plastic chairs, their feet up on coolers.
“Get serious,” the old man said. “Hara, son. Center of your power. Let’s do this.”
The old man pulled himself out of the Caddy and walked across the gravel parking lot. Ben walked with him, members of Hell’s Foster Children close behind, Darryl and Frank in the lead.
The foreman stood by a row of Porta-Pottis, looking down at his clipboard. A circle of bikers sat on folding chairs, working their way through a twenty-four-pack. Behind them, rolls of plastic putting greens, stacked like logs. Ben saw a half-assembled wooden dragon, a Swiss clock tower, and boxes of fake bricks. He saw dozens of sand mounds like giant anthills with shovels sticking out of them.
“I understand you’re using non-union labor for this job,” the old man said.
The foreman looked up from his clipboard. He had the tanned, leathery face of a man who’d worked his entire adult life in construction. His arms were ropy and long, veins running from shoulder to wrist, blue on tan, with a tattoo of a screaming eagle on his forearm.
The foreman slipped his pen behind his ear. “Are you an inspector?”
“I’m a concerned citizen,” the old man said.
“No shit,” the foreman said.
The old man thumbed over his shoulder, toward Hell’s Foster Children, who stood in a leather-clad pack. “See those men backthere? Those men are the backbone of this nation. Union men who work an honest day for honest wages. Now, your ragtag bunch of mercenaries—” The old man swept his hand across the circle of men sitting in folding chairs. “I don’t know where you found them, but you’re better off putting them back. I’ll tell you a sad story. At a show in Meridian, Mississippi, my manager hired non-union for stage construction, and wouldn’t you know it, two of my backup singers fell right through the stage. One of the Jordanaires busted her ankle. Poor girl was laid out for two weeks.”
“Get the fuck off my construction site,” the foreman said. “Before I throw you out.”
“You’d do that to an old man?”
“I wouldn’t.” The foreman plucked the pen from behind his ear. “But he would.”
He pointed with his pen at the circle of men sitting on folding chairs. The biggest of them stood, slowly, and stretched his arms over his head. His black leather jacket had
T-REX
emblazoned across the back with a graphic of his dinosaur namesake riding a chopper.
T-Rex walked toward them and stepped in front of the foreman.
“There a problem?”
“Hell’s Foster Children hired a spokesman,” the foreman said.
T-Rex looked the old man up and down. “Who are you supposed to be?”
“Liberace,” the foreman said.
“No, he looks like that English dude with the faggot name,” T-Rex said. “My mom was a fan. Dinglebat-something.”
“Engelbert,” the old man said. “Engelbert Humperdinck.”
T-Rex grinned. “That’s right. Is that who you’re supposed to be?”
The old man sighed.
“Okay.” The foreman put the pen back behind his ear. “T-Rex, get these two the hell out of here.”
T-Rex nodded at Hell’s Foster Children. “What about them?”
“Waste of time,” the foreman said. “Now get to it.”
T-Rex grabbed the old man’s arm and the old man stepped back, lowering himself into a karate pose, feet spread wide, fists held low. Pain flared in his hips and his knees popped like cherry bombs, but he steeled himself even as sweat dripped down his sides, his leg muscles quaking in protest. Sometimes he dreamt of karate routines, the old days of sweat and taped fingers and grungy mats in California dojos with that clean white California sun you couldn’t find anywhere else. Light streaming across the dojo floor, across his toes, which he saw less and less of as the years ticked by.
Well, hello there. My it’s been a long, long time
.
The foreman burst into laughter and T-Rex grinned and lunged for the old man, but the old man stepped into his punch and it
“Get serious,” the old man said. “Hara, son. Center of your power. Let’s do this.”
The old man pulled himself out of the Caddy and walked across the gravel parking lot. Ben walked with him, members of Hell’s Foster Children close behind, Darryl and Frank in the lead.
The foreman stood by a row of Porta-Pottis, looking down at his clipboard. A circle of bikers sat on folding chairs, working their way through a twenty-four-pack. Behind them, rolls of plastic putting greens, stacked like logs. Ben saw a half-assembled wooden dragon, a Swiss clock tower, and boxes of fake bricks. He saw dozens of sand mounds like giant anthills with shovels sticking out of them.
“I understand you’re using non-union labor for this job,” the old man said.
The foreman looked up from his clipboard. He had the tanned, leathery face of a man who’d worked his entire adult life in construction. His arms were ropy and long, veins running from shoulder to wrist, blue on tan, with a tattoo of a screaming eagle on his forearm.
The foreman slipped his pen behind his ear. “Are you an inspector?”
“I’m a concerned citizen,” the old man said.
“No shit,” the foreman said.
The old man thumbed over his shoulder, toward Hell’s Foster Children, who stood in a leather-clad pack. “See those men backthere? Those men are the backbone of this nation. Union men who work an honest day for honest wages. Now, your ragtag bunch of mercenaries—” The old man swept his hand across the circle of men sitting in folding chairs. “I don’t know where you found them, but you’re better off putting them back. I’ll tell you a sad story. At a show in Meridian, Mississippi, my manager hired non-union for stage construction, and wouldn’t you know it, two of my backup singers fell right through the stage. One of the Jordanaires busted her ankle. Poor girl was laid out for two weeks.”
“Get the fuck off my construction site,” the foreman said. “Before I throw you out.”
“You’d do that to an old man?”
“I wouldn’t.” The foreman plucked the pen from behind his ear. “But he would.”
He pointed with his pen at the circle of men sitting on folding chairs. The biggest of them stood, slowly, and stretched his arms over his head. His black leather jacket had
T-REX
emblazoned across the back with a graphic of his dinosaur namesake riding a chopper.
T-Rex walked toward them and stepped in front of the foreman.
“There a problem?”
“Hell’s Foster Children hired a spokesman,” the foreman said.
T-Rex looked the old man up and down. “Who are you supposed to be?”
“Liberace,” the foreman said.
“No, he looks like that English dude with the faggot name,” T-Rex said. “My mom was a fan. Dinglebat-something.”
“Engelbert,” the old man said. “Engelbert Humperdinck.”
T-Rex grinned. “That’s right. Is that who you’re supposed to be?”
The old man sighed.
“Okay.” The foreman put the pen back behind his ear. “T-Rex, get these two the hell out of here.”
T-Rex nodded at Hell’s Foster Children. “What about them?”
“Waste of time,” the foreman said. “Now get to it.”
T-Rex grabbed the old man’s arm and the old man stepped back, lowering himself into a karate pose, feet spread wide, fists held low. Pain flared in his hips and his knees popped like cherry bombs, but he steeled himself even as sweat dripped down his sides, his leg muscles quaking in protest. Sometimes he dreamt of karate routines, the old days of sweat and taped fingers and grungy mats in California dojos with that clean white California sun you couldn’t find anywhere else. Light streaming across the dojo floor, across his toes, which he saw less and less of as the years ticked by.
Well, hello there. My it’s been a long, long time
.
The foreman burst into laughter and T-Rex grinned and lunged for the old man, but the old man stepped into his punch and it
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