Occupational Hazard
B. Lou Kolla
(November, 2013)
The woman said it twice. The first time meant nothing—casual conversation, not much more than elevator talk—but the second time I glanced at my boss. Normally, he’d already be looking at me, we’d smirk unnoticed, and continue working. But this time he never looked over.
Now I sit in the van and wait. It’s been a long day: four air conditioners installed, two garage door openers, a washer, a dryer, and here, the last job, a hot water heater (a redundant term no one ever seems to realize). I’ve already rolled the old water heater out to the curb, loaded the tools, and secured the van’s door. The horizon is orange, the sky is coming on in dark blues and purples. We’ll start our southbound run home as soon as he’s out of the house.
My husband is in Houston for the week on business.
The front door opens, Al takes a step and turns. The woman, shadowy behind the screen door, hits a switch, bathing the front porch in yellow light. Al plays being startled and they laugh. A minute later, he taps the rolled-up work order on the handrail to make a point and is down the steps.
“She had a thousand questions,” he says, turning the key in the ignition. “I mean, just use the thing. If you have a problem, call service. It’s not a computer, there’s nothing to set up. Just use it.”
I grin. He notices.
Al shakes his head. “Ah, c’mon, give me some credit. You know I’d never go for that. I’m married.” He raises his eyebrows. “But she did say it twice. You heard that.”
I nod. The truck rattles as Al talks. I’ve heard the same sounds and same words for the last two months. I recline in the darkened van, resting. He talks for only fifteen minutes, then it’s quiet. I doze off to this silence, new and unfamiliar to me.
#
He coughs and I come awake. We’ve been on the road an hour. I’ll be home in ten minutes, he’ll be home five minutes after that.
“Uh, Jay, I gotta change our schedule for tomorrow. You can have the day off. Mandy is over at her sister’s with the kids and I think I’ll start on that fence she’s been bugging me about. If you need me, call the house and leave a message. I’ll get back to you. I won’t be on my cell.”
We say nothing for ten minutes, then arrive at my house.
“Al, what time are you picking me up tomorrow?”
He makes a face. “What? Didn’t you just hear—.”
“I heard.”
We stare at each other. I don’t look away. He breaks our gaze, giving me his profile. The dome light is on and I see the pulse in his neck. He looks through the windshield at nothing, then lets out a breath.
“Seven. At seven, Jay. As usual."
B. Lou Kolla, a guy who remembers a summer job as a teenager characterized by lots of work for little pay, and definitely an education in people. Like his avatar, Bigfoot, he remains elusive.