It was a long walk to the jobsite, particularly in bare feet. He made it in two hours; ten minutes before Mister Martin and Mister Martin’s other helper, Fat George Mason. Mister Martin shook his head at Jay Jay, kind of callously he thought, as if Jay Jay had been partying all night. Fat George though, he was always a picker, and started off with, “I thought your mother was dead. What are you doing wearing her nightshirt, asshole?”
For the first time since he stabbed Rusty Morris back in school and got expelled, Jay Jay was actually mad. His brother had always said that Jay Jay’s rage was his ‘super power.’ But Mom, she had talked him out of all that. He never fought any more after the suspension, not even to defend himself when Bessandra got him into fights. And he would not now, not like he could, not against some big boy like George.
Mister Martin said with a calm cool voice, “George, if you ever speak ill of the dead on my jobsite again you will be barefoot and on the street too. You got that, you fat fuck?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Mister Martin backed off George and evened things out, speaking with an even tone, “Nice to have you back, Jay Jay. Listen to George now. He’s in charge. I’ll call up my wife and have her pick you up some socks and boots and a shirt. You can get dressed for lunch.”
“Thanks, Mister Martin.”
They headed up into the house as Mister Martin mumbled something about somebody named “Laurel and Hardy” and returned to his truck.
“Who’s Laurel and Hardy?”
“Shut up, Bones,” George growled, and they were once again among the pure smell of freshly milled pine that he loved.
The pine smell could be good for this queasy belly?
They were laying linoleum this morning, so they were on their hands and knees trimming and tacking, him and Fat George, while Mister Martin made the beer run.
George was next to him on his hands and knees as they tacked around the baseboard. He seemed uncharacteristically concerned.
“You don’t look too good, Bones. I thought the doctor cleared you. What’s the matter?”
I guess he feels bad for hitting me with the lumber. I’m so glad I have this job. At least I won’t be homeless.
“My girl was smoking. It affects me since the accident—makes me real sick. I’m just getting over it.”
George sat back on his heels. “I see,” and lit up a Marlboro, “So, what you, you fucking bone rack, are trying to tell me, is that I can’t smoke on the jobsite?”
Fix this. You can take the smoke. You must keep this job!
Jay Jay sat back on his heels. “I wouldn’t tell you not to smoke, George.”
George’s eyes became even smaller, like a cartoon pig’s eyes. “You mean you couldn’t tell me to do anything, right, Bones?”
He is such a dick.
“Right, George.”
George then smiled as he blew smoke into Jay Jay’s face, smoke that seemed to reach inside him looking for more vomit to toss at the world. “You could ask me, Bones; ask me to stop smoking.”
Thank God.
“Would you, George?”
“Would I what, Bones?”
He is such a dick!
“Would you stop smoking?”
George glared at him and slid another cigarette out of the box, lit it from the end of the first, and then puffed on them both, blowing smoke in his face. “Fuck you, Bones. Get to work.”
He got back to tacking with his tack hammer while George homed in on him, “You look like your mother on chemo. I thought your mother was the one that was dead, not you, Bones?”
He was so sick he could hardly care what George said, just hung on until Mister Martin got back with the beer. George then nudged him as he blew more smoke in his face. “Don’t stuff that ragged edge under the baseboard. Trim it, you sloppy fuck!”
George was now in his ear, puffing smoke like a dragon as Jay Jay, shaking with nausea and almost blind from the eye pain, tried to use his linoleum knife to trim the tiny irregularity that George’s fat finger was pointing out. Then he scratched the baseboard.
He trembled on all fours now, trying to keep his cool as his head pounded. George blew a long drag into his face and snarled in his ear, “Now I’m going to smack you, boy, for scraping my baseboard, just like I slapped your slut mother for scrapping my cock!”
It sounded just like carpet, precisely like that first time Mister Martin had let him take his new hooked linoleum knife and use it to cut around a doorframe, only this was a tighter corner. George had a big fat neck, but it wasn’t near as wide as a doorframe. Then came the squirt, the gush, the gurgle, and the huge fart from the other end.
He stood up over the gurgling, bleeding, pissing, sweating, and shitting form of Fat George Mason as he died on the floor, his noxious cigarettes dying as well, extinguished in a pool of his own spreading blood.
To be continued...
ha ha Wow!
I'll send you the pdf version of the print release so you can finish it.
I see you've been working hard on your site.
Take care, Maureen.