I tap my head, and say with sarcasm—which I know he won’t pick up on—, “Lock and loaded, boss man.”
“Good.” Turning around, he trips over a two-by-four which he kicks out of his way once he gains balance and strides toward the management trailer. The house we’re building is an entire housing development, new for the area, but in high demand.
When the trailer door slams shut, I sigh in frustration and remove my hard hat to run my hand through my hair, lightly pulling on the strands. Fuck, if this wasn’t such a damn good opportunity and well-paying job, I would quit. It would be cool to not have to deal with that dickhead anymore but jobs don’t come easy in this area, especially jobs like mine. Upstate New York is a tough place to find work and I’m not about to fine-tune my résumé.
I work hard. I’ve never been a slacker, and even though I may have to work with idiots like Julius, I tell myself repeatedly that it’s not forever. One day, I will be a Julius . . . just not with the alcoholic tendencies and beer belly.
I look down at my Fossil watch with the black face and dark leather wristband. Great. It’s well past quitting time. I walk out to my truck and toss my hard hat in the bed, pop open the tailgate, and snag the cooler I keep there for days like this. I don’t drink at the worksite, but I’m not opposed to having a Mountain Dew after work with a Little Debbie snack.
And neither are my guys . . .
Racer and Smalls both stride over to me, their tool-belts now in their hands, their hard hats under their arms, sweat coating their hair even though it’s still winter.
“Please tell me you have Swiss Rolls today,” Racer calls out just as he sits next to me on the tailgate. Smalls steps on the tire and hoists his body over the side and sits on the ledge.
I hold out a box of Oatmeal Creme Pies and shrug my shoulders. “Creamy pies, sorry.”
“Even fucking better.” Racer grabs the box from me and rips it open only to toss a few pies in our direction. We can take down a box easily in one sitting, without even trying, and the best thing about it, we can get away with the calories because we burn five times as much during the day.
With a mouthful of Oatmeal Pie, Racer says, “Saw Julius over here. Did he forget where he put his bottle cap remover?”
It’s not a secret that Julius is known for one thing—getting drunk in his trailer—so Racer’s question is understandable. Also, Racer, Smalls, and I have been working together for years now, so we don’t beat around the bush about things.
“Bitching about paying an electrician.” I pop an entire Oatmeal Pie in my mouth and chew.
Smalls chuckles behind me, his broad frame shadowing me from the lights. This man is anything but small, more like Thor’s bigger brother. “Dickhead already forgot about Manny being on paternity leave? Sounds about right.”
“It’s frightening that he owns the top construction company in the area when he’s so fucking clueless.”
Racer opens a Mountain Dew, the crack of the can echoing through the night. Everyone else has gone home for the night but since we are the three bachelors of the company, we tend to stay later and hang out, or finish up any projects that might need a little extra in making the timeline we promised. We don’t mind because we have nothing pressing at home calling our names and we would rather hang out than sit alone at home like a bunch of dickheads.
“Not for long,” Racer says, a wiggle to his brows.
Fucking Racer. He’s convinced the three of us are going to break off and start our own construction business. We would be damn good at it, but stability is good for me right now; it’s the only fucking thing I have. After everything I lost just over a year ago, I’m not ready to venture out on our own yet. I’m comfortable with sticking to slaving for the man. Someone else can own the responsibility of running a business for now. I’m only twenty-four. My time will come.
“Still caught up on starting our own thing?” I ask. “Dude, you realize how unrealistic that is, right?”
“The fuck it is. We have the talent, the business skills, the contacts, and the men who would follow us in a heartbeat. You’re just scared.”
“Damn right, I’m scared.” I lean back on the truck bed, my hands propping me up. “Julius might be a drunk, but he’s a nasty drunk. You don’t think he wouldn’t be out to get us if we left and started our own thing? He would bad-mouth us around town, never even giving us the chance to stand on our own two fucking feet.”
And that’s the truth. I’ve known the man for a decade, I’ve seen the shade he throws people’s way when he doesn’t like them. I’ve seen him destroy other contractors, fucking with their job sites, paying off workers to mess up a project, paying city officials to earn bids. He has no moral compass and if I become his competition, there is no doubt in my mind he would set out to destroy me.
But fuck . . . to have my own company with my two buddies? That would be living the dream.
“I’m not giving up.” Racer opens another Oatmeal Pie. “One day. We’ll be sitting in our own pimped out trailer, looking over plans together, making our own goddamn decisions over electricians, and showering our employees with Little Debbie snacks. Hell, that curly headed broad, Debbie, will be our sponsor. Our company could be called Debbie’s Dicks.”
“Orrrrrrr something else,” Smalls chimes in. “Something catchy like . . .” he pauses and then snaps his finger, “Tight Squeeze Construction.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask, slightly disgusted with the suggestion.
“Three Erectors,” Racer says with a laugh.
“Butt-Swell Builders.”
“Log Jam.”
“Proud Penises.”
“Manufacturing Man-ginas.”
Looking at Racer now, I deadpan, “Yes, let’s fucking call ourselves the Manufacturing Man-ginas and get a logo with three men wearing hard hats and sporting massive moose knuckles, because if that doesn’t say credible construction, I don’t know what does.” I shake my head at my idiot friends.
They’re both silent for a second before Racer calls over to Smalls, “Hey, at least he’s considering the idea of us going off on our own.”
For fuck’s sake.
I hop off the tailgate of my truck and stretch my hands above my head. Turning to my friends, I say, “I’m going home, so get the fuck off my truck. I’ll see you two tomorrow.”
They both scatter, chugging the rest of their Mountain Dews and then putting their cans in the recycling bag I keep in the back of my truck.
“Think about it,” Racer calls out, backing up as he talks to me. “Man-ginas could be a good way to brand our company. Man-gina stress balls for prospective new customers, doesn’t get much better than that.”