“All right! Putting that carpentry license to work, huh? Who says it’s a front?” Joel laughs, the fusion of sweat and hair gel running down his forehead.
“Shut up. I’m gonna have to round up the high-schoolers. Pay them a little more. They weren’t too happy,” Spatz notes, referring to the last time crunch a couple weeks ago, when two young boys helped to finish a legitimate, but largely skimped on, contracting assignment: the raw materials were of such low quality that the project was crumbling before it could stand. Legitimate jobs are not their forte.
“Too bad you’ve got no physical aptitude.”
“Right, I’m a delicate flower,” Joel admits, fiddling with the phone cord. He’s getting distracted, pulled by all these weary people flowing past him into the funeral home.
“Might finish in time. It’ll be tight. But unless you throw your body under a train, we’ve got nothing else.”
Joel rolls his eyes, figuring the boss might actually be considering that as an option now. “Okay, well, I’ve gotta get back in. Wish me luck.” He inhales, gathering himself, waiting for his superior’s usual send-off, some curt, distracted mumble. Always hurts Joel’s feelings, like he isn’t important anymore or something. In this particular relationship, Joel acts like a neglected spouse. But the fresh mourners have finished unloading into the parlor, present for round two.
“Mmh…come to me this afternoon, Joel, with anything and everything.”
***
Microfiction
