Résumé

I met Danny at a coffee shop on Woodward, the kind with swivel stools and Styrofoam cups.

The sky had opened up, turning our job site into soup. Everyone scrambled, most to the closest bar. Danny and a few others ducked in here.

He ordered black coffee, no sugar, sat there with both hands wrapped around it like it might run off.

"Whose crew you with?" I asked him.

"Mario said we could get a coffee," he insisted. "Just till the rain lets up." He thrust out his hand, "Danny," he said, "Mario's new pipeman. Started three weeks ago."

Hard work for a guy his age, maybe forty-five.

The math didn't add up, but I let it go.

Prior Employment History

It was three weeks before Danny showed his stripes.

"Sarah. My daughter," he smiled, tilting the screen my way. "Graduating soon."

Cute girl. Dark hair. Serious eyes behind black frames.

"Nursing school." He kept scrolling, hungry for scraps. "Haven't seen her since she was twelve," he finally said.

I waited.

"She’s with her mom, up in Rochester Hills." As if the thirty miles is what kept them apart.

Gaps in Employment

Seven years breaks down like this: 2,557 days of state-issued everything, 7,665 meals you can't taste, 2,548 card games, and over 16,300 miles walked in circles.

Danny tried to make it sound noble. An accident. Like it could've happened to anyone.

"Mike and I grew up together," he told me. "We were celebrating. Nothing crazy.”

Three beers, then four, then shots. Then who's counting when your best friend just made supervisor at the plant.

"One block from Mike's house. One fucking block when Bam! We get T-boned."

Because you can't argue physics, right?

You had a few drinks, you drove, you got hit, your best friend died. What's left to say?

Skills and Accomplishments

Hey, I get it. I lived that life.

Never killed anyone. But I lost Lizzie to it.

I tell people I quit drinking in 1993. And that’s true. What I don't tell them is that it took ten years to stick.

Ten years of waking up each and every day, swearing it off, only to stop at the first beer store after work for a “traveler,” then the next beer store for another, and then the liquor store close to home for a little pint of Jack.

But… after ten years of trying… and failing… Every. Single. Day. It finally stuck.

You'd think I'd have a soft spot for drunks and junkies. Fact is, I have no patience at all. None.

Even now, my very best friend lives a dull, drunken, stupor of a life.

It kills me to see him that way.

So I don’t.

Performance Review

Sarah’s graduation was on the first Saturday in May.

Danny got all dressed up, “Just to see her, ya know?”

But sitting in that auditorium, alone, watching his daughter walk across the stage while Jenny, his ex, sat three rows ahead with Sarah's aunts, uncles, grandparents…

“I don’t know, man. Something just broke inside me.”

Broke?

No. You sit in that auditorium. You wear your clean shirt. You shut your mouth. And when your daughter walks past without looking, you swallow it.

You just take it. That’s what you do.

Incident Report

A couple weeks go by. Then one morning, Mario notices Danny a little off, fumbling with the laser level, moving slow, “out of it.”

"Rough night?" Mario pressed him. "Switch with Ramirez. And get your shit together. You’re top man today."

Top position means standing near the edge of the trench, slinging pipe, directing the loader and excavator operators through hand signals while the crew makes connections below.

“I should’ve cut him loose right then,” Mario shook his head.

“The dumbass called for stone too early. Nearly buried Rick and Mikey. Those two came scramblin’ outta the cut,” Mario paced. “They’d a killed him, Pauli.”

Danny stormed off like he was the one being wronged.

References Available Upon Request

That was ten years ago.

Last I heard, Danny's back inside. Third time, maybe fourth. DUIs, parole violations, one-year stints, two-year stays. Life sentence on installments.

Funny thing is, Sarah, his daughter, works at the prison now.

Want to talk about paying debts?

Watch your daughter treat you like you’re infected. Watch her look past you without the slightest hint of recognition. Don’t stare, though. Don’t you stare.

Just sit there in your state-issued everything while she does her job. Wait your turn. Take your meds.

That's what you do. That's all you fucking do.