See? This is yet another reason I. Don’t. Want. To. Do. This.
But try as I might, even I can’t make mental headway on the argument that not helping out my crusty uncle is the right thing to do.
However, I can and will hold out hope Mom might keep her never-ending rightness to herself on occasion over the next thirty days. If not, I could be forced to dip into my down payment cache and get a hotel.
But for now…apparently, I have to get to work. Oh, well. With Dad being gone, this holiday season was shot from the start.
Merry Christmas to me.
Chapter 3
Knox
The lunch crowd at Charlie’s Diner is thin. Other guys in related lines of work probably shut things down for the day when the sky opened up midmorning. Not us. We’re drudging away under a looming contractual deadline. We’re the fix-it crew the city of Chandor called in when the last guys botched the job, a new sewer pipeline critical to the fast-growing town’s infrastructure. Wiggle room does not exist in this scenario. If thelousy weather continues, worse, if true winter weather makes an appearance, we’re probably done for.
The hole-in-the-wall diner my guys frequent is nothing to write home about. It’s one of those throwback places where cigarette smoke, from back when that activity was permitted in public spaces, still permeates the air. The walls are covered in decades of grease, and the waitstaff consists of middle-aged and up waitresses who know how to flirt their fake eyelashes off and collect small fortunes from their predominantly male clientele—particularly the ones who happen to be a long way from home. The food is marginal at best.
But the real benefit of Charlie’s Diner as a lunch stop is the fact that the crusty owner doesn’t gripe about the mud we track in.
Occasionally socializing during the lunch hour is fine, but most days, I pop in earbuds and listen to a podcast in the trailer while eating a sandwich or readymade store-bought salad. I like my thinking time. As for flirting, aside from the fact I may never be in the mood for that pointless activity again, none of these women are ones I’d take home to mama, if for no other reason than that most surpass my own twenty-eight years by at least a couple decades.
So today is mostly an exception. When Cliff asked if I wanted to ride along, my fingers were half frozen and my stomach needed something warm, not the prepackaged rabbit food I stashed in the minifridge earlier in the week.
The four of us grab a table in the far corner. I take a chair with my back to the wall.
A fresh face and figure there’s no point in denying catch my eye. The unfamiliar waitress in Charlie’s customary uniform of black logoed t-shirt and jeans approaches. Everything about her has me looking, from her rich, espresso ponytail, all the way down to her awesomely long legs.
I straighten out of the slump a problem-fraught morning curved into my spine.
She smiles, though I’m sensing an I’d-rather-be-elsewhere vibe. “Good morning.”
We started early, so yes, it’s technically still pre-noon. Nonetheless, most of the waitresses around here typically lead with something along the lines ofhey, fellas, glad you came to see me today.
“What can I get everyone to drink?” She casts her gaze about the table for someone to go first.
Kicked slovenly back in his chair, Mike twirls on the grin he has convinced himself is charming. “I’ll take anything you give me, sweetheart.”
The creamy skin around the lady’s mouth tightens.
“Knock it off, man.” Cliff smiles an apology at the waitress. His tone turns almost fatherly. “Sorry ’bout that. Can’t take this young pup anywhere these days. Coffee for me, please.”
I choke down a laugh. Cliff Roberts is normally live-and-let-live, but sometimes, Mike gets under the skin too much to ignore. He’s neither as charming nor as funny as he thinks he is, and his intermittent crassness with waitresses everywhere makes even the roughest of my guys want to smack him upside the head once in a while.
Mike is likely gesturing rudely to Cliff in his mind. I’m just grateful he’s not doing it for real. Wouldn’t put it past him to make a scene.
Same as Mike, Crawford’s eyes burn with interest, but he comports himself better, hopefully remembering his expectant wife back home. He places his order, and then I ask for coffee and a water, keeping eye contact to a minimum.
Mike is a loser who makes the rest of us look bad. Because of his skill with a backhoe, I tolerate his presence, but no one is irreplaceable. LHS has its limits and highly values character.Well, I do. For Rand, it’s a single factor, and its importance has been known to vary depending on financial considerations.
None of us bothers with the menus tucked between a couple of condiment caddies in the center of the table. The specials board is all we need.
A few other guys from our crew are at another table. I catch an eye and lift my chin.
Much like the motel, the diner is a hair short of a dump. It wears its age like an old man his favorite, trusty sweater that’s frayed, stained, and moth-eaten. The owner gives off the same feel. These four walls are his baby and probably weren’t always so drab. If I’m honest, there’s something comforting about the place, reminding me of following Dad around when I was a kid.
Way on the other side of the dining room, our waitress fills our drink order while chatting with a bleached blonde I’ve seen every visit. I tap the roll of flatware longways on the table. “Don’t see Charlie today.”
Cliff folds his arms over his chest and sits back. “That’s ’cause he had a heart attack on Friday. Our waitress said so yesterday.”
