Fiction Friday

More of the same.

“This is Jim Stiles. He'll get you started on some work,” the woman stood at the door to the small closet turned into an office, her official hands taken in a shallow wringing motion, she stared at John Pine.

Thank you, ma'am. I really appreciate your help. In everything.

His words drove through her tired eyes and tired hands pulling her and lulling her. She stood in the doorway with unofficial thoughts and unreasonable hopes. “Okay, John. I...”

Words hung in the dust swirling hair in the dust halo of government fluorescent light.

“I'll be leaving you two. Bye.”

An old pair of eyes watched the woman from the desk. Were he a younger and wholer man, he would have unofficial thoughts about Judith, the woman in charge of processing the wayward into new lives here in the den of public assistance. He saw her flush and her loitering. His eyes, older than his smile knew what was happening. Humanity had come calling Ms. Judith. She waved a small frantic wave and turned away from her charge. The door closed behind her.

The sheaf of papers on the table found its way into his hands. He looked down through the bottom lens of his bifocals, searching for pertinence on the tall man in his office. “Have a seat, Mr. Pine.”

John, sir.

“John. Good. Says here you know how to do plenty. Farm kid?”

Yes, sir.

“Jim. Farm kids always know how to do everything but act right. Anyway, I see you done your time in the service. Army myself. Couple'a tours in Vietnam.”

He gestured at his arm. The western cut shirt was twisted and tucked in where his right forearm once was, now a shiny steel hook protruded. “They call 'em IEDs anymore. Back then we just called 'em 'FUCK!'”

John laughed a quiet, self conscious laugh.

“Got half my right leg too, VA gave some bullshit stump stick to walk on. A while back, the office took up a kitty to get me a new one for my twentieth anniversary here at The Center. You gotta laugh about it. Otherwise I'd of went nuts. Besides, it's an excuse not to get a real job. Says here you know some carpentry?”

When I was younger I done a lot of it.

“Them days are gone. You gotta have a social security card and a background check just to flip burgers anymore. Speaking of which, we do need to run a check on you, before you work for any of our guys, policy. Anything I should know about?” gray eyebrows arched.

No. I had a clearance.

“Alright, it'll take a little bit for it to come back if you had a clearance. Where they put you up?”

Coyote Canyon.

“Jesus, I'm sorry. Let me do something real quick...”

His one hand put down the papers and picked up a phone receiver. After tucking it in to his shoulder above the absent arm, he dialed. Silence fell on the room.

“Yeah, Taco John, how the hell are ya? Good. Good. You still here? Come up and see me for a minute.”

The phone rested back in the cradle. Papers were recovered.

“Any problems seeing or telling time there, John Pine?”

No, sir.

The door opened heavy. A short and round man entered with skin the color of the Earth. His T-shirt, covered in saw dust, advertised a local breast cancer benefit 5k from 1998.

“Taco John, this is Mr. Pine. Says he can see good and can tell time.”

Taco John scratched under his ample overhanging belly. “Can you run a tape measure, there Mr. Pine?”

Sure enough.

“I need someone to cut some rabbits and glue for me while I do all the technical stuff in my shop like sleep in my chair and drink Coronas.”

The R's rolled shallow. John Pine nodded.

Stackable dado or router?

“Both. Be by my place tomorrow by seven. This gimp over here'll tell you how to get there.”

“I'll let him know to follow the smell of beans. You know how to starve a Mexican, Sargent Pine?”

John sat uncomfortably. No.

“Hide his food stamps under his work boots.”

Taco John laughed. “Motherfucker. That's a good one, Cap'n Hook. I need to get down to that new burger place on Morrison and take some measurements. I'll see ya tomorrow, John.”

Yes sir.

Jim speaks, “Yeah, me and Taco John, his name is really Juan, go way back. He's piror Air Force. Well, grab up your stuff, we got a bus pass and a bag of goodies we can give you to get started out right. Mostly crap, but it has some hygiene stuff, too. I know how you Jar-rines like to smell perty. Looks like your background check come through alright,” a conspiratorial smile crept onto his face and a stamp pressed onto the sheaf.

Jim Stiles deftly replaces a paper clip on the sheaf of papers that is John Pine inside the block building. The bag at John's feet hefts off of the cold and dirty tile floor. He stands up and follows Jim Stiles, lopsided and limping out of the room.