old is she?”
“I don’t know. Early thirties? Middle? Her parents are old. The mother has that look in her eye, as if she knows that her time is close. I’m doing it as much for the parents as for the child.”
Still on his knees, Gustavo closed his eyes. After a while, he rose to his feet. “To me,” he said, “you cannot pay anything. Don’t protest. Nothing for this job. I’ll work with you day and night. Let me talk to the men.”
“No, don’t tell them. They have enough troubles of their own. They’re not in a position to do this. I am.”
“Fitch, they have honor as much as you. They’ll decide for themselves. And that fucking Scotsman, he owes it to everybody and the world.
“Listen up!” Gustavo called, a colloquialism he had embraced with great enthusiasm, and that he spoke with authority and promise.
T HE RHYTHM OF THEIR WORK in the month that followed was like a rolling wave. In hour upon hour of tedium, of scraping, sanding, sweeping, measuringand remeasuring, driving nails, turning screws, drilling holes, fitting things, smoothing plaster, and running wire, Fitch saw himself, as if from a trance, atop a wave rolling across the sea, the wind lifting droplets from curling edges and blowing them back like a scarf trailing in the slipstream of a car.
Their normal conversation was curtailed until they said almost nothing. Even the Scotsman, whose chief work requirement was to argue with Fitch, Gustavo, and everyone else, was quiet. He let his paintings stand enormously in his cold loft until the smell of linseed oil and turpentine was taken by the drafts and pinpoint leaks beyond the loft and blown over Long Island and out to sea, and as the paintings rested in darkness, the Scotsman worked in Brooklyn Heights.
The only respite was when something was setting or drying, or materials were late in coming. They scheduled the bathrooms in such a way that one was always available for use. They scheduled the rooms so that they never lacked a place for a row of cots. One man’s job was purely cleanup and housekeeping. He took food orders, served the take-out meals on two doors resting on sawhorses, and carried out construction waste and debris twenty times a day. So that the food would be varied, he went round-robin from one type of restaurant to another. He bought compact discs and ran Fitch’s music system, brought from Chelsea, like a disc jockey, taking requests. They might have a Greek dinner and afterward work to Celtic music, or a Japanese lunch followed by an afternoon of rock and roll. Everything was possible, because some of the people on the floors below were away, and the others were almost deaf.
Another man did nothing but deliver materials. Whenever he arrived in the truck, as many men as needed would come downstairs to unload and carry. It went fast, and he would set out again. When Gustavo was not supervising, he did the fine-work. Fitch set up a desk, his two cell phones, a bank of battery chargers, a computer, and a neatly shelved library of plans, telephone directories, catalogs, and ledgers. To get a break on materials, he would, while in the physical presence of the supplier, state the purpose of the job.
For example, he might walk into the marble place, which was in northern Queens and surrounded by chop shops and piles of salt. He was a goodcustomer, but nothing like the big commercial contractors who did floor after floor of new office towers. “Deansch,” he might say.
“Hey, Fitch, how are you?”
“Great, Deansch, great.”
They liked him. Among other things, although he knew costs and never had to overpay, he did not have the power to make them slice so thin that they couldn’t eat, and he always paid instantly, something almost unheard of in the contracting business. Now, however, though they didn’t know it, he did have the power to make them slice it thin, so thin, in fact, that it was inside out.
“What can I do for you?” Deansch asked. “Are you in
“I don’t know. Early thirties? Middle? Her parents are old. The mother has that look in her eye, as if she knows that her time is close. I’m doing it as much for the parents as for the child.”
Still on his knees, Gustavo closed his eyes. After a while, he rose to his feet. “To me,” he said, “you cannot pay anything. Don’t protest. Nothing for this job. I’ll work with you day and night. Let me talk to the men.”
“No, don’t tell them. They have enough troubles of their own. They’re not in a position to do this. I am.”
“Fitch, they have honor as much as you. They’ll decide for themselves. And that fucking Scotsman, he owes it to everybody and the world.
“Listen up!” Gustavo called, a colloquialism he had embraced with great enthusiasm, and that he spoke with authority and promise.
T HE RHYTHM OF THEIR WORK in the month that followed was like a rolling wave. In hour upon hour of tedium, of scraping, sanding, sweeping, measuringand remeasuring, driving nails, turning screws, drilling holes, fitting things, smoothing plaster, and running wire, Fitch saw himself, as if from a trance, atop a wave rolling across the sea, the wind lifting droplets from curling edges and blowing them back like a scarf trailing in the slipstream of a car.
Their normal conversation was curtailed until they said almost nothing. Even the Scotsman, whose chief work requirement was to argue with Fitch, Gustavo, and everyone else, was quiet. He let his paintings stand enormously in his cold loft until the smell of linseed oil and turpentine was taken by the drafts and pinpoint leaks beyond the loft and blown over Long Island and out to sea, and as the paintings rested in darkness, the Scotsman worked in Brooklyn Heights.
The only respite was when something was setting or drying, or materials were late in coming. They scheduled the bathrooms in such a way that one was always available for use. They scheduled the rooms so that they never lacked a place for a row of cots. One man’s job was purely cleanup and housekeeping. He took food orders, served the take-out meals on two doors resting on sawhorses, and carried out construction waste and debris twenty times a day. So that the food would be varied, he went round-robin from one type of restaurant to another. He bought compact discs and ran Fitch’s music system, brought from Chelsea, like a disc jockey, taking requests. They might have a Greek dinner and afterward work to Celtic music, or a Japanese lunch followed by an afternoon of rock and roll. Everything was possible, because some of the people on the floors below were away, and the others were almost deaf.
Another man did nothing but deliver materials. Whenever he arrived in the truck, as many men as needed would come downstairs to unload and carry. It went fast, and he would set out again. When Gustavo was not supervising, he did the fine-work. Fitch set up a desk, his two cell phones, a bank of battery chargers, a computer, and a neatly shelved library of plans, telephone directories, catalogs, and ledgers. To get a break on materials, he would, while in the physical presence of the supplier, state the purpose of the job.
For example, he might walk into the marble place, which was in northern Queens and surrounded by chop shops and piles of salt. He was a goodcustomer, but nothing like the big commercial contractors who did floor after floor of new office towers. “Deansch,” he might say.
“Hey, Fitch, how are you?”
“Great, Deansch, great.”
They liked him. Among other things, although he knew costs and never had to overpay, he did not have the power to make them slice so thin that they couldn’t eat, and he always paid instantly, something almost unheard of in the contracting business. Now, however, though they didn’t know it, he did have the power to make them slice it thin, so thin, in fact, that it was inside out.
“What can I do for you?” Deansch asked. “Are you in
Similar Books
