I didn’t see anyone in the front yard, so I walked down a sloped driveway recently jackhammered into chunks of concrete that now sat in a pile. I passed through a shaded garage to the backyard where Mike and William stood knee-deep in a three-sided rectangular trench extending off the back of the house. They wore cargo shorts and had ditched their shirts. A third man, who I deduced to be Todd, stood watching them. He didn’t appear much older than Mike or William—maybe late twenties or early thirties. He combed his red hair in a pompadour, the way my dad wore his hair. A thin red beard and mustache covered much of his mouth and chin.
“Vincenzo!” William set down a pickax and greeted me in the glib manner he greeted me after softball games—smiling and with a chuckle in his voice. William had curly brown hair that extended to his shoulders and a Fu Manchu mustache, both already showing gray strands despite his being only thirty. His face was tanned and weathered from too much sun. From what Mike had told me, William was a Vietnam vet, and a free spirit who smoked a lot of pot and didn’t take life or anything else too seriously.
Todd gave me a look that was less than welcoming. “You Vincent?” He flicked a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, displaying small teeth, like a piranha’s. He didn’t offer his hand, just eyeballed me up and down with his thumbs hitched at his belt. In a long-sleeve cotton shirt, jeans, and pointed cowboy boots, he looked like a Montana rancher appraising a steer. He stood a couple inches shorter than me, at least in my jungle boots, but he carried himself much bigger. Silver-framed glasses, which must have been a strong prescription, magnified his blue eyes, reminding me of my grandmother’s eyes. Fair skin with freckles likely explained the long sleeves and pants.
“Yes,” I said, still uncertain about the protocol, whether to extend a hand or not.
“You want a job?” Todd asked, his voice so soft I barely heard him.
“I do,” I said.
“We start at seven.”
“Okay.” I figured I would start in the morning.
Todd now looked to be suppressing a smile, a joke only he had heard. It was like he knew I was hungover. Maybe Mike had told him?
“You got work gloves?” Todd asked.
“Yeah.” I pulled a pair of my mother’s gardening gloves from my back pocket. Mike had brought his work gloves up to the house and told me I would need a pair. I had hoped the gardening gloves, like the jungle boots, would help me look the part.
Todd’s grin became something between derisive and disgusted. “Those aren’t work gloves.” He walked into the garage and rummaged through a five-gallon white bucket, handing me a pair of well-worn, stained leather gloves. “Those are work gloves.” His tone made me feel like an idiot.
“I’ll get a pair,” I said.
Todd flicked his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “You got a pair.”
He walked to the front of the house, and I noticed he had a bowlegged gait, a cocky strut. Maybe he was trying to intimidate me? I deduced I should follow, though for what reason I did not know. Todd pointed to the busted-up concrete that had once been the driveway. I looked more closely. The chunks were about four inches thick. “You see that pile?”
“Sure,” I said.
“I need it in the back, in the foundation trench.”
Sounded easy enough.
Todd walked up the driveway to a gold-colored Chevy stepside truck and pulled a sledgehammer from the bed. Maybe not that easy. He handed me the sledgehammer, and I followed him into the backyard. He pointed to the trench Mike and William worked in. I noticed pieces of gray steel, maybe half an inch in diameter, bent and tied with wire to create a cage-like structure.
“The cement goes in there. No piece bigger than about this.” Todd held up his hand and made a three-inch-diameter circle with his thumb and index finger. I was beginning to get the picture. No, not easy at all.
“You understand?”
I did. “Sure.”
“Backfill the foundation under the rebar.”
“Rebar?” I asked.
The corner of Todd’s lip lifted again. Amused. “Ask William. I need it done by end of today.”
I tried not to blanch.
He looked down at my shoes, then back at my face with that same bemused smile, but he didn’t say another word. He sauntered through the garage to the truck, pulled himself into the cab, and fired up the engine, which gave a throaty rumble. A blast of black smoke escaped the tailpipe as he backed into the street, staring at me like I was something alien.