The Long Summer 2
Xander called a halt to the work around 7. They were finished, for the most part, with their work on the gym. "Call it 8 tomorrow, guys?" He asked his tired crew and at their faint nods, he pointed to two of the guys leaning against a bobcat. "Tony, you and Phil finish up here in the morning. Clean up and then you can join us at the new site."
"Sure thing." The men sounded tired. Xander waved them all away and sat down on a stack of steel girders to make some notes on his clipboard. He had to track their start and finish times as well as the levels of a project completed. Buried within his notes was a listing of materials used, requested or returned. He wanted to finish it all before he started a new workbook tomorrow. There was nothing quite like juggling two and accidentally charging a load of drywall and plaster to the wrong project.
"Hey, Harris?"
Xander looked up to see one of the crew still standing there, idly juggling his hard hat from one hand to the other. He fought the tiredness that was crawling up his muscles and searched for the name that went with the square-jawed face.
"Bert?"
"Yes, sir." Bert grinned. He liked it when Xander remembered his name. He was something of a large, beefy fellow who probably played high school football, but he was reticent about opening up. The quiet type who did his work and didn't speak up too often.
"What's up?"
"About tomorrow."
Oh, here it comes. Xander sighed. Someone wanted out of the hefty overtime earned by working weekends and giving up anything remotely resembling a pathetic life experience.
"Yeah?" He replied cautiously while carelessly scrawling his name at the bottom of the completed sheet with a notation about Tony and Phil's clean up for the following day.
"Well - it's like this. I get my kid tomorrow. I only get him two Saturdays out of the month. I sorta promised to take him to a ballgame. I know it's overtime and all, but you think I could cut out around noon?" Bert fumbled with his hat some more. "I just don't want to disappoint my boy."
He blinked for a moment. The gentle giant was a father? Xander pushed a hand up under the white construction hat and scratched the side of his ear. He was reminded of all the long weekends his dad worked and if he ever complained about wanting to do something, the bellowed lectures about responsibility and money not growing on trees. Xander thought that in Sunnydale, there probably was a tree that flowered money, just not at the Harris'.
"I didn't know you had any kids." Xander blurted out. "How old is he?"
"He's five." Bert's beefy face spread into a grin and he fished out this old, cracked leather wallet that looked more like something you found discarded than used for carrying money and photos. He whipped out an obligatory photo of a boy with the same beefy jaw line, only softened by pudgy cheeks and a cherubic smile.
"Cute kid." Xander manufactured without really believing it. He was trying to figure the math in his head. Bert was about twenty six, he thought, that would have made him Xander's age when the kid was born. He repressed a shudder.
"Anyway, like I said, I know you need the help. I'll come in an hour early, help with the site prep. But would you mind if I let at noon?"
He was about to say no, but thought better of it. The guy seemed genuinely interested in his kid and he was offering to help with site prep and not asking for the whole day. "Yeah," Xander nodded. "Go ahead. Enjoy the game."
"Thank you." Bert was suddenly all smiles and he seized Xander's hand for a quick hard shake. "I appreciate it. You ever need me for other overtime; I'm your man. I'll be out here bright and early tomorrow, Sunday too. Just hate the idea of breaking a promise to my kid."
Xander mumbled something in agreement and felt profound relief when the man headed off to whatever life it was that waited for him in the intervening days he didn't spend with his kid. He ignored the faintly envious feeling, because he was pretty sure his own father would have opted for the overtime rather than an afternoon in the ballpark. But that was the Harris family; they weren't big on commitment and keeping promises.
Flipping the notepad closed, he savagely began gathering up his toolkit and work jacket. The site was shutting down all over the place; alternating crews were packing it in for a Friday night spent playing pool at the Bronze or other family like pursuits. Xander ignored the burning sensation in his muscles as he left the worksite and approached the beaten up mini pickup truck.
It wasn't much, but after Willow's friendly neighborhood totaling of his last vehicle and Xander's inability to explain to the insurance company how he wrecked his car in the middle of nowhere, it was all he could afford. They'd paid out a totaling fee and then dropped him like a hot potato. He was now using Jim Bo Bob's All Purpose Not Worth the Paper It's Printed On car insurance with a premium that would have made Cordelia's high school wardrobe allowance weep.
He ignored the dents, dings and peeling paint to drop the toolbox into the bed of the truck in the back. The clipboard was easily tossed in the window to rest on the DMP packaging that littered that side of the car. He found his keys after a cursory check of the pockets and let himself in side.
Every once in a while, he wished the truck would get stolen and make good on the promise of one more screw up in his daily existence, but there was no such luck. Apparently no one wanted the beaten up vehicle except him. He coaxed the engine into sputtering life and slid it into gear. He drove out of the makeshift gravel lot without a backwards glance.
A half tossed glance at his watch told him sundown was still a good two hours away. The beauty of summer, long days meant easier commutes. Negotiating the trickle of traffic joining their way along Sunnydale's main strip, Xander took the alley shortcut to pull up behind the Magic Box.
He left the truck, locked for kicks this time, there and carried his toolbox in through the back door. He still had an old set of keys and remembered to lock the door behind him. The shop was dark, but he found the main light switch without any trouble. The sunlight was still filtering through the wooden boards that now made up the front glass.
Xander set his toolbox down and pulled out a pair of beaten up work gloves. He'd cleared most of the concrete and debris over the last two weeks, now it was time to check all the wooden supports. He fastened his tool belt and picked up the sledgehammer. The weaker supports would need a bracer, then replacement.
Smothering a yawn and ignoring the warning pains in his stomach, he went to work. He was determined to finish the work on the shop himself. Anya's insurance company pulled out of covering the vandalism because it was clearly considered staged and he could remember Anya's fuming as she listed it off in detail. How could he think that she would deliberately destroy her own shop? It was an outrage, a scandal.
He shook his head at the memory and started with the rubble that was left of the back wall. It should only take three or four nights to finish the support, and then he could frame the door and start replacing the brick.
Stridently ignoring the complaints of his body, he got to work.
Xander called a halt to the work around 7. They were finished, for the most part, with their work on the gym. "Call it 8 tomorrow, guys?" He asked his tired crew and at their faint nods, he pointed to two of the guys leaning against a bobcat. "Tony, you and Phil finish up here in the morning. Clean up and then you can join us at the new site."
"Sure thing." The men sounded tired. Xander waved them all away and sat down on a stack of steel girders to make some notes on his clipboard. He had to track their start and finish times as well as the levels of a project completed. Buried within his notes was a listing of materials used, requested or returned. He wanted to finish it all before he started a new workbook tomorrow. There was nothing quite like juggling two and accidentally charging a load of drywall and plaster to the wrong project.
"Hey, Harris?"
Xander looked up to see one of the crew still standing there, idly juggling his hard hat from one hand to the other. He fought the tiredness that was crawling up his muscles and searched for the name that went with the square-jawed face.
"Bert?"
"Yes, sir." Bert grinned. He liked it when Xander remembered his name. He was something of a large, beefy fellow who probably played high school football, but he was reticent about opening up. The quiet type who did his work and didn't speak up too often.
"What's up?"
"About tomorrow."
Oh, here it comes. Xander sighed. Someone wanted out of the hefty overtime earned by working weekends and giving up anything remotely resembling a pathetic life experience.
"Yeah?" He replied cautiously while carelessly scrawling his name at the bottom of the completed sheet with a notation about Tony and Phil's clean up for the following day.
"Well - it's like this. I get my kid tomorrow. I only get him two Saturdays out of the month. I sorta promised to take him to a ballgame. I know it's overtime and all, but you think I could cut out around noon?" Bert fumbled with his hat some more. "I just don't want to disappoint my boy."
He blinked for a moment. The gentle giant was a father? Xander pushed a hand up under the white construction hat and scratched the side of his ear. He was reminded of all the long weekends his dad worked and if he ever complained about wanting to do something, the bellowed lectures about responsibility and money not growing on trees. Xander thought that in Sunnydale, there probably was a tree that flowered money, just not at the Harris'.
"I didn't know you had any kids." Xander blurted out. "How old is he?"
"He's five." Bert's beefy face spread into a grin and he fished out this old, cracked leather wallet that looked more like something you found discarded than used for carrying money and photos. He whipped out an obligatory photo of a boy with the same beefy jaw line, only softened by pudgy cheeks and a cherubic smile.
"Cute kid." Xander manufactured without really believing it. He was trying to figure the math in his head. Bert was about twenty six, he thought, that would have made him Xander's age when the kid was born. He repressed a shudder.
"Anyway, like I said, I know you need the help. I'll come in an hour early, help with the site prep. But would you mind if I let at noon?"
He was about to say no, but thought better of it. The guy seemed genuinely interested in his kid and he was offering to help with site prep and not asking for the whole day. "Yeah," Xander nodded. "Go ahead. Enjoy the game."
"Thank you." Bert was suddenly all smiles and he seized Xander's hand for a quick hard shake. "I appreciate it. You ever need me for other overtime; I'm your man. I'll be out here bright and early tomorrow, Sunday too. Just hate the idea of breaking a promise to my kid."
Xander mumbled something in agreement and felt profound relief when the man headed off to whatever life it was that waited for him in the intervening days he didn't spend with his kid. He ignored the faintly envious feeling, because he was pretty sure his own father would have opted for the overtime rather than an afternoon in the ballpark. But that was the Harris family; they weren't big on commitment and keeping promises.
Flipping the notepad closed, he savagely began gathering up his toolkit and work jacket. The site was shutting down all over the place; alternating crews were packing it in for a Friday night spent playing pool at the Bronze or other family like pursuits. Xander ignored the burning sensation in his muscles as he left the worksite and approached the beaten up mini pickup truck.
It wasn't much, but after Willow's friendly neighborhood totaling of his last vehicle and Xander's inability to explain to the insurance company how he wrecked his car in the middle of nowhere, it was all he could afford. They'd paid out a totaling fee and then dropped him like a hot potato. He was now using Jim Bo Bob's All Purpose Not Worth the Paper It's Printed On car insurance with a premium that would have made Cordelia's high school wardrobe allowance weep.
He ignored the dents, dings and peeling paint to drop the toolbox into the bed of the truck in the back. The clipboard was easily tossed in the window to rest on the DMP packaging that littered that side of the car. He found his keys after a cursory check of the pockets and let himself in side.
Every once in a while, he wished the truck would get stolen and make good on the promise of one more screw up in his daily existence, but there was no such luck. Apparently no one wanted the beaten up vehicle except him. He coaxed the engine into sputtering life and slid it into gear. He drove out of the makeshift gravel lot without a backwards glance.
A half tossed glance at his watch told him sundown was still a good two hours away. The beauty of summer, long days meant easier commutes. Negotiating the trickle of traffic joining their way along Sunnydale's main strip, Xander took the alley shortcut to pull up behind the Magic Box.
He left the truck, locked for kicks this time, there and carried his toolbox in through the back door. He still had an old set of keys and remembered to lock the door behind him. The shop was dark, but he found the main light switch without any trouble. The sunlight was still filtering through the wooden boards that now made up the front glass.
Xander set his toolbox down and pulled out a pair of beaten up work gloves. He'd cleared most of the concrete and debris over the last two weeks, now it was time to check all the wooden supports. He fastened his tool belt and picked up the sledgehammer. The weaker supports would need a bracer, then replacement.
Smothering a yawn and ignoring the warning pains in his stomach, he went to work. He was determined to finish the work on the shop himself. Anya's insurance company pulled out of covering the vandalism because it was clearly considered staged and he could remember Anya's fuming as she listed it off in detail. How could he think that she would deliberately destroy her own shop? It was an outrage, a scandal.
He shook his head at the memory and started with the rubble that was left of the back wall. It should only take three or four nights to finish the support, and then he could frame the door and start replacing the brick.
Stridently ignoring the complaints of his body, he got to work.