Why the hell did I choose this career?
Oh, yeah. Strider.
Speaking of, we’re a few weeks away from a major family milestone. Grabbing my phone, I book a flight and note the details in my calendar. Illinois in the summer is humid and hot. Peoria, Illinois, known for Caterpillar, country, and comedy is home, and always will be, even if I never plan to live there again.
My parents are there. My brother is there. The family business, handed down from Dad to Strider, is there, and full of people who are extended family when you don’t have a ton of cousins. They’re a crew of people who loved all of us, watched us grow up, and lived their lives alongside ours making the people of Peoria safe.
Electric Peoria is not a utility company, though it sounds like it. Instead, we’re the best damn electricians in central Illinois.
Dad still goes into the field with the team, though his retirementmeans it’s less and less often. And he deserves it. He started in the industry fresh out of high school, met and married my mom, and launched a business after Strider was born.
Health issues meant our family needed the best insurance, though things were different then. Thank goodness for that. Dad launched Electric Peoria. Mom took care of our family and was a floor nurse at the local hospital until those same issues meant she couldn’t be around the sick and bring their germs home to her family. And since Dad was in the office, he could offer flexibility and freedom to his team, assuming they valued him and worked hard. The team learned quickly not to come in when they were sick, not to take advantage of his good heart, and to think about the community of workers and how we could support each other.
Eventually that looked like bonuses for bringing in jobs on time and under budget. Mistakes were handled kindly but firmly. Successes were rewarded. And the people who wanted a quick buck worked themselves out of the company right away. Culture ate them up and spit them out.
Workers who were paid well, given flexibility, could handle family business as necessary, and direct their own work became the norm, not the exception. So employees flocked to Dad’s company and vision. There was always the assumption that Strider was in line for succession.
His health issues meant there were times he was in the field and showed his skills, but other times he needed to be away from places where germs ran free. Schools, churches, hospitals—all were on the no-go list. He was great in the field, but his humble nature along with the culture Dad built means he’s a quiet leader who people love to follow.
And now he’s turning forty. The warm sting of tears hits the back of my nose, and I wave my hand at my lashes as if that helps stop them from toppling over.
My brother. My protector. My person.
Strider will make it.
I’ll damn sure guarantee it.
Another late night. Another moment of closing up alone,nodding a quiet goodnight to security, and making it back to my townhouse after the sun has set.
I pull into my garage and, for the first time since I’ve lived here, smell something so delicious, it triggers my stomach growling. Literally, it growls.
“Shoot.”
“What was that, Trix?” a voice calls over the fence.
“Why do you call me that?” I want to stomp back to my house, but the automatic light in the backyard hasn’t registered my presence yet, and I’m not fool enough to court glass twice.
“Why does it bother you?”
“Grrr.”
The roar of laughter that hits my ears stops me dead in my tracks. I spin on my heel and round my garage, and his, to see Liam Murphy in his back yard with a bottle of beer dangling between his fingers, a TV set to the Rockies baseball game, and a smoker emitting the heavenly smell I noticed earlier. My stomach wastes no time growling as if a Balrog was inside and wants out.
“You hungry?” Liam asks, as if we are those kinds of neighbors or friends.
The look on my face must show my confusion. I’m not dense, but what’s he playing at? “It’s almost eight-thirty.”
“And that means...” He takes a pull of his beer, tilting it to me in question. “Beer?”
You know what? Yeah. I could use a beer and a meal not made of powdered protein whipped in a blender. “Yes please.”
I drop into one of the chairs he has as he disappears silently into his house returning with a bottle of beer, which he hands to me, and a bowl and spoon that he takes to the cooker in the corner. He ladles some thick red stew into it and returns with it and a fabric napkin, offering both to me.
What surprises me most is the napkin. One hundred dollars would’ve said he was a paper towels or a wipe-his-fingers-on-his-jeans guy. But fabric? Sustainability wouldn’t be a word I’d use to describe this man’s anything.
“Why are you shaking your head?”
I take a swig of the beer and tilt my head. “You. You constantly catch me off guard.”
