag’n.”
“Alright… You! Who the fuck’re you?”
“Cotton! Uh, guys call me.”
“K. Haul gravel from the pile and dump it in the hole. We gotta bed the new pipe, so spread and compact it.”
“K. What you want me to haul it with?”
“Your asshole! A fuck’n wheelbarrow, Jesus Christ! Blue! Blue! Call Utter and get that dump truck over here! And keep a lid on traffic. Don’t let shit back up to the bridge or we’re fucked! And don’t let anybody up here! Let’s go!”
Loud as things got, Dez never quit talking. “You really know Ellen?” Cotton asked, as he dumped and spread gravel in the hole behind them.
“Fuck yeah! We not on the best a terms, doh!”
“Why?”
“She fuck’n fucked me’s why, fuck’n Be-atch!”
“No way! How?”
On this day, Tom appreciated Dez’s story, kept him from stealing compulsive looks at his phone, hoping for something from Isolt. Heartache… damn near took his breath at times. Tom kept focused on Desmond’s story, like some flotation device helped him stay above the shit.
“Brah, I had this gig, aw man… style’n… like me and this other guy, Rowdy? Met shoot’n a commercial and he’s all tech orientated, y’ know? Dialed in on the digital before it was a thing, dude’s like way ahead a the curve. Says they’s gonna be a… well, what they is now—everybody’s got a show. I had a show, was the host… well—co-host. Like a podcast, but we did video, way ‘fore anyone else, digital. Did our interviews on the move, fast pace, ‘round L.A., skateboards and scooters, on the go, interviewed people, y’ know? That was the plan. First, I interviewed him, cuz he like old school famous, big swimmer dude, gold medal in ’76. Gold? Silver? Can’t remember. Same years as Mark Spitz, his nemesis. Wasn’t that ’76? Cuz… Rowdy got busted for blaze’n, before the Olympics, got a bad boy image, drug tested him. Was a big deal then. Weren’t gonna let him swim. You heard a him, brah?”
Tom remembered reading about Rowdy Gaines getting busted in Sports Illustrated, Cotton had no idea but they both just shook their heads, wanting him to continue uninterrupted. It was hard enough to hear above the jackhammers and backhoe. At least the sawing was finished. Max showed up and did his underground splice on the electrical line. Wanted to put in a ground box, just in case, for future access, but Seamus insisted everything be done like the city does, “fast, half-assed and poorly planned. That’s why Blue’s in charge!” So Max jumped in the hole, did his thing and got out quick, obviously did not want to be there.
After Max left, Dez continued, “We shot this video to that song Renegade, still on Youtube, the one with lyrics? Check it out! Picture this: Guy, super broad shoulders, skinny hips, look’n like he do not give a shit, ride’n a longboard, classic white T and jeans, alone on a road at night, like some fuck’n parkway, grass in the mid strips, streetlights flash’n by, filmed from behind, keep’n pace to that Renegade song… by X Ambassadors? No? You should check it out. That’s Rowdy, Brah, Rowdy Gaines. Super smart guy. Lives up to his name—makes gains, the rowdy way! He said that on the show, said Spitz was only better’n him cuz he trained and Rowdy didn’t, have’n natural talent and an inborn need a party. I interviewed him and he’s talk’n ‘bout skateboard’n, how great it was when he quit swim’n cuz he always had a fight to do it as a kid and be afraid a hurt’n himself and wreck’n his career. Did a photo shoot thing—Celebrities That Skateboard? Met X Ambassadors there, big skaters and the lead singer use to swim, is a big fan a his. So they hang and Rowdy tells ‘em how much he loves skate’n to that Renegade song and they’re all into it. So I’m like, ask ‘em can we use it for an intro? Rowdy on his board, weave’n back and forth on some dank parkway? My idea, brah, and we have a vision at the same time, swear to God, brah! Click’n, like on the same wavelengths. So, m’ man Rowdy asks and they say yes. So we shoot it like that and it’s tight. Check it out online! We sold to whoever makes those lyrics videos—Devo? Wevo? Bebo? Some like that. Anyway. We got paid.”
“What happened to the show and Ellen?” Tom asked, when it seemed Dez intended to stop there.
“Oh yeah… just prolly try’n a block it outa my sub-conscience, brah. We had big time names involved, yo? Show was da bomb! Talk a the town! Rowdy resurrected his bad-boy cred. We smoked a J on the set, first show, flashed our medical cards and said fuck you, to the producers. He and I just shoot’n the shit, interviewed each other, keep’n it real, y’ know? Talked get’n adopted, life in America as a big black man, Knox College, Gold Coast, trouble find’n a home, wander’n in the wilderness, him get’n busted, fear’n his dream be lost, take’n solace in the ganj… got super stoned, great show. Took it out to that Renegade song, sang along, him on the board and, we both, no shit, brah—when renegade comes up in the song? We both sang Rowdy Gaines! Shout it out loud! Worked perfect!” He demonstrated, “Hey… hey, hey, hey, live’n like we’re Rowdy Gaines! Rowdy Gaines! And that’s our open—video a him ride’n a longboard, shot from behind. Couple verses go by, he comes in the door, skates onto the set and we both be sing’n, Rowdy Gaines! Rowdy Gaines! Set the precedents of change’n lyrics, bend’n shit, y’ know? Like sample’n or jazz, just shred’n… whatever skateboarders shred. Ellen? No, yeah… fuck’n Ellen, brah? Rowdy knew her. She interviewed him before. They rode longboards, I guess, not great but she’s way into it. So, she’s our first guest and the show goes great. They’re board’n ‘round LA and like she’s got this exit routine planned, loves our intro video and wants to be in it on the way out. So we go to the same spot and her film crews are already there, do’n their thing, got like top shelf shit set up. They all dressed the same—white T and jeans and miked up, ride’n and sing’n the song, have’n a good ol’ time and, where it says… uh, let’s see… how’s it go? Long live the pioneers, rebels and mutineers… something, something and, oh yeah, high time to make a move, high time to make amends, high time to break the rules, let’s begin! Only Rowdy, instead of let’s begin, sings—lez-bians! As in, High time to break the rules, lez-bians! Nails it! You believe that? Fuck’n brilliant, brah! And Ellen? Totally into it, cracks up, pumps a fist, rides like a pro and doesn’t eat shit. Sings it that way the next time ‘round. Rowdy shreds some steps, rides a rail. Totally sick! Struck gold! We had it!! In the can, as they say. And then? Like fuck’n hail Mary get’n caught last second by the other team’s touchdown… Ellen’s lawyer sends us a C & D, says we can’t use anything to do with her. Says, Lesbians are normal, everyday people and have nothing to do with breaking rules. Suggests we misled Ms. DeGeneres and must destroy all vestiges of her voice and image and if we don’t, they’ll sue. Top a that, X Ambassadors’ lawyer sends a letter says we don’t have permission to use Renegade anymore. Ellen pressured ‘em, no doubt, fuck’n bitch! What a load a shit. Had a walk away from the whole project. Never got another chance, man. Made a few bucks sell’n the video to Vevo, that’s what it was, Vevo—total lowball scum. Our show gave X the idea for that song, American Oxygen. Fuck them guys. I can’t even listen a their shit anymore.”
“Aw, I love that fuck’n Renegade song,” Cotton said, “I’m a check out that video. Cool story, Bro. What’s C & D?”
“Uh, Cease and Desist, brah. Cease and Desist…”
“Farmboy! You got that hub clear?” Seamus yelled, “Need you on the backhoe! Dump truck’s here!” Tom climbed out of the hole and started for the backhoe.
“TB!” Dez yelled. Tom stopped, turned around, “You wanna go to a party tonight? In the hood?”
“Uh, maybe. Why don’t you call me later. See how the day goes?”
“Cool! Keep it special, brah!” They bumped fists and Tom hurried over to Seamus, who’d just climbed off the backhoe and was waddling around on stiff legs.
“What’s up, Boss? Hurt it?”
“Ah fuck! Goddamnit! Get’n old sucks! Go on! Load that shit out!” He waved the dump over, as Tom climbed up on the backhoe. Dave Blue showed up.
“Hey, Seamus! I can do that. Come on. It’s my job. We don’t…”
“Shut the fuck up!” Seamus pointed at and jabbed an awkward step towards him and Blue stopped, took a couple steps back, “If’n you were able, we wouldn’t be in this fuck’n mess and it ain’t your fuck’n job, it’s my fuck’n job and my fuck’n backhoe, so why don’t you go take Codger’s place, direct’n traffic or if that’s beneath you, you’re welcome to fire up that trash pump yourself and pump that pool a shit water into the honey bucket. You choose.”
Blue looked up at Tom, like he might say something or cede the backhoe on his own but he didn’t, “I’ll go get Codg.”
“Hey!” Seamus yelled at Tom, soon as Blue left, “I’m a go with Matilda, real quick… look at a job, some property she owns. Load the dump, lower the pipe into the hole, then drive my truck over’t the warehouse where Sonny and Junior are, help ‘em till I get there. K?”
“K,” Tom answered, Seamus waved and limped off to the parking lot where Matilda sat in a black Escalade, looking at her phone. Go’n to look at a job, was code for getting laid. Traffic had fallen off. Tom felt bad for Blue. Saw him take the stop/slow sign, put on an orange vest and direct Codger to the trash pump/shit detail. Vault totally demolished, hole full of pea gravel and concrete chunks bristled with twisted rebar, guys climbed out, took off gloves, wiped brows, flexed fingers and hands trying to get feeling back, dusted off and put away tools, as Tom positioned the backhoe and began clearing out the hole. Careful not to damage the hub, which turned out to be an old valve, with the stem removed and hole capped. Why they buried it, probably—no need for access, if its not a valve anymore. Good on a backhoe, Tom made short work of it but shy a load, he dug up all the sewage soaked dirt and put it in the dump truck as well.
Hubs exposed, gravel bed made, plenty of room to maneuver, Tom wondered where the new pipe was? And Seamus? “Who’s put’n in the new pipe?” Tom asked anyone, as he looked around and didn’t see it. Nobody seemed to know. Codger called Blue… he didn’t know. Everyone shrugged, “Jonesy!” He yelled to Mike Jones, who was putting away tools, “Who’s put’n in the pipe?” Jonesy, unwrapping a piece of Nicoret gum, came walking back, shaking his head said, “Don’t know,” popped it in his mouth and started to chew, “Thought you guys was. Din’t say nut’n t’ me ‘bout it. I know Blue ain’t. He too busy lick’n his asshole,” they all looked down to where Blue stood, directing traffic and laughed.
Motherfucker! Tom thought—Where the fuck is Seamus? “Somebody call Utter!” Tom thumbed through his notes… nothing about a pipe. He double checked… nothing. No scheduled visits to pick anything up. Called Max. Max didn’t know, “Fuck me!” Tom said out loud. Utter didn’t know. Shit! People standing around, smoking, looking at their phones. Seamus would go ballistic! What the fuck? Tom thought for a moment about leaving… just get in the truck and go. Let Blue deal with it. But he knew that wouldn’t fly with Seamus. Tom called him again but it went straight to voicemail. Seamus always turned his phone off on a booty call, “Codger! Go switch with Blue. We need a figure this out.”
“Send Da Beast. He’s low man.”
“Jesus Christ, Codger! I don’t give a fuck. Whoever! I just need Blue, here, ASAP! Please?” Dez nodded and jogged down to where Blue stood, directing traffic. Tom could see, in the distance behind them, little red cars starting to pour forth from the giant transport ship, parked at a dock in the Willamette River, about a mile away. One after another, for the next hour, little Toyotas emerged and gradually filled the giant lot with red, as Tom dealt with the crisis. Jonesy, MK, Blue, Tom and Cotton discussed options, tried to find the pipe online but nobody had it anywhere close and they had no means to pay. Tom called Max and he suggested a temporary pipe of a different size with compression couplings and lead wool packed in the gap but that wouldn’t close the hole and get the road open before someone came down on them.
“Where the fuck is Seamus?” Utter yelled, when Tom called him again, “You let him leave in the middle of this shit show?”
“I let him?” Tom repeated the words like they made no sense. The whole notion, seemed to Tom absurd, “Come on, man?” Utter useless and Max no help, Tom felt stuck, like time was closing in. A temp seemed pointless. They needed to fill in the hole, pave it and get the fuck out of there before the city found out, before noon, Seamus said. Tom called the asphalt guys and they were ready, anytime. Gravel too. Everyone looked at him, as if it were his call. “Hey!” He thought out loud, “Anyone know who we are?”
“What? This ain’t no time for a pep talk,” Blue said and everybody laughed.
“No. Ha ha! Does anybody know Egan did this?” Tom looked around… nothing had a name on it, “Far as you know? Anyone say our name or get asked for it? Did you?” He looked at Blue, who’d talked with representatives for both Amazon and the shipping company, when it first happened.
Blue shook his head no, “I told ‘em I was from the city and instructed everyone not to say anything,”
“K. Better double check! Anyone here yesterday, not here today?” Blue said no and sent Cotton to ask the traffic crew… negative, “Okay. What do you think about this? We clear out… were never here?”
Everybody nodded, “Sounds good a me,” Jonesy said, “Fuck this place.”
“Are you serious?” Blue asked. Loved the idea but figured Seamus would hate it and blame him, “I can’t make that call. You gotta own it, man. This is on you.”
“Cool… I got this. Just clear out and somebody trade me trucks, too many people know Seamus’s. Take it to the yard and park by Little Coachman, unless there’s a black Escalade… then I wouldn’t go in. Park outside the gate, I guess. I’ll come get it. Put the keys in the box.”
“I’ll take it,” Jonesy said and threw his keys to Tom, “I'll get that compressor too.”
“Shit! Forgot about the compressor… got to go in then, just stay clear… yeah, you know.”
“Mama din’t raise no dummy!” Jonesy set off to hook the compressor back onto Seamus’ truck.
“K,” Tom said, “Double check that hitch and make sure you chain it, fuck’n thing pops off.” They scrambled to load up and get gone. Left a blinking light barrier on each side of the hole, one of which had Northwest Natural Gas printed on it. Everyone gone, Tom looked quick all around, took out his phone and reported a mysterious hole in the road, prayed Seamus and/or the guy who ran the electrical didn’t tell anyone who they were. Policy in general was never say the name. But, “I work for Egan Construction,” recognized citywide as a badge of honor (for the most part), slipped out too often of late it seemed, with guys, a few beers deep at the club, trying to cash in on their notoriety to get a free drink, pick up or impress somebody. Egan remodeled a lot of bars, restaurants and clubs and it was a bit much to ask men who’d installed all the cool stuff to never mention it, as they move about in the work they’d done. Egan had a pirate reputation and, since Tom had been driving him, complained a lot about people not keeping their mouths shut and increasingly spoke of the need to, “clean house.”
Tom had planned to stick around, play the good Samaritan, say he stumbled across a poorly protected hole in the road and thought he should report it, but changed his mind when traffic started backing up, feared he wouldn’t get out in time to meet Seamus. So… he crossed his fingers and drove Jonesy’s monster truck through the sea of little red cars and over a grassy embankment on the other side of the lot, to get to a street, just as police arrived, set up barriers and started directing traffic.