long blond wig he’d put on and this little red shortwaisted dress. He lived on this real sharp curve out by Horseshoe Bend and he’d put that mess on and go set in a lawn chair there by the bank of the road with his legs spraddled out. He caused I don’t know how many bad wrecks. A whole carload of drunks run off out there one Saturday and two of em finally died. There was some said he wore red drawers when he done it but I ain’t fool enough to know about that.
You can hush about some red drawers, the second man said. The thought of Tut Albright pullin on a pair of women’s underwear is more than I want to deal with this early in the day.
J UNIOR A LBRIGHT WAS on the schoolhouse construction site long before seven o’clock, his battered Dodge pulled into the graveled parking lot and the door cocked open for what coolness remained. The sun had come up red and smoking and malign over the spiky treeline, instantly sucking the dew from the leaves and driving it into the parched earth and he judged it was going to be another hot one. He sat with a leg extended over the open car door, sipping the last of his coffee. He glanced occasionally at his wrist as if he’d check the time though he wore no watch there. There was just a band of paler flesh, like the ghost of a watch. His watch resided in a cigar box beneath the bar at the poolroom with similar timepieces where he’d pawned it for two sixpacks of Falstaff beer, and he resolved that the first thing he was going to do when he got a paycheck was redeem the watch.
After a while he got out of the car with his lunch box and seated himself on a pile of treetrunks a dozer had pushed into windrows. The bladescarred trees were lush with honeysuckle vines and the air was heady with the scent of their blossoms. He opened the lunch box and selected a sandwich and unwrapped it and took a bite. Occasionally he’d glance up the cherted road and cock his head attentively and listen but all he could hear was doves calling mournful as lost souls from some smoky hollow still locked in sleep.
He turned at a sudden whicker in the air and watched a hummingbird suck the drop of nectar from the throat of a honeysuckle. Curious creature, no bigger than his thumb. Its blurred wings, tiny sesame eyes. He stopped chewing and watched it. He studied it with a bemused intensity as if he’d learn its secrets. As if this might be a talent he ought to acquire. When he heard the first pickup truck he rewrapped the uneaten portion of his sandwich and restored it to the lunch box and fastened the clasps and stood up.
The truck pulled nearer the unfinished structure and stopped and two men got out. Doors slammed. They stood studying the schoolhouse as if to see did it meet their specifications.
Bout time you all got here, Albright sang out. I’d about give you out.
They didn’t even look at him. They’d seen this fool before. This was the third day he’d been perched on the windrowed trees, drawing no salary, waiting like a vulture for somebody to burn out, not show up, die.
You reckon they’ll be hirin today?
You’d have to ask Woodall about that, one of the men said.
The other man lit a cigarette. He glanced at Albright through the smoke. It gets any hotter than it was yesterday you can have my job.
I’d take it, Albright said.
The man looked at him. You wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with it, he said.
Supposed to be a hundred in the shade and shade hard to come by, Albright said.
Other workers arrived in beatup trucks and rattletrap cars and even one man walking, angling across a field of kneehigh sedgegrass, his lunch bucket swinging along in his hand. The men fell to getting out tools and stringing power cords. Someone cranked a concrete mixer and began tohose water into it. Another to remove plastic sheeting from pallets of bagged mortar mix.
When the white truck with WOODALL CONSTRUCTION painted on the side arrived Albright was already sauntering toward the office.
You can hush about some red drawers, the second man said. The thought of Tut Albright pullin on a pair of women’s underwear is more than I want to deal with this early in the day.
J UNIOR A LBRIGHT WAS on the schoolhouse construction site long before seven o’clock, his battered Dodge pulled into the graveled parking lot and the door cocked open for what coolness remained. The sun had come up red and smoking and malign over the spiky treeline, instantly sucking the dew from the leaves and driving it into the parched earth and he judged it was going to be another hot one. He sat with a leg extended over the open car door, sipping the last of his coffee. He glanced occasionally at his wrist as if he’d check the time though he wore no watch there. There was just a band of paler flesh, like the ghost of a watch. His watch resided in a cigar box beneath the bar at the poolroom with similar timepieces where he’d pawned it for two sixpacks of Falstaff beer, and he resolved that the first thing he was going to do when he got a paycheck was redeem the watch.
After a while he got out of the car with his lunch box and seated himself on a pile of treetrunks a dozer had pushed into windrows. The bladescarred trees were lush with honeysuckle vines and the air was heady with the scent of their blossoms. He opened the lunch box and selected a sandwich and unwrapped it and took a bite. Occasionally he’d glance up the cherted road and cock his head attentively and listen but all he could hear was doves calling mournful as lost souls from some smoky hollow still locked in sleep.
He turned at a sudden whicker in the air and watched a hummingbird suck the drop of nectar from the throat of a honeysuckle. Curious creature, no bigger than his thumb. Its blurred wings, tiny sesame eyes. He stopped chewing and watched it. He studied it with a bemused intensity as if he’d learn its secrets. As if this might be a talent he ought to acquire. When he heard the first pickup truck he rewrapped the uneaten portion of his sandwich and restored it to the lunch box and fastened the clasps and stood up.
The truck pulled nearer the unfinished structure and stopped and two men got out. Doors slammed. They stood studying the schoolhouse as if to see did it meet their specifications.
Bout time you all got here, Albright sang out. I’d about give you out.
They didn’t even look at him. They’d seen this fool before. This was the third day he’d been perched on the windrowed trees, drawing no salary, waiting like a vulture for somebody to burn out, not show up, die.
You reckon they’ll be hirin today?
You’d have to ask Woodall about that, one of the men said.
The other man lit a cigarette. He glanced at Albright through the smoke. It gets any hotter than it was yesterday you can have my job.
I’d take it, Albright said.
The man looked at him. You wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with it, he said.
Supposed to be a hundred in the shade and shade hard to come by, Albright said.
Other workers arrived in beatup trucks and rattletrap cars and even one man walking, angling across a field of kneehigh sedgegrass, his lunch bucket swinging along in his hand. The men fell to getting out tools and stringing power cords. Someone cranked a concrete mixer and began tohose water into it. Another to remove plastic sheeting from pallets of bagged mortar mix.
When the white truck with WOODALL CONSTRUCTION painted on the side arrived Albright was already sauntering toward the office.
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