Read Online Desert Boys by Chris McCormick - Free Book Online Page A

from winter to summer like flipping a coin, and it seemed as though I’d lost the toss. The heat turned the saliva in your mouth and throat to mush. Your skin turned white until the burn settled in, some hours later. You’d go home after work and cling your lips to the mouth of the tap the way two animals might kiss, chugging water until your stomach ached with it. Still somehow you’d piss only once a day, this orange urine that came out smelling like the heat itself, liquefied.
    The clouds came and went in clumps, leaving spots of shade here and there on the pavement. From time to time, the garage door opened upward like a salute, and Mr. Reuter would walk out, barefoot, careful not to stand on a sunny spot of the driveway. He’d say something like, “Progress,” or else, “You’re getting it.” Then he’d hop from spot of shade to spot of shade until he was back inside the garage, pulling closed the door. These tiny moments of encouragement had an enormous effect on me. More than once I thought the heat was too much, or the work was too much, or else the money was too little, and then Mr. Reuter would say his little something, and I’d go right back to work, doubtless in my efforts.
    I distinctly remember thinking, going into the job, that my mind would be free to wander while I worked, and that I might imagine some extraordinary thoughts to express to those adults on my “Pester” list—thoughts that would create in them a doubt in their belief that I was unable to change things without their help. But the truth was that nothing, not a single memorable moment of reflection or imagination, sprouted from or arrived at my head during my hours digging up that lawn. In every rare moment I caught myself thinking, the thought happened to be about the work in front of me. When I told Mr. Reuter about my surprise, he said, “That’s called pride, and that’s a great thing.” He taught me to laugh in the face of anyone who called physical labor “mindless” work.
    A part of me already knew that. My father spent his entire life working, after all, and I’d never considered him a mindless man. But I wondered why he refused to talk about work. Boredom, maybe, but a lot of people say “boredom” when what they really mean is shame.
    VI. MR. REUTER ASKS A FAVOR
    When I finished turning up the dirt on the smaller side of the lawn, I allowed myself a minute to admire my work. There had been spots in the middle (my first attempts) that looked uneven, and I’d gone back to make them flush with the pavement. Since the lawn and driveway were at an angle from the house down toward the sidewalk, it was tricky to get the leveling just right. But I’d done it.
    After a few knocks on the front door, Mr. Reuter emerged from the house. He saw the work I’d done, and put out his hand for a shake. I took it, the first earnest handshake of my life.
    â€œYou’re exceeding expectations,” he said.
    My fingers twitched at the praise. That would have been enough to keep me working with pride, but he went one step further.
    â€œIn fact,” he said, “I think you’ve earned yourself a raise. One hundred dollars seems more fair for this kind of work, wouldn’t you say?”
    I tried to keep the face of someone who’d earned something and knew it. But I must have said thank you for every extra dollar he’d just offered me.
    â€œYou just keep it up now, all right?”
    â€œYes sir,” I said. “I’ll do even better.”
    â€œI’m sure you will,” he said.
    â€œSee you on Saturday,” I said. “And thanks again.”
    â€œSaturday, yes,” he said.
    I started back across the street. He called after me.
    â€œOne more thing,” he said. He tugged at the black rubber tips of his glasses, moving the frames up and down until they sat on his nose just right. “You still see Drew