The Bump and Grime
John Kennex stuck an arm out from under his blankets and silenced the noisy alarm clock that perched on the orange barrel he used as a night stand. "I'm up, I'm up," he said groggily to himself, rubbing at the sand from his right eye with two calloused fingers. His feet found the floor and he staggered to the shower.
There was stillness to the deep silence of the wee hours of the morning. Every noise he made, from the running water to the metal click of the toaster, seemed to cut through the air and disturb the peace of the resting world. He pulled on a white undershirt and picked the dungarees he wore yesterday up off the floor, yanking them up around his hips. They left a dusting of red clay where they had been laying.
He shrugged into a bright orange vest, grabbed his strung earplugs, and draped them over his neck. He picked up the keys to his truck, his thermos of coffee, his lunch pail, and carried the last piece of toast in his teeth as he made his way out to his driveway. It was just chilly enough that he shrugged into his flannel shirt he'd left in the car from yesterday. The neighborhood was quiet and pitch-black as he pulled out, conscientiously leaving his radio off until he was on the main roads.
Once he was on his way he drummed on the steering wheel and crooned along to Radar Love while making short work of his breakfast. It was still dark when he rolled up into the parking area next to the foreman's trailer, a cloud of dust kicking up around his wheels as he backed into a space. He climbed out of the truck and stretched and walked over to the crew members who had already arrived.
They were repaving a six mile stretch of highway on the 606, and it was going to take months to complete. They did one lane at a time and it was important to get the markers and cones in place for today's section before the morning traffic rush. John cradled his coffee in his hands and took a bitter, warming swig, feeling the dewy morning in his bones as he rotated his shoulders back and stretched his neck. "Mornin'."
"Kennex," the foreman said, looking up over a filthy, rumpled clip board, "I got a new guy in today. Gonna put you both on tamping so you can show 'em the ropes."
John ran a hand back through his hair. "Put him on the sign, Max," John suggested, not wanting to drag some babyface around all day. Inevitably, his voice would by hoarse by lunchtime from shouting over the machines and correcting the newbie. And tamping the ground and the concrete was hard work. The kid might not be able to handle it.
"There he is," Max said, ignoring John's suggestion and pointing to where a truck pulled up, tires crunching against the gravel. The first hint of light was washing the sky, turning it pink and purple on the horizon. The man who climbed out of the truck was no babyfaced kid. He was a grown-ass man, with a well-defined jawline, broad shoulders, and skin the color of gingerbread. That smile on his face made John rub his toes into the soles of his steel-toed boots.
"Hey," he said to the crew.
Some of the men nodded in his direction or waved a hand with all the enthusiasm of flicking a cigarette. John found himself staring. Usually the "new guy" was a lanky, mealy kid with rosacea cheeks, low self-confidence, a flagging work ethic, and the skillset of a toddler. When this man approached the harsh lights of the trailer, John saw blue eyes the color of a perfect sky and lips that looked ripe for plunder.
"Kennex," John said, poking a hand out in front of him and accepting a sturdy shake. "You'll be working with me today."
"Dorian," he said, his voice soft and refreshing, nothing like the croaking group of old men hacking-up a storm behind them.
While working the road team, laborers took the small orange trucks which were easier to see along the highway. John signed one out, talking Dorian through the process. "Make sure you write the key number by your name or Max'll chew you out," he said, showing Dorian how he filled the form out.
"I see," Dorian said, inspecting the paper and committing the procedure to memory.
He looked John Kennex up and down in his peripheral vision. He didn't want to stare but the tall man with dark, thick eyebrows, and two days of chin stubble on his tan face made him stir with excitement. He couldn't help but notice the way his shoulders flexed back in his flannel, or his messy hair that was still damp from the shower but managed to look perfect, or the way those worn-out jeans hugged the undercurve of his ass. Dorian shook his head and pinned his tongue in his back teeth painfully, bringing himself back to reality and banishing the increasingly filthy thoughts.
John patted his shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze, secretly assessing the muscle beneath. "Let's roll," he said, "Grab your lunch."
Dorian was a quick learner, though he wasn't new to hard, hot work. Most new laborers would cough and sputter through the first two solid weeks. The hot, heavy asphalt smelled like melted plastic and the tar spread like butter under the churning machinery. The diesel exhaust, black and bitter, heaving from the rigs, assaulted the lungs. The traffic roaring by, never slow enough, kicked up fine particles. Even for the veterans, the air in the middle of the site could feel like a hot hand gripped tight around the throat.
Dorian took it all in stride, sweat beading along his hairline as he tamped with John, packing the asphalt tight and smoothing the edges down. The machine sent waves of pain up their wrists and arms, numbed their fingers, and packed the Earth down thick with each pass of the stamp. It was too loud to talk, so instead they worked.
John's eyes darted over to the new guy ten times every minute. When Dorian would turn his back, John would stare at his globular ass, his thick, taut thighs, and the ripple of his back.
Dorian felt his gaze and made purposeful movements. He telegraphed his interest to his co-worker with subtle gestures. Whether John picked up on them or not was a mystery.
At lunch, they sat inside the truck and unpacked their sandwiches. John's throat felt fine. They hadn't needed to say much throughout the morning. With Dorian catching on quick and the ear-beating noise all around them, they'd stayed silent for the most part. Blasting the air conditioner and escaping the sun, both men let their muscles unwind against the filthy seats.
"Where you from, Dee" John asked once he felt cooled off enough to consider himself human again. "New to town?"
Dorian smiled out the side of his mouth at the nickname. "Yeah," his head dipped in agreement and he cut his teeth into the side of an apple and chewed it, "Had to get a different scene, ya know?"
John nodded, sensing that it wasn't a topic for discussion. This made him want to know even more, but he backed off. He mopped his brow with the bottom hem of his shirt, giving Dorian a glimpse of his stomach and chest. "Where you living?"
"Got an apartment on the skirts, monthly basis," Dorian said, "Until I can find something better. This job ought to help."
"I'd be happy to show you around the city," John offered, "Sucks being new in town."
"Hey, thanks man."
John nodded and ate, looking out the window. Dorian finished his apple, abhorring the awkward silence. Several ice breakers made it almost to his lips but died on his nervous tongue.
The second half of their shift went faster. They took frequent breaks and finally breached the silence, finding comfortable conversation to shout over the roar of the machines.
After their shift ended and they turned the truck keys in, John leaned on his car door and whistled at Dorian's ride. It was newer and nicer. "Great wheels," he said. Dorian nodded in acknowledgement. "Follow me," John instructed, "I'll buy you a beer or two."
At the bar, a twangy country song playing out of the jukebox, they perched on stools and tossed a few back. They both smelled like dirt and exhaust and sweat. But Dorian noticed a sweet smell on John when he gestured or moved quickly, a warm, comforting smell that floated past his nostrils and made him lose track of the time.
They left the bar just as the dinner crowd was ambling in, each man heading for their truck. John opened his door to climb in then steeled himself and shut it again. He walked over to Dorian who was just rolling his engine on and tapped at the window.
When Dorian rolled the window down, John leaned in with his elbows. "Come have a pizza with me?" John asked, "My place?" He waited cautiously, but he was pretty certain he was reading the signs right from this guy. He figured he could take a chance.
"Lead the way," Dorian said, his smile flanked in deep, curved dimples.
John swung into his truck and drove home with Dorian in his rearview, singing along to a song. With a nervous ache in his belly, he parked in the driveway of his home and lead them in through the garage.
Maybe it was beer in his belly, or the comfort of another voice in his tiny ranch house, or the long stretch of loneliness he'd been nursing, or a combination of all three, but John felt comfortable enough to place a hand on Dorian's chest and feel the warmth through his shirt.
Dorian put his hand over the top of John's. "I want to take it slow," he said, but left his hand there, his thumb moving against John's softly.
"But you're interested?" John needed to know for sure. He didn't want to play guessing games in his head.
Dorian brushed forward and placed a quick, chaste kiss on John's dirt-smudged cheek. They both felt a warm glow on their skin from the day's worth of sun and a grubby layer of grime. "Course," he reassured, "Can we order though? I'm starving."
John nodded, picking up the phone. He felt a flush of life pulse through his veins; a break in the monotony.
Dorian washed his hands in the kitchen sink and then leaned against the counter while John ordered the pizza. John pulled him a beer out of the fridge and popped the top off against the counter while rattling off toppings into the phone, the lid skittering off across the kitchen floor. He handed it over to his new friend with a happy smile, saying into the receiver, "Oh, and extra cheese."