Aaron Under Construction. Marin Thomas
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from the Yankees spring-training schedule to a more alarming topic. “Aaron, I neglected to teach you a very important lesson—responsibility,” his grandfather had said.
Responsibility. The word made Aaron shudder.
“Son, it’s my fault that you’re immature. I should have demanded more from you.”
Aaron’s gut had tightened with humiliation, hurt and resentment. Immature? He was thirty-three years old!
The bus pulled away from the curb, belching black exhaust. Traffic inched forward as Aaron studied the map spread across his lap. Riker Avenue had to be somewhere in the vicinity. Frustrated, he shoved the directions aside and glanced up just as a little old lady stepped in front of the truck. He slammed his foot on the brake, wincing when the seatbelt bit into his shoulder. The front bumper stopped a foot from the woman’s wire pull cart.
Pursing her lips, the granny glared at him through the windshield. Aaron unrolled the window and stuck his head out to apologize, but the words froze in his throat when the old biddy flashed her middle finger. Stunned, he watched her baby-step across the street, forcing cars in all lanes to stop for her and the dirty lump of fur curled up at the bottom of the basket.
“You must stand on your own two feet, Aaron, and assume responsibility for yourself and your future.”
First the crazy cart lady, now the voice of his grandfather refusing to get out of his head. What was this—revenge-of-the-geriatric-set day?
“I’ve been too wrapped up in expanding the company all these years, or I would have noticed that your brothers have been picking up the slack for you.”
There were times when Aaron wished with all his heart that his parents and grandmother had survived the private plane crash that had taken their lives when he was a year old. Widowed and burdened with raising three grandsons, Pop never noticed the way Aaron’s brothers lorded over him. In truth, Aaron had become accustomed to allowing his family to influence his decisions, solve his problems and instruct him on what to do and where to go.
After the sting of his grandfather’s words had subsided, Aaron had fumed. If Pop expected him to toe the line, then his brothers, Nelson, who ran the Chicago office, and Ryan, who managed the New York City branch, had to loosen their choke hold around their baby brother’s neck.
Aaron didn’t agree with his grandfather’s methods, but he hoped that seeing this foolhardy mission through to the end would prove to his family that he was a grown man capable of functioning on his own. Capable of making decisions for himself. Capable of choosing his own path in life, damn it!
“I’ve contacted a business associate and he’s secured a temporary position for you on a construction crew for a non-profit organization.”
Aside from resenting the fact that his grandfather believed he had to teach him a lesson, Aaron wondered how the old man believed swinging a hammer would make him more responsible.
When he’d posed the question, Pop had further insulted him. “Physical labor builds character, and helping those less fortunate will force you to appreciate what you have.”
Guilt that he’d neglected to properly express his gratitude for all Pop had done for him and his brothers over the years didn’t make agreeing to this crazy scheme any easier.
The construction job had come with two conditions. One, he use an alias and under no circumstances divulge his name. He’d assumed Pop had been worried for his safety, yet he doubted his new coworkers would recognize the McKade name or even have time to peruse the business section of the Los Angeles Times each morning. But safety hadn’t been the main concern. Pop had insisted that Aaron earn the respect of others through his own hard work and not because of the family name. The second required that he remain on the job for three months or he’d lose his inheritance and his position at McKade Import-Export. Not that he cared about his job. Although he’d never admit it to his grandfather, Aaron found his work responsibilities cumbersome and boring.
Aaron gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles threatened to pop through the skin. Half of him wanted to return to his office, box up his things, then call his grandfather and tell him to hell with the inheritance. The other half was determined to demonstrate that he was mature enough to accept this latest challenge and succeed on his own.
His failed attempts to make light of the situation and convince himself that a temporary construction gig wouldn’t be all that bad—no suffocating piles of paperwork, no suit, no tie, no colored socks for three months—proved that falling short in his grandfather’s eyes unsettled Aaron more than he cared to admit.
When he’d pressed his grandfather for more details about the job, the old man had been mute. With more prodding, Patrick McKade had admitted he’d made a sizable financial contribution to a political cause that his longtime buddy supported.
Talk about messed up—Aaron had to earn respect without using his name and money, yet his grandfather hadn’t hesitated to offer the McKade name and bank account to accomplish his goal.
“You report to the job Monday, April first.”
April Fool’s Day. Aaron hadn’t known whether to laugh or shake his fist at the phone. A high-powered executive moonlighting as a construction worker. He pondered who the joke was on—him or his new boss.
His stomach roiled, and he blamed it on the greasy smell of cooked chorizo that seeped through the air-conditioning vents as he drove by street-corner vendors. He turned off the main thoroughfare and stopped at the next intersection. Who to ask for directions…? He’d been instructed to report to the job site no later than 7:00 a.m.—more than a half hour ago. He’d allotted extra drive time, but hadn’t anticipated losing thirty minutes waiting for a fender-bender to clear the intersection outside his apartment. Arriving late his first day on the job wouldn’t sit well with his grandfather.
A group of Hispanic teens, dressed in all black, loitered on a corner, puffing cigarettes. A few houses down on the right, an old woman stood on her front porch, safe behind decorative iron bars. A school bus pulled up next to the teens and opened its doors. One kid got on; the others cut through a hole in a neighbor’s hedge and disappeared.
Aaron followed an ’83 gold Monte Carlo low-rider as it bounced down the street, its supersized sound system blasting a Los Lobos song. After three blocks, he spotted a mini food market and parked in the loading zone at the curb. Even though he wore the garb of a blue-collar worker—T-shirt, jeans and work boots—as an Anglo in a predominantly Latino neighborhood, he stood out like a banana in a bunch of grapes.
“Good morning,” Aaron greeted the clerk at the checkout counter, who squinted through one-inch-thick glasses. “Can you tell me how to get to Riker Avenue?”
“No habla inglés.”
And I don’t habla español. Aaron motioned out the store window and repeated, “Riker Avenue?”
Pointing to the back of the store, the clerk answered, “Sí, señor. Riker.”
“Thank you…I mean, gracias.”
“No problema.” The proprietor grinned, showing off wide gaps between his few remaining teeth.
Back in the truck, Aaron turned right at the next corner and drove east. He’d gone less than a mile when he noticed several older-model pickups and clunker cars parked in a cluster. As he drew nearer, a work crew came into view. He squeezed the truck in between two others, then headed across the street.
Pausing at the curb, he surveyed the home under construction. Plywood had been laid down on the roof, and stacks of shingles sat in the front yard. Several men were busy wrapping the house with weather-resistant Tyvek paper, while others unloaded a delivery of wallboard.
“Excuse, me,” Aaron hollered at the man who came out of the house. “Is the foreman here?”
“¿Quién?”
“Habla English?” Aaron asked.
The worker shook his