Cliff was on his way to Jack's house. The latter owed the former six hundred dollars for five days of work. If those two words confuse you here's some clarification: Cliff was about to be six bills richer. He liked that he even knew what denomination to expect-- large bills, probably hundreds. Ones wallet tends to hurt ones ass while seated if it's stuffed with a thick wad of twenties, not to mention the irreparable damage done to the sciatic nerve. Besides, it's harder to blow through cash if it's in large bills; one feels guilty every time he breaks a hundred since it's common knowledge that twenties float away as carelessly as dandelion seeds, especially in the hands of a lush. He'd need that money to pay for the Christmas gifts he still had to buy. This was a time to be frugal. Cliff had a feeling that these reasons had nothing to do with the fact that Jack always handed him a thin envelope, though. It probably had more to do with Jack being a contractor, and most men in business have a hard-on for going big. Jack had never gone as big as he'd hoped, and if Cliff had been born a few years earlier and had more time to learn the trade then maybe he would've at least had a stand-in son to pass his construction legacy down to. As it stood, however, Cliff was coming into his own at the firm age of twenty-four while Jack was winding down at fifty-seven.
Poor timing can be held accountable for most of life's frustrations, big and small.
The sun had not yet set when Cliff pulled up Jack's long driveway and parked his truck in the usual spot on the lawn. He hopped out, still dirty and sore from his other job, and walked towards the front door. Through the kitchen window he saw Jack's wife Wanda wiping the corners of her eyes with upward motions of her index fingers. Maybe it was a bad time to be showing up for his pay, but it was too late to turn back. Jack had known Cliff was coming. He should've saved the nuptial drama for later in the evening.
Cliff called Wanda's name since the doorbell was broken. Her hand half-heartedly signaled him to come inside. When Cliff opened the door he was surprised at what he saw. Jack was on his knees in the front hallway adjacent to the kitchen wearing just his shorts. The strange part was that he was wiping shit up from the carpet. The smell didn't hit Cliff until he saw the light brown stains in the rug. Jack looked up at him as he threw the paper towel into a tash can. Barbara stepped in behind him from the kitchen. She'd composed herself by that time.
"Looks like someone had an accident," Cliff said as Jack rose to his feet and knodded his head in an informal salutation.
"It was one of the dogs, not Jackie," replied Wanda as she faked a smile.
"Of course, I know that..." came Cliff to the defense of his mentor's dignity.
Jack rose to his feet and reached for an envelope sitting on a small table. He handed it to Cliff. Cliff looked down and saw his name scrawled in the shaky handwriting that had become so familiar over the last six years. He wasn't sure if it was a nervous condition, Parkinson's, or DTs that caused Jack's hands to tremble, but it was even evident in the man's writing. Regardless, Cliff always felt comforted by the sight of it because it meant one of two things: detailed instructions for what to do at work, or money. Naturally he preferred the latter, but the former was useful in helping him to avoid looking like a fool the next day when Jack showed up to inspect his progress with whatever project Cliff was working on.
"No work this weekend. I'm tired. We'll try for next Saturday," said Jack in his deep voice. The smell of beer suddenly became as strong as the other smell in the house.
"That's fine." Cliff folded the envelope and shoved it into his back pocket. Jack was the one boss who always paid his debts in full, there was no need to count.
Wanda saw that her presence was no longer needed. She retreated to the kitchen and banged some pots and pans together in order to appear to be cooking.
Jack's massive belly hung over the elastic band of his shorts. A scar stretched from his hip to his belly-button. Cliff remembered the time Jack had told him how he'd gotten it. Wanda assumed it came from an accident on the job. Sometimes men have to lie to their women to keep them from losing sleep at night. Jack, Cliff, and Wanda all understood that. The scar was never mentioned if all three were together.
"Go on and get out of here before you get sick," Jack said, gesturing towards the door with his hand.
Cliff thought of all the nasty plumbing jobs he'd done for Jack in the past, ones that ruined jeans and required rubber gloves and dousing tools in bleach afterwards. Cliff never complained then. What made this any different?
"OK. I'll see you next week."
The two men shook hands and silently wished they could've been more to each other.
As Cliff walked back to his truck he heard a dog whimper. He turned his head towards the pen where Jack and Wanda kept their two dogs. Both of them were in there, and it looked like they had been for awhile because they were half asleep in the corner of the cage. Something didn't add up, but Cliff was just a stupid plumber and decided to leave the adding to accountants.
He climbed back into his truck. The key was still in the ignition. He held his foot on the brake and turned it. The sound of the engine cleared his head for a moment. Then he heard one of the dogs bark and the problem presented itself again.
Cliff pulled the envelope from his pocket, opened it, and dropped the six neatly folded hundred-dollar bills into the cup holder in the center console. He wished he'd waited until the following Saturday for his damn money. Some knowledge just wasn't worth having for a lousy six hundred bucks.
Currently reading:
"Women" by Charles Bukowski.
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