Another Man's Folly

A story of an unexpected migrant worker starting on the job.

Another Man’s Folly

That was the day I first publicly exposed myself.  After a long night with a six pack of Longeckers and the other street sleepers of Los Angeles, I walked out into the smell of dewy grass.  The park was littered with all the people I had partied with, still fast asleep on benches, next to tree stumps, or on the ground.  I tried to shake off my foggy brain and flimsy gait as I walked along the outskirts of the park.  I thought of everything that had happened the last few months, since the ATM machine spit out my card.  I laughed as I remembered the police officer pulling me off the sofa of my LA waterfront condo.  I remembered the loan officer's words "Sir, you haven't paid in months. We had to foreclose." Who's laughing now?  I'd managed to live off just a few hundred bucks for weeks. 

 The smell of egg and sausage burritos caught my nostrils as I walked by a stand.  The cashier didn't move to get one of the foil wrapped rolls on the hotplate behind her.  "Eight dollars, sir."  She stared.  I fumbled through my top pockets, then my cargo pockets.  I remembered last night's party where anything was worth the cause of the carefree ambiance, even my last fifty bucks. I headed back to the park.  Sharon's long hair was sticking out of my sleeping bag, which exacerbated my deflated mood.  Too hungry to get into it with anyone, I asked if she'd like to pay for that sleeping bag.  

Romeo motioned to me from a picnic table he'd been sleeping on.  "Hey charles, if you do something for me I'll give you fifty bucks."  He said.  His hat was pulled over his eyes, still blocking the sun from protruding into his sleep.  I could see his lips twist from underneath the shadow of the brim. 

 

"What is it?" I asked.

Romeo sat up, tilting his hat back over the top of his head.  "Go bare a*s my old lady.  She's sitting at the bus stop outside of Wal-Mart.  Our divorce was final last week.  She's always there around this time."  He said. 

"You're full of it."  I said.

"No, really."  Romeo showed me the fifty bucks by pulling the corner of it out of his pocket.  He said " Better yet, I'll give you a hundred if you show her everything, all trench coat like.  You can borrow Miles' trench."

I happily put on the trench coat, thinking of how I'd finally turned into an honest hard worker.  Just one moment of work would earn me $100, enough to last me another week.  Sure enough there was a middle aged blond sitting on the bus bench, fully engrossed in her book.  She was wearing the yellow raincoat Romeo had described.  Although she wasn't exactly a fox, I wondered how Romeo could score someone with a job and enough intelligence to be reading the newspaper.  

I waited for the police car down the street to pull away. 

 Luckily, it was early enough for the streets to be scantily furnished with people.  There were a few store workers pushing carts into an orderly line outside of Walmart.  I saw a woman up ahead pulling a tot behind her towards the preschool.  Soon the police car pulled away, revealing an elderly gentlemen sipping coffee outside of a family owned coffee shop.  Into the sounds of tires against the pavement, horns, and traffic lights I let out a whistle that must have sounded several blocks in each direction.  The jerk of attention from my target almost made me lose my nerve.  I did nothing and she let her gaze fall back inside the paper. 

 I felt the empty caverns of my stomach gurgle.  Remembering my reason for the flashing, I let out another whistle, this time only loud enough to reach across the street.  When my target and i made eye contact, I opened the trench coat and shook my jollies from side to side in a movement I'd seen belly dancers use.  Immediately this lady stood up and started yelling. Some bus drove right in front of her, covering up the volume of whatever she would have been saying.  I quickly shut the coat and moved to book it back to the park.  Looking behind me, i saw the elderly gentleman staring after me, but he didn't get up.  The store workers were laughing and clapping near their line of carts.

Back at the park, Romeo was no where to be found.  After I emerged from changing in the public bathrooms, Miles met me in the path as I handed him his trench coat.  He said "Romeo told me to tell you, you should have stuck with the fifty.  He didn't have a hundred.  You're an idiot, I don't think he even knew that lady."  I cursed as I pounded my fist on a nearby lamppost.  Miles continued "hey, go cry to your parents.  You're on the street now."  My parents.  Man they left me a load.  I hadn't realized the day would come when I'd spent it all.  Even as a boy I knew the stream rushed generously.  If I spent all my allowance, dad would slip me another twenty bucks.  It now occurred to me that being the sole heir to the inheritance which left me rich, also left me no one to turn to when times got rough.  Mom ditched her poor family at dad's insistence.  Dad's family had an "every unit for themselves" philosophy which he used as an excuse to leave me all the money.  Going to them now would be a permanent disgrace.  Figuring a sign saying "will work for food" would make my father roll in his grave a little less, I headed out to the street.

 Watching the cars drive by, I sneered at how old and scratched they were compared to the models I used to drive.  People nowadays don’t buy cars with their value as classics in mind.  All they want is convenience and dependability.  Planariums, I thought to myself.  A white pickup with a scratched up flatbed drove by twice.  The driver took only a slight look and then turned away.  The third time he finally pulled over.  There’d been a lot of labor heist talk lately.  Last week Tony put in long day of labor on the promise of money.   Several guys picked him up in a white van. When payment was due, he was pushed out of the moving vehicle. When he took off the blindfold he found himself in a park several miles away from where he was supposed to get dropped off.  Situations like it had happened around town a lot lately.  Bob worked a long day shoveling dirt, with just one guy.  He was dropped off at the agreed location afterwards, but at gunpoint with no money paid.  The driver honked at me “You want food or not?”  “Lloyd’s Yard Maintenance and Excavation” read on the side of the truck.  That would be at least one detail to give the police, if it’s not a stick on to throw things off in my description to them. As I wondered if this was such a scheme, the hangover fog lifted. 

As I climbed in I took the opportunity to look around for signs of a heist.  Visually I examined every corner of the cab for weapons, blindfolds, or any signs of other people being involved.  All I spotted to that effect were coffee stains on the passenger side cup holders. Signs of wear and tear kept catching my attention, instead.    On the lower right side of the windshield, window repair stunted a crack’s growth in all directions. Our feet rested on plywood stapled to the rotted floorboard underneath. The dashboard was scratched from years of people clanking tools against it. The upholstery up above was coming loose, and the smell of the stuffing inside permeated the cab. His working boots, resting on the console, were scant rubber dents shy of smooth at the bottom.  My boots, Doc Martins, still had full tread.  I bought them right after the condo foreclosed.   

We drove up to a house with a mound of rocks separating two levels of yard.  He opened up a duffle bag full of gloves, and inside there were enough pairs for at least six people.  As I envisioned picking up the large stones, the end of the day seemed far, far away.  “You intend to work hard?” Lloyd asked.  All I could say is yes. He bit his lip, looking up towards the sky.  Underneath the button up, linen work shirt, his muscles formed round hills around his chest.  I pictured what it would look like if a struggle broke out. 

We doubled up on most of the rocks, each taking a side.  He sucked in his breath with each lift, and stayed close to his side of the load.  I became acutely aware of how long it had been since I’d bathed, how much beer spilled on my clothes at last night’s party, and the vague memory of missing the tree stump when taking a leak. Within moments we were at it again: rock by rock, move by move. When we got a rock in place he would jimmy it to match the chalk line. During this time I often panted and took a seat for a second.  Lloyd never mentioned by frequent breaks. At dusk we finally had it done.  Looking across the lawn at the expanse of it, there was a transformation before me like I hadn’t personally witnessed before.  Just this morning it had been another sloppy lawn in the cheap suburbs, divided in half by a mound of dirt.  Now, it was a two-tiered tailored lawn, separated by a mosaic of smooth stones. 

The owners came out and took a look. As he counted the money one of them said something about the economy and it being tough to see Lloyd’s workers go. "You said you could do it in six, that's all I can pay you for."  Lloyd nodded. On the drive back he kept the money on the other side of him, tucked close to his thigh. I watched as he drove, wanting to see his swerving in and out of lanes, always ahead of the next driver. I’d need to get a license soon, and start my own business, so I thought I should take notes. He didn’t cut anyone off. He ignored the right shoulder option. The road stayed smooth against the tires, and I fought the urge to be lulled to sleep. Lloyd actually reminded me of Teddy, my old chauffeur.  When I was young, and he’d be driving me to some practice, after we got out of our neighborhood he’d pull over and let me ride in the front. The desire to come up with a plan for averting the heist escaped me like a bird flying south for the winter. I waited to come to a stop in unfamiliar territory, and be thrown out into the bushes. 

The truck did stop, at my familiar corner. As Lloyd opened the glove box, I envisioned a 9 mm pistol, gripped in his right hand, pointed in between my eyes. I imagined myself cross-eyed, turning to the door, fumbling for the knob.  It occurred in my imagination slowly, like a dream. I came back to reality, ready to jump out at a moment’s notice. The glove box gave way after a couple pounds with his fist. He pulled out a wallet. As I let out all the air in my chest he fingered out a couple hundreds.  He said “Thanks man, I couldn’t have done it without you. “  Sweat beaded down his temples, as he watched and waited. He pulled the envelope closer to his thigh, and stuck the wallet there as well.   I took the money he gave me, got out of the truck, and watched him drive away.

That night I went back to the park and shared my success with the others.  I showed Romeo the past was behind us by letting him have the first six pack. Once again I enjoyed the euphoria of a great party.11  I used to have a myriad of babes that clustered around the couch with me back at my old condo, it seemed a party would be incomplete without them.  As I got closer to Sharon, the sight of her, and the blathery talk that came out of her mouth, repulsed me.  An arm around her was the most I could muster without plunging into the pits of filth caked despair. I secretly wished she was the weeping willow several feet away. I drank each beer like it was ice water in the middle of a long, hot day. I imagined I was back at the rock wall, and the sun was beaming down, and I had brought this cold beer to share with Loyd while we worked.  As I tasted each drop, felt the rush down my throat, and blissfully fell deeper and deeper into a stooper, I relished in the booze more than I had. That I could remember. The next morning my Doc Martins were gone, the last trace of my old life.  No one knew who did it.

After buying some cheap shoes I went to the bulletin board at the shelter to find another day’s work.   I went out with six other men to clean up the trash and debris at a construction site.  We were picked up in a school bus driven by a county employee.  There were sack lunches for each of us, carrying a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on stale bread and a half ripe apple, plus a bottle of water.  After lunch we were driven to a second construction site for the same task. We were picked up at six that night, and paid seventy five dollars for eight hours of work, plus two hours of transportation time.  When we got back to the shelter I had to wait in line for the shower, since sign up times were all taken. There was grime everywhere; on the floor, on the other occupants, on the tables, and caked on the floor tiles in the shower.  The liquid soap was so old, that it separated and while the solid part stayed clogged in the bottle, thick oil came out of the dispenser. The first few times in the shower I looked around in despair at the filth the soap would never clean off, and it seemed to mimic my new life in a tantalizing way.

For the rest of the week that same bus picked us up for the same job and paid us the same amount of money.  At the end of the week the jobs were smaller, and we were all dropped off at different sites in pairs of two.  Frank, a middle aged gentlemen with a bald head, side burns, and a broken arm was paired with me.  I wanted so badly to ask what happened, but he kept busy with the job and I couldn’t find the right moment. He didn’t change partners the next day, and I thought this may mean we’re friends.

On Friday I read over the bulletin board again, hoping to find something new.   I was startled by the door opening next to me.  Up until now it was one of those mythical doors, ones that open to nothing, and are permanently locked.  The shelter had a few of those. It’s like the state found nothing more to do with them than put old desks, books, and chairs inside and lock the door. Out walked a short man with a badge, who looked crisp in all rights minus a beard.  Our eyes met for a brief second before he walked past. I quickly recognized him as someone I’d seen around the shelter a lot. A t dinner Frank told me of how he helps set people up with cheap housing, and maybe welfare.  On Monday when I knocked on the door, the gentlemen introduced himself as Gary Wrath, the county social worker.  He said he was fully booked until the next Wednesday, but would see me then.

Gary Wrath was shorter than most twelve year olds, and the thick beard covered a face that would otherwise forever be asked who his favorite cartoon character is.  At our appointment he proved that what he lacked in physical intimidation he made up for in verbal projections.

“I’ve got single moms, veterans with disabilities, and the elderly to find housing for.  I’ve got thirty people to place for every vacancy that comes up.  What makes you think you are a priority?  I want you to know that since you are an able-bodied, young man, fully capable of working and providing for yourself, you are at the bottom of my wait list.  I will get to you after I’ve helped everyone else in greater need.” He said.  Each syllable was pronounced with such clarity of pitch that his distaste for me was inherent.

I figured I could go on for several weeks like this, trying to find temporary work while showering and sleeping at the shelter.  Although Gary said I couldn’t have another official appointment until he had a placement for me, I routinely asked how far up the waitlist I was when he was walking through the shelter, just like everyone else did.  His reply was always brief and well annunciated “Five down from last week.  That still puts you in the double digits.”  Then he’d tie some excuse to it, “I had to bump you down a few last week in favor of someone without such a background.  Another young guy, but grew up juvenile hall. It’s going to be harder for him to find stable employment than it would be for you.” He’d say.

After awhile I forgot about all the grime. I spent the shower time thinking of the day that had passed, how much money I’d made, and how I’d done it by the skin of my own back.  My chest started to remind me of Loyd’s.  I puffed it out in thoughts of my own earnings. Frequently, at the end of the day or the end of the week, whenever the job was done, I looked at the finish product.  Happiness hadn’t been foreign to me in my old life.  Happiness seemed foreign to me now, but something else was there.  It was the clean smell of the construction site once all the debris was gone so you could smell the pine wood paneling again.  It was the new aesthetics of a freshly manicured lawn.  It was the cool water of the shower against my hot, revved, wide girthed muscles as the cool of the evening snuck in through the windows.  Soon I became a requested addition on hand-picked job assignments. Although these jobs were harder, like digging ditches or shoveling manure, they paid more and lasted longer, sometimes a couple weeks. In the evening I played cards with the other guys and we talked about the job sites, giving each other tips on the better finds. 

One day, eight weeks after the appointment with Mr. Wrath, he came up to me in the soup kitchen while I was taking my turn with dinner preparations. Last time I’d checked I was  #64 on the waiting list.  “Hey, haven’t heard from you in a few weeks.  Been finding work?” He asked.  

“Yes” I replied, “Odd jobs here and there, all legit through the shelter.”

He said “Well, I’ve got a unit that’s hard to place.  It’s a small studio in a hard section of town, so I can’t give it to a single mom.  It’s on the fifth floor, with no elevator access, so I can’t give it to a disabled veteran.  If you’re willing to take it, and you pass a couple drug tests, I can give it to you.”  After my nod, still stirring the spaghetti sauce, not yet through the outer layer of bullshit, he continued: “We need to meet next week to discuss your income and how much the state will subsidize.  I won’t be willing to upgrade you, so you’ll have to stay there until you no longer need assistance.” The smugness of his voice irritated me so bad I wanted to dump the spaghetti sauce on him and slap him with the spoon.  Instead I kept stirring.

Later that day, in the cafeteria after dinner, I finally reflected on the news. Looking around me, I could say I knew at least 50% of the other regulars. Several I’d been on the job with.  Others I played cards with, ate with, or simply ran into a lot. The regulars stuck to themselves, even in groups.  When we played cards, people discussed either the game or something that happened that day.  Family, the past, or future hopes were never brought up.  It would have been like discussing which crimes got us all in a penitentiary.  Although I knew very little about each of them, seeing their faces had become part of the routine over the last few weeks. It comforted me to think that some I would still see on the job sites, even though according to Gary I couldn’t work for awhile.  I had to be available at a moment’s notice if he any signatures or information he needed from me. I was stuck killing time at the shelter.

It took two weeks to get through the paperwork, wait for approval, and move in to the studio.  When I got there, the donated mattress was heavily infested with bedbugs.  I spent my tiny amount of savings from the last few months getting  rid of it and having another one delivered. I’ve been living in the studio for a couple days now. The only other pieces of furniture are an old desk and chair, donated by the shelter. They also generously donated a couple books, which are in a stack on the floor.

 The studio has one window, which overlooks the street where I met Loyd.  That is the day I remember most vividly, it was the first day of what seems to be some other guy’s life. I frequently look out the window and down at the corner below, hoping to see his truck drive by.  Sometimes I see that crazy old lady out there taking a dump in front of everybody, people doing crack deals, or kids making trouble with the food peddlers.  I never see him. I hope it’s because his business picked up again.  I wish I knew him now, we could grab a few beers, sit back and laugh at the worries we had that day.  He was suspicious of me, I was suspicious of him, but in the end we came out the other side honest business partners. The whole thing makes me chuckle.  A deep chuckle, starting from the bottom of a sick pack abdomen and escaping out through a wide, muscle man’s grin.

 

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

I enjoyed this rather unusual riches to rags tale. The writing is excellent, but it could use a little light editing, mostly for puncuation. The upholstery on a car's ceiling is called the "headliner" in case you want to change that. (I'm not saying you should)

[Rasputin]

I really enjoyed this one (and I don't get to say that often on this site). The story was clever, with just the right mix of humor and tragedy. The character reminds me a bit of William S. Burroughs (coming from money, only to end up broke on the street). Also, you seemed to describe the shelter/workforce lifestyle realistically (I've never known that kind of life, so I don't claim to speak from experience, but it seems like you nailed it).
As others have mentioned, the grammar and punctuation could be tightened up a bit, but for the most part it's spot-on.
One other critique, concerning word choice- "Each syllable was pronounced with such clarity of pitch that his distaste for me was inherent". This seems like a strange choice of words- perhaps the word you were looking for was "apparent"? "Inherent" would imply that his distaste for the main character was built-in, and therefore to be expected, as opposed to something that he acquired upon meeting the character and sizing him up face-to-face.
Other than that, I can't find any other faults with this story. Well done.

[M.E.Lyle]

Not a lot of stories keep me going, I'm easily distracted, but this one did. It held my attention to the end. It's great writing and story telling. I kept hoping this guy would turn things around, starting his own business, and help out others. Oh well, that's just me. I loved it.

[An Ordinary Woman]

it's a good story, interesting, intriguing. you are good with dialog, and that's a big thing to conquer. I admire that bc I'm so poor at it. Great writing!

[Mary Moneghab]

Sounds like those who have money and spend it foolishly, have no one except themselves to blame. Good story, very interesting, could say that if you have it, don't flaunt it.