“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I was a punk. I quit when I lost wrestling. I thought wrestling was my identity—the little guy who could wrestle like a snake. I was lightning fast, man. Students used to come to our matches just to watch me.” He shrugged. “After the injury, I didn’t have an identity. I became the fuckup, the guy who got stoned at lunch and screwed around in class. I stopped trying to get good grades and instead tried to get attention. The more my parents pushed me, the more I rebelled. I didn’t fully understand the consequences of my actions until that afternoon when my dad handed me my draft notice and I realized I was going to Vietnam.”
I thought of my jump into Ed’s pool and my other stupid stunts. Was I after an identity? Would there be a consequence for me as there had been for William?
I also thought of a movie I’d watched with my dad, On the Waterfront. I thought of the scene in the car when a young Marlon Brando told his brother, Charley, that he could have been somebody, but that he’d never had the chance. That his brother had never looked out for him, and he’d turned out to be nothing more than a punk.
“Regret is so much harder to live with than failure,” William said. “You got a chance to be somebody and to do something. Man, I envy you.”
“I don’t know. I mean, I’m class valedictorian. It’s kind of embarrassing to say I’m going to community college.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I got into Stanford, but my parents can’t afford it. That’s why I’m going to community college. I don’t know.”
William smiled. “Doesn’t matter where you go to school. You’ll make it. You’ll reach your dreams.”
“I wish I was as sure as you.”
“You’ll make it because you know what will happen if you don’t. You’ll end up working dead-end jobs like this, sweating your ass off breaking up cement and tearing off the roofs of houses, or humping one-hundred-pound bags of cement in the heat. Most of those guys going to those fancy schools never had to do what you’re doing. They never had to work an honest day of labor in their lives or save their money to pay their tuition. They just expected their parents to do it for them. They don’t know how most of the rest of the world lives. You know.”
I hoped William was right.
Our morning routine changed as the subcontractors worked on the remodel. Instead of driving to the Burlingame jobsite, I met Todd and William at Nini’s Coffee Shop on Bayswater Avenue in Burlingame, just down the street from Todd’s house in a neighborhood of single-story, two-bedroom-one-bath stucco homes built to house men coming home from World War II and hoping to join the workforce. Nini’s was an old-fashioned, narrow diner on the corner, with a brown retractable awning, orange barstools, and tables that barely accommodated one but often seated four. The menu was written on the wall alongside photographs and memorabilia.
I usually arrived a half hour after Todd and William because I couldn’t afford to buy breakfast. I ate at home. Todd and William were usually into their third cigarette and multiple cups of coffee by the time I arrived to get my assignment for the day. The first time I met them there, I followed Todd to the cash register and noticed that he pulled a toothpick from a container and stuck it into his mouth. The accessory I had deemed to be part of his tough guy image was just a tool to remove food stuck between his teeth. I laughed that I had given the toothpick so much more significance.
Most mornings, Todd gave William our assignment then left to bid other jobs. William pulled napkins from the dispenser on the table and drew intricate diagrams with dimensions. He laid the napkins on the table as he went, a step-by-step instruction manual on what I was supposed to do to prepare a jobsite while he bought tile, glue and grout, and other supplies. More than a few homeowners would do head turns when I pulled out those napkins and used them to rip out their countertops.
I worried about William. The shake in his hands had become more pronounced. I’d read that Parkinson’s could cause such a shake, but I didn’t think that was it. I’d also often catch William on a job with a distant, distracted gaze. He’d lost his joie de vivre, the chuckle in his voice that had kept the work site lively.
This morning I was to accompany William to a jobsite in Redwood City where Todd had contracted to retile a kitchen counter and backsplash. Todd wanted the project completed in a day so we could get back to the Burlingame remodel. My job was to make sure that happened.