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I was the sweeper. I followed the workmen with a broom, dustpan and garbage pail, listening to them curse and brag and fart and ridicule each other. Nearly all of the men had tattoos on their biceps and forearms, a litany of women's names or slogans, like Semper Fi. Some had bullet scars. I picked up junk they threw onto the floor and carried it to the dumpster out back. For this, I received five dollars and fifty cents per hour. The boss was a man named Sal Carbonaro. He and my father were long-time friends; they grew up together and used to be partners in a construction business. That's how I got the job. During my first week, Sal Carbonaro said to me, "What's the rush, kid?" I said, "What do you mean?" "Don't work so fast," he said, gesturing with his hands. His fingers were stubby and creviced. "You're making the others look bad. It's a state job, you understand?" I nodded, but he could tell I didn't know what he meant. He placed his hand on my shoulder. "No one's checking up on you," he said. "Slow and steady. That's the way to go. Okay?" "Okay." "Whatever you do, don't get hurt." He stressed every word. "That's the important thing. If you get hurt, your father will kill me." I didn't see how it was possible to get hurt on a job like this one. Everyone was working half-days, stealing, overcharging. "It's a state job," they said, again and again, like a punchline. Sal Carbonaro sent crews of workmen out to his house in the suburbs -- they told me about the swimming pool they dug, the new roof and skylight -- all on the state's tit, as they said. The wealth got spread down the line. Grateful subcontractors gave him gifts, usually cases of scotch or cognac, which I loaded off their trucks into the trunk of his Lincoln Continental. One day -- it was the middle of July, hot and muggy, reeking of tar and exhaust fumes -- Sal Carbonaro called me into the office he'd set up in the rear corner of the building. There were two desks: one for him and one for Gerald. Gerald was Sal Carbonaro's cousin. If the phone rang, he answered it and wrote down the message. That was his job. Mainly, he just sat in his swivel chair with his feet up, doodling pencil-and-paper drawings of naked women. Sal Carbonaro told me, "The concrete men are coming today. You're going to work with them." I said, "Okay." "They're short-handed. That means you're in for some hard work. That means no fucking around. You ready for that?" "Sure," I said. He pointed a thick index finger at my feet. He said, "Where's your workshoes?" I looked at my Chuck Taylor Cons, the worn canvas. "Those are no good," said Sal Carbonaro. "Those aren't OSHA. Something falls on you wearing those things, you'll break every bone in your foot. You got twenty bones in your foot, did you know that?" "No." "Most bones in your body, they're in your feet. Get a pair of steel-toed boots. You don't want to get hurt, remember. That's the golden rule." I smiled. "Okay." Sal Carbonaro leaned back in his chair and looked me over. "You're a smart kid," he said. "You go to college, right?" "I'm in high school," I said. "I don't have to worry about it until next year." "Trust me," he said. "College is the best thing in the world. That way, you get a good job. Lawyer, something like that." He checked his watch, got up from the desk and left the office. As soon as the door closed, Gerald turned toward me. He said, "Can you keep a secret?" "Sure," I said. He reached under the desk and pulled out a box labeled Powder-Actuated Fastening Tool. "It's a Hilti gun," he said. "Twenty two caliber." "What's it for?" I asked. "Watch," said Gerald. He loaded a handful of four-inch metal studs into the barrel of the gun and slid a strip of cartridges into the magazine. Then he wheeled around in his swivel chair, reached down, pressed the gun against the floor, turned his head and pulled the trigger. I flinched at the explosions, three blasts in quick succession. The spent copper cartridges popped out and clanked on the floor. He moved the gun aside to reveal the studs, embedded in the concrete. "You gotta have a license to operate this thing. It's not legal otherwise," he said. Gerald had a twitch to his right eye -- not a wink, but something convulsive, uncontrollable, like a baby bird trying to fly. "What's wrong with your eye?" I asked. "Nothing," he said. "Looks like you got something stuck in it." "Nah. It does that sometimes. I can't help it." "Why not?" "This hippie broad I got mixed up with in Providence. She blew my brains out." "What do you mean?" "You know about blow jobs, right?" "Sure," I said. "Ten times a day, she did it. She blew me so much I didn't know my own name. She blew me at night when I was sleeping. I'd wake up and there she was, down there. I never been the same since." "It made your eye twitch?" "Yeah." "That's impossible," I said. "No," he said. "It's true." The phone began ringing. It rang three, four, five times. There's something about a ringing phone. You can't think straight until it stops. I said, "Aren't you going to get that?" Gerald said, "Nah." He flattened out a fresh piece of paper on his desk and began doodling. At lunchtime, the food truck parked on the street in front of the building, giving off greasy vapors. The workmen handed me dollar bills and I walked out to the truck and gave their orders, Cokes and hot dogs, usually. The youngest guy was always "go-for," they told me. Some of them even started calling me that, Gopher. They let me keep the small change, which clinked in my pockets, adding up, a clump of pennies, nickels and dimes. After lunch, the concrete truck pulled up onto the sidewalk. A big man got out of the passenger side. He had square shoulders and a beer belly hanging beneath his soiled white T-shirt. There was a long scar along his left cheek, which looked like a lopsided grin. You thought he was smiling, but he wasn't. He said, "Where's Numb Nuts?" I said, "Who?" The big man strode past me into the building. From behind he looked as trim as a football player. The driver called from the truck: "That's Leroy." He was resting his arm on the top of the door, his head tilted back so that I could see only part of his face. I watched the letters on the side of the truck go around and around: Spara Spara Spara Spara. I said to the driver, "Everybody's been waiting for you." The driver said, "We're here, man." I said, "When does the truck stop spinning?" "Never, man. Never stops. Just keeps turning." Leroy returned a couple of minutes later, cursing under his breath. He said, "Who the hell are you? You're the boss's kid, aren't ya?" "No," I said. "Bullshit. I know a shit-ass boss's son when I see one." He turned toward the building and said, "Go find a wheelbarrow. Get me a load of concrete and bring it inside." I called after him. "I'm supposed to sweep up." He said without stopping, "Get moving. You're working with me." I got the wheelbarrow from around the side of the building, a huge metal tub, dimpled from years of use. The tire needed air; it wobbled as I pushed the wheelbarrow to the truck. The driver swung the chute over the tub and pulled the lever. In a moment, the concrete slithered down, like soft-serve ice cream. There were eight steps that ascended to the entranceway of the building. I picked up a wooden plank and placed it over the steps. As I pushed the wheelbarrow up the plank, the concrete shifted to the rear of the tub, nearly causing me to lose control. I found Leroy in a small room, the tile floor ripped up. He was leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. I lowered the handles of the wheelbarrow and wiped the sweat from my brow. He said, "You call that a load?" "Huh?" "That's all you can lift? A fucking quarter load?" "It's what the guy gave me." "Gimme that goddamn wheelbarrow," said Leroy, flicking aside the cigarette. He grabbed the handles and pitched the tub to the side, dumping the concrete onto the floor. Using one hand, he spun the wheelbarrow around and rolled it out of the room. I followed him outside, hurrying to keep up, and watched, shading my eyes from the sun, as the driver moved the chute over the tub and plopped in the concrete. Leroy said, "Fill the fucking thing." The driver added more. Leroy said, "Did I tell you to stop?" The driver kept filling until the concrete made a mound in the middle, some oozing over the sides of the tub. "That's too much," he said. "Nobody can push that." Leroy ignored him. He bent his knees, grabbed the handles, and lifted. With a thump, he rolled onto the plank, his body bent forward, his legs pumping. He nearly reached the top of the plank before losing momentum, then stopping. He strained, leaning to one side, the tub tilting the other way, concrete spilling over the side. The driver jeered, calling out Leroy's name. In response, Leroy growled a great bellow of defiance, and pushed the load over the top and into the building. When I entered the room, Leroy was on his hands and knees, smoothing wet concrete onto the floor with a trowel. He said, "You know what this is, this room?" "Bathroom." "It's an executive bathroom," he scoffed. "They're bringing in special fixtures made of marble. Italian tile. Cost a fortune." "So what?" "That's the way it works, kid. We pay taxes so one old limp-dick state motherfucker can wipe his ass in style. Gimme a shovel-full right here." I stuck the shovel into the wheelbarrow and lifted some concrete and pitched it onto the floor. The concrete struck the floor and splashed up into Leroy's face. He wiped his face with his shirtsleeve and said, "Not like that. Lay it down easy." I pitched another load onto the floor, farther away from him, but the concrete splashed back, speckling his arms and legs. He said, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" "Sorry," I said. "Do it like this," he said. He moved on his knees toward me, took the shovel out of my hand, lifted some concrete, lowered the shovel to the floor and gently flipped it over, like someone turning the page of a book. The concrete made no splash. He said, "Like that. Got it?" "Yeah." "Good. Now gimme one like I showed you." I stuck the shovel into the wheelbarrow and lowered it but the handle slipped out of my sweaty hands and the shovel clattered to the floor, splashing concrete into Leroy's eyes and over most of his body. He said, "Fucking kid. You fucking kid." He lunged at me. I jumped back, but he kept coming. I took off, running out the door. "Fucking kid," he panted. He chased me through the building, out the entranceway, down the plank and into the alleyway that led to the rear of the building. Then he stopped and bent over and grabbed his knees and exhaled and didn't move for a long time. I stood ten yards away, watching. "You all right?" I said. He panted, bent double. "Go get me a Coke, will ya," he said. Under the shade of the food truck's awning, I watched people pass on the sidewalk -- a tattooed street punk in a tank top, a bum talking to God or the devil or no one in particular, a legless man wheeling himself to the VA office located next door. A pretty girl walked by, causing a small, sharp pain somewhere in my guts, like a hunger pang. The disc jockey on the food truck radio announced the temperature. It kept getting hotter. Sal Carbonaro was standing by the rear of his Lincoln Continental, which was parked on the lawn in front of the building. He always parked on the lawn, where everyone could see. It reminded you who he was, someone not bound to petty rules like parking meters. He was talking to two men dressed in suits and ties. One of the men said, "You're not on our books and we're not on yours. That's the way I like to do business." A few moments later, he said, "Lenny's taking in a million dollars a year and he's not keeping ten G for himself." The other man said,"There's too many goddamn bosses, that's the problem with this business these days." "He's in too deep," said Sal Carbonaro. "I always said that about Lenny." He looked up and saw me watching. He called, "Hey kid. Come here." I walked over and stood next to them, holding my two cans of Coke. Sal Carbonaro introduced me to the men, telling them who my father was. They looked me up and down. One of them said, "What's your father doing these days?" "Real estate appraisal," I said. "Who's he working for?" "Himself. It's his own business." "You see," he said, looking at Sal Carbonaro. "He got out. The smart ones always get out." "You tell him we said hi," said the other man. "Sam and Mike, that's us. He'll remember us." "Okay," I said. Sal Carbonaro winked at me. "You working hard?" he said. "I guess." "Good for you," said one of the well-dressed men. "Put some hair on your chest." The other man grunted. "Who you kidding? What do you know about hard work? You never worked a goddamn day in your life." "The hell I didn't." Sal Carbonaro laughed. He said, "If you call pulling your pud work, then you're the hardest working son of a bitch I ever met." When I got back to the alley, Leroy was sitting in the shade, with his back resting against the wall. I handed him the Coke. He said, "You're pretty quick." I said, "Fastest in my class." "I used to be fast," he said. He took off his shirt and wrapped it around his head. He smacked his belly and began squeezing the fat like he was trying to rearrange his internal organs. "Too fucking hot to chase you. Must be ninety five degrees." "It's a hundred and one," I said. He said, "Hundred and one was a cool day in Nam." "Is that where you got that scar?" He touched his cheek, running his finger along the crease. "One of my own guys did that, with a Bowie knife." "Why?" "I cheated him." "Did you get him back?" "Nah. He was a friend of mine." I said, "Did you kill anyone?" He glanced at me for a moment, then looked away. "Sure. Lots." "What was it like?" "It was a job. Just like this one. They set you down in the jungle, you did your job." Leroy popped the tab and glugged down half the can in one pull. Then he closed his eyes and reclined his head against the wall. I opened my Coke and took a few sips and looked around the alleyway -- broken glass, stray newspapers, cracked asphalt, reflections of light from the windows of the VA office. Car noise came from the street, horns, engines. "Why did they leave you in the jungle?" I asked. "You don't want to know," he said. "Sure I do." He said, "War, kid. There is no reason." "There had to be a reason." He looked at me, smiling twice -- his scar and his mouth. "You think so, huh? Don't be so sure." He drank the rest of the soda and tossed the can aside. I watched it bounce down the alleyway. I said, "If you put a tooth in a can of Coke it'll be gone in a week. Disintegrated." He said, "That true?" "Yeah. We did it in science class." He said, "I got diabetes. I ain't supposed to drink soda pop anyhow." He rose to his feet. "Let's go," he said. "Gotta finish the rich man's shitter." Then came the real work. We had to dig a twenty-by-twenty foot ditch on a patch of rocky earth behind the building. The ditch had to be three feet, six inches deep -- below the frost line -- to make a concrete platform for a large transformer that was being delivered the next day. Leroy and I dug with shovels, with Sal Carbonaro watching over us. The surveyor had marked the lines with string tied to wooden posts, and Sal Carbonaro made sure we kept the line plumb. It was an important job. "No fucking around," Sal Carbonaro kept saying. We worked under the full afternoon sun, sweat pouring into our eyes. The ground was so rocky that Leroy put down his shovel and took up a pinch bar, stabbing with it, loosening the soil and rocks for me to take away. It wasn't like digging on the beach. I used the edge of the shovel, scraping out pieces of clay and pebbles and rocks and clumps of dirt, half of which fell back into the ditch. Before long, my hands started to blister and bleed against the rough wooden handle. Sal Carbonaro noticed, and he gave me a pair of heavy work gloves, which I put on. He asked if I wanted to quit. "No," I said. "Good man," he said, without smiling. Leroy and I grunted and mumbled stray phrases. "Hit here." "Get the rock." "Fucking root." "Use the pinch." Often I worked with my hands, bent over, flinging the rocks and dirt back between my legs like a dog digging, but no one laughed. It took two hours to dig the ditch, and my back was so sore I could barely straighten up, but that was only the start. We had to lay down the plywood forms that went around the sides of the ditch. After that came the concrete, load upon load, which I fetched with the wheelbarrow from the truck in front of the building. Leroy pointed where he wanted it, and I dumped and shoveled the concrete into the ditch. He smoothed it into place with his trowel. He made a few trips with the wheelbarrow, but mostly it was me, wrestling the tub up the slope of the alleyway, going back and forth, getting the load from the driver, who stayed by the truck. At one point, after I shovelled some concrete into the trench, Sal Carbonaro swore. I wondered what I'd done wrong. I felt, for a moment, like crying. He pointed his big fingers at me and said, "You tell that son of a bitch to stop adding so much goddamn water. You tell him I want a goddamn one-two-four mix. Look at this watery shit. How's he expect this to dry by tomorrow?" I rolled the wheelbarrow back to the truck and told the driver, "Too much water." "Says who?" He was leaning against the side of the truck, partially in the shade, smoking a cigarette. I envied him, his easy job, staying by the truck. "Boss." "Fuck him. He doesn't know what he's talking about," he said. But he changed the mix, I noticed, by pulling a lever that cut off the water, which made the concrete clumpier. The other workmen packed their gear and left, calling out insults. Even the sheetrockers -- French Canadians who lived in a motel during the work-week and who were always the last to go -- even they left, speaking in their own language. Sal Carbonaro said, "We're almost done." He worked alongside us the last half-hour, pushing the concrete around the ditch with a shovel, splattering his trousers. "That's it," he said. Leroy put down his trowel. I leaned against my shovel, unable to stand. Sal Carbonaro put his hand on my shoulder. "It's six o'clock," he said. "Go sit inside for a couple minutes and get some water while I find Gerald and take care of a few things." Leroy and I went into the basement of the building through the overhead garage door -- there was a row of five of these doors, where they used to wheel in the Buicks for repair. Sal Carbonaro parked his fleet of pick-up trucks inside, along with some heavy machinery. We went into the corner room, which used to be the waiting area. There were posters of LeSabres and Regals, torn and yellowed now, still covering the plywood walls. I turned on a rusty faucet and stuck my head underneath the stream. I drank for a long time and filled a tin cup for Leroy and handed it to him. We sat down in wooden chairs, facing each other. "Cool in here," said Leroy. There was a stink to the room from bums sleeping on the floor at night. They got in through the broken windows, Sal Carbonaro once told me. He found them here every morning. He'd turn on the fluorescent light and bang a metal pipe against a pillar until the bums groaned and got up and shuffled out the overhead doors, red-faced and reeking. I leaned back, feeling satisfied. I'd done the work, like Leroy, like the other guys -- real work, not sweeping, not go-for work. I wasn't a shit-ass boss's son. I caught Leroy's eye. For a moment I thought he was smiling back, feeling the same thing I was. But I was wrong. It was just his scar-grin, falsely smiling. There was no satisfaction on his face, just weariness. He said, "They got this place in Florida where they wrestle alligators with their bare hands. The guy grabs him by the tail and straddles him and feeds him dead chickens. He's got scars all over his body and three fingers missing and a stump for a foot." "That's worse than digging ditches," I said. "No it ain't. It's the same thing." Leroy spat. He said, "Three years ago, I had my own cleaning business, with three full time workers. I had a wife. I had a nice little house and a backyard that ran against a creek. Ask me what happened." I said, "What happened?" He said, "I paid my bills. The only asshole in Connecticut who paid his bills on time, that's me. Sons of bitches didn't pay me. Sons of bitches never paid a dime. My wife left me for a plumbing contractor name of Paddy Bartone. Last I heard, she moved to Florida." "Maybe she's wrestling alligators." Leroy grinned his double grin. "I hope she is," he said. He offered me a stick of gum. I reached forward to take it, and as I did, the blasts rang out. Five explosions, a couple of seconds apart. I heard something whiz past my ear and ricochet off the floor, kicking up shards of concrete. Leroy jumped to his feet, sending his chair backward. He crouched low and looked all around. I just sat in my chair, flinching with each blast. "What the fuck," said Leroy. He leaned over and picked up something. He held it toward me: a bent four-inch metal stud. "It's the Hilti gun," I said. "You're right. Who the fuck is shooting?" It's Gerald, I wanted to say, but something kept me from telling. "You're not hit, are ya?" he asked. "No." He looked up. There was a line of holes in ceiling tiles, with threads of insulation hanging down. "Coming from upstairs," he said. He went outside and walked up the alleyway. I hurried to keep up, following his long strides. We met Sal Carbonaro walking into the building, jiggling his keys. He had a six pack of Schlitz in one hand, which he held out toward Leroy. Leroy said, "Who's using the Hilti gun?" Sal Carbonaro said, "The Hilti? Why?" "He almost killed us, that's why. We were down in the basement office. He shot right through the fucking ceiling." Sal Carbonaro said to me, "Is that true?" "Yeah. Five times." Sal Carbonaro's face reddened and formed a expression that you didn't want directed at you. You could see how hard a man he was with that look. For a moment I thought he was going to punch me. He said, "Son of a bitch." He dropped the beer cans -- one of them started fizzing out -- and walked into the building, his leather shoes smacking against the floor. It was a long walk across that building, the concrete floor littered with pieces of wood and silver insulation ducts and metal rods and pipes, pieces of copper and wire and cord, all the material that makes up a building, that you never see. He headed directly for the office, us following, and pushed open the door. Gerald glanced up, a look of dumb surprise on his face. He was sitting on the floor with the Hilti gun in his hand. Sal Carbonaro took the gun out of Gerald's hand and slapped him across the face, two hard, ringing slaps on the same cheek. Gerald said, "Hey." Sal Carbonaro said, "Who told you to use the Hilti?" Gerald said, "I wanted to try it out." "You wanted to try it out?" "Yeah." Sal Carbonaro said, "You're firing through a goddamn hollow in the concrete." "A what?" "A hole, you dumb fuck." "So what?" Sal Carbonaro took a few deep breaths. "How many times have I told you not to play around on the job? Huh? You do a job, you do it serious. How many times have I told you that?" "I don't know." "Go home, Gerald." Sal Carbonaro said the words slowly. "I don't care how you get there. Just go." Gerald said something that made no sense. He said, "Hey. If you can't laugh in the daytime. Right?" Sal Carbonaro pointed to the door with his big fingers. "Don't come back till Monday morning. I don't want to see your face until then." Gerald got up and left, his eye twitching.
Sal Carbonaro locked the building. He remained silent as he did so. I followed him to the car, parked on the front lawn. He popped open the trunk, revealing cases of scotch and cognac. He tore open one of the boxes and took out a bottle -- the label said Hine Triomphe -- and handed it to me. "That's for your father," he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash and peeled off a hundred dollar bill. "That's for you, for working late." I looked at the bill, something I'd never seen before. "Get in," said Sal Carbonaro. "I'll take you home." I opened the big door and sank into the leather seat. Instead of starting the motor, Sal Carbonaro turned to me and said, "From now on, you come in on Friday afternoons to pick up your paycheck. That's it." "What do you mean?" "I mean, you stay home. You go swimming. You chase pussy. You do whatever you want to do. Don't worry about your check. You get the same amount no matter what." "Why?" "Why? It's a state job, that's why. Because I owe your father, that's why." "But why can't I come to work?" He glared at me. "You almost got killed today," he said. "Don't you realize that? That what you want? To end up like Gerald, with your eye twitching?" "He got that from a hippie girl," I said. "There was no hippie girl," said Sal Carbonaro. "He got hit on the head with a brick hod that fell off a roof. Knocked him into a coma for two weeks. That's what happened to Gerald." He started the car, racing the big motor. He said, "This life's not for you, kid. You don't want any part of it. You go to college, like I told you." I said, "You and my dad, you did it. You made lots of money." "Your dad was smart," said Sal Carbonaro. "He got out. He doesn't owe anybody but himself. That's the way to live. You remember that." Sal Carbonaro moved the gearshift and drove the car across the lawn onto the sidewalk, beeping the horn to let some pedestrians know he was coming. He eased off the curb onto the pavement, and the bottles of liquor clinked inside the trunk. In my hands, I held a bottle of cognac and a hundred dollar bill. This was the way things operated, I realized, on cash and booze and marble bathrooms and alligator skins, things people wanted. There was a whole secret commerce, a network of stealing that wasn't called stealing, that went on all the time, that no one told you about in the suburbs where I lived, where all the lawns were neatly trimmed and only sane people walked the streets. We turned down the road, heading toward the concrete truck. Leroy and the driver were leaning against the rear of the truck, drinking from cans of Schlitz. They were sweating and dirty and splotched all over with gray dabs of concrete. It was still hot, the light starting to redden toward sundown. I called out. I said, "Leroy. Hey Leroy." Leroy looked up and saw me and grinned his double grin, his scar turned toward me. He raised his right fist above his head like an Olympian, and he roared. He said, "Arrrrrr!" -- an animal growl, something never to be tamed. Sal Carbonaro drove by without slowing down. He said, "Don't talk to those slobs."
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