Dean took notice. Of that and my ability to communicate in both languages. He made me a bargain that I couldn’t turn down: get your GED and I’ll give you a shot as foreman.
“Good, McCarthy. Come on in. Have a seat.”
It’s almost been a year now, and while there have been a few bumpy patches, on the whole, things have gone well with my new role. Really well. Dean gets a reliable crew and I have a job that both challenges me and pays well. Forty five grand a year may not be a lot to some people, but for a kid who grew up in East Palo Alto with a mother and a grandmother who’ve always worked for minimum wage, and an uncle with dubious sources of income, it’s a fortune. A steady fortune that’s been adding up in the bank because I’m as frugal as I can be and my grandmother’s house is mortgage free.
“How’re the kids?” Dean asks as I sit down in the chair in front of his desk.
“Good, thanks. How’re the grandkids?”
Without any hesitation, he grabs the newest framed picture from his desk and shows it to me. He’s so proud of his two-year-old twin grandsons. “Oh, you know, they keep my daughter on her toes like you wouldn’t believe.”
When the pleasantries are over, we start in on the week ahead; scheduling, project timetables vs progress, costs, and employee morale.
“Any more problems with Harrison?”
I shake my head. “Like you said, giving it to him straight has mostly changed his attitude.” Like me, Dean started at the bottom and worked his way up. He knows rough-in carpentry inside and out and he has a ton of experience with managing guys. I think he’s taken me under his wing because he sees that I’m just as willing as he was to work hard and earn the respect of those around me.
“I did have something I wanted to ask you though,” I say, trying my best not to cringe. “Do we have any spots available for a guy I know?”
He sits back in his chair, observing me closely. “He got any experience?”
“No, none.” I resist the urge to shift nervously in my seat.
“But he’s got papers?”
“Oh, he’s definitely legal. That’s not an issue.”
“But there is an issue.” It’s a statement, not a question. Shit.
I decide to be honest. I’ve got a good thing going with Dean and I can’t let Jorgie screw that up for me. “He’s a guy I’ve known for a long time. He needs a bit of help getting his life on track.”
“He going to pass a criminal records check?”
Relief floods me. “He will.” Jorgie may have been arrested a few times, but he’s never been charged and Alejandro’s lawyers have had his records sealed.
“Alright, get the paperwork from Pamela out front and have the guy fill it out. If everything checks out, he can start in a couple days. But he’s on you. Your crew, your name, your reputation. Understood?”
Despite the twist of dread in my stomach, I rise to shake the man’s hand. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I’ve been in your situation before and it doesn’t always work out.”
After retrieving the paperwork, I head for the work site with what feels like a belly full of snakes. Damnit. Jorgie better not make a mess of this.
My anxiety level isn’t helped at all by the current job site being so close to University Ave. It just serves to remind me how close I came to ruining my life on Friday night. For the millionth time, my mind skips over the events and then skids to a halt on that girl in the coffee shop. Why? Why would she help me like that? Why? Why? Why? It’s been a drum beat in my chest for the entire weekend. I feel like I owe her something. But what? A huge thank you, of course. But there’s got to be more to it than that, right?
The maddening mystery of the girl and her reasons for helping me out continues to grow over the next couple of days. Every time I imagine, really imagine, what could have happened if I’d gotten arrested, my chest tightens painfully. Rosa being on CPS’s radar may have been my first worry, but what if I’d lost my job? Then where would my family be? The whole situation is seriously shiver-worthy.
By the time Wednesday rolls around, my need to know gets the better of me. I have no idea if she’s working today, but I’m going to find out. On my lunch break, I walk the six blocks to 1001 Beans, irrationally expecting to come face-to-face with a cop who’ll recognize me. I’m so caught up in my ridiculous thoughts that I almost don’t realize that it’s her outside the front of the café. She’s talking on her cell, pacing the sidewalk, and with every turn, her pony tail swings angrily. I’m too far away to hear what she’s saying, but her body language tells me she’s pissed about something.
All righty then. Now’s not a good time.
After a bit of consideration, I decide to wait and see if an opportunity to approach her presents itself. Crossing the street, I lean on a wall between some kind of small art gallery and a shop selling new age crystals. Pulling out my phone to look busy, I shamelessly try to catch snippets of her heated conversation. She must be talking to an ex, because the gist of it seems to revolve around her not wanting this person to call her anymore, especially at work. Shit, maybe I shouldn’t be bothering her at work.
She stops her pacing for a moment, clamping the phone between her ear and shoulder as she pulls out an envelope from her back pocket. A guy passes her by on the sidewalk, and I’m struck by how tall she is in comparison. I can’t say I remember her being that tall, but, man, her legs go on forever in those skinny jeans. I’d roll my eyes at that irrelevant notion if I weren’t watching her rip open the envelope, scan whatever’s inside, then march to the public trash can to toss it. Whoever she’s on the phone with really pisses her off at this point, because she abruptly hangs up and heads back inside, not noticing that the paper didn’t make it into the bin.
Okay, wow. There’s obviously some spark to this woman. If I don’t want to get burned by her temper, I’ll have to come back another time. But that doesn’t stop me from crossing the street to see what she was going to chuck into the trash. It’s a paystub . . . a dismal one. In the last two week pay period she worked a total of thirty-eight hours for not much more than minimum wage. I check the name: Elsabeth Frances Summers. Good grief, her address is on here too. She should be more careful. Any weirdo could get a hold of this.
A weirdo like me.
Cringing, I shove the paper into my pocket and promise myself I’ll shred it at home tonight. I certainly can’t leave it here.
When I get back to work, I find Jorgie, of all people, inside the worksite, chatting up Menendez and Harrison like they’re old friends.
I can’t hold back my irritation. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re still on break,” Harrison says indignantly, his piss poor attitude toward me making a resurgence.
Instead of telling him not to be an asshole, I stick with Dean’s straight-talk approach. “You’re good,” I tell the two employees. “But can you guys excuse us for a minute?”
“Sure thing, boss,” Menendez says amiably, sauntering away. Harrison skulks though, muttering something derogatory under his breath.
“What are you doing here, Jorgie?” I bite out.