7.03.2008

And the powers that be, were.

My stepfather, Craig, got me the job with Tom
when I was still wet behind the ears
and could barely sink a screw, drive a nail
turn a wrench. Still, Tom saw how much work
I accomplished after my first day and
gave me a two-dollar raise immediately.
Now, six years later, I make a whopping
five more dollars an hour when I work for him
on weekends, but it's money that's consistently
there every week, providing I'm willing to give up
a Friday night's worth of hard drinking
or commit to trudging through a tired, weak
hungover, or possibly still drunk
eight hours on Saturday.
Besides, power tools, blowtorches
fork lifts and heavy machinery
are more exciting to work with
when there's a risk factor involved.

My stepfather, on the other hand
has not been as diligent in his commitment.
He prefers to work six months out of the year
and when his own sheet metal business is slow
he calls Tom in search of work.
It's hard to be a contractor when your manpower
is not willing to giving up the sabbatical lifestyle
of golf leagues and ski lift tickets.

It's for this reason that now, in my young adulthood
I've taken Craig's place on Tom's company roster
and some of the guys I've met through the Union have
come along with me, scab or no scab
the dollar being the end-all be-all.

It's also for this reason that the topic came up
with my mother and me the last time I visited:

"It messes him up financially when he's hurtin'
for the extra work, but he's not mad at you.
You're your own man now, you seized an opportunity."

"It must make him jealous that Tom calls
us to work instead lately, but in a way he did it
to himself. The guy gets contracts and then
has trouble manning the jobs."

"I know that, but a part of me loves his laziness."

Shortly after she floored me with that last line
as she often does, Craig sauntered into the kitchen
donning his nightly apparel of sweatpants, slippers
and an old Yankees T-shirt with more holes in it
than O.J. Simpson's alibi.

"She's a beautiful girl, Mike. Bring her to the house upstate
to hang out with us sometime soon," as he poured the vodka
over the third tumbler of ice he'd sucked down that night.
"...on a weekend you're not slavin' for Tom, that is," winking
playfully as he said it, his cheeks flushed from the liquor.

This was her third husband. Third and final, one way or another.

If anyone in the world knew it, it was her:
Love is a catch-and-release splinter you wear in the heart for awhile.

Suddenly I realized what she meant, one of her secret reasons
for marrying him. His charm won me over again, too
in those seconds, and as he layered the splash of cranberry juice
over his vodka without even bothering to stir it with his finger
before taking a sip, I too fell in love with his blatant laziness
his sole dedication to enjoying life without taking heed.

It wouldn't be him any other way.
And the stepfather sauntered out.
And my mother smiled slyly.
And work on Saturday will be with raisins for guts.

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