Late to Work
By Eric Aguero

I don’t think I really believe it - Peter Straub

One day last year, I was on my way to work. It was a bitterly cold day. Snow was spitting sporadically. The road was slick, but not dangerously so. Traffic was heavy as I drove north on Wadsworth toward Colfax and the construction site which would be a new car dealership in a couple of months.

Paying attention to the cars around me, I almost missed the guy wearing a hard-hat, and waving his arms from the side of the road. Normally, I don’t stop for hitch-hikers, but I could relate to his dilemma, so I whipped the truck into the nearest parking lot, fish-tailing, and nearly side-swiping another car making its way back into traffic. Once my truck was back under control, I circled back around to the right to see an old friend walking toward me, waving his hand. Dean hurried up to my window as I rolled it down. “Hey Mark,” he said. “Thanks for stopping. Can I ride to the job with you? My truck broke down, and I’m gonna be late.” “You don’t live over here,” I answered, arguing with him (and forgetting that he was standing in the frigid air). “Did you get lost this morning?” “No,” he said. “I had to go to another job to pick up materials, and I broke down on the way back!” “Well, that really sucks! Where’s your truck? Oh, you better get in before you freeze.” “It’s not so cold,” Dean said, “and the truck’s back there,” he told me, gesturing vaguely in the direction from which I’d just come. Finally, he walked around to the passenger side, and climbed in.

I had to admit that this was typical of Dean. He was always up and on the road long before he had to be. Making a trip to another job to get materials early in the morning was normal for him. However, his truck was fairly new, and it seemed unlikely that he would be having problems with it so soon. But, it could happen to anyone; you just never know.

“Should we go see about your truck, Dean?” I asked, putting my Ranger in gear. “No, we’ll do that later,” he said. “Let’s just get to the job now, so they won’t be calling to see where we are.” “Suit your self,” I replied and pulled back out into traffic. As we drove to work, Dean began to talk, telling me stories he’d told a dozen times. For some reason, I never felt impatient when I heard accounts I could have repeated back word for word. They were comfortable stories, and in a way gave continuity to a crazy, uncertain life.

I had known Dean for a long time, and from years previous, we had a number of common acquaintances, so it felt as if we’d known each other much longer. In the time we’d worked together, and been friends, a lot had happened to us. There had been sickness, car accidents and injuries at work. We’d attended funerals together, and we’d both been in the business long enough that people our age were being retired by heart attack and stroke. We’d even joked about what was commonly called the “Drywaller’s retirement;” death on the job. We made decent money hanging ceilings, just not enough to save much for retirement.

As we drove down Wadsworth, all this went through my mind while Dean talked. I felt warm just being in his presence. “Do you remember the time…,” Dean went on, as I thought back to his own crisis, when, as the owner of a respectable construction company, he had suffered a brain aneurysm, and spent several weeks in a coma. He eventually woke up and amazed everyone by rehabbing (including learning to walk again) in a year’s time, and going back to work, this time for someone else. He lost his company, but still maintained an incredible attitude, even if his mind played tricks on him. There had never been anyone I enjoyed working with more than Dean.

Traffic had slowed to a crawl, and it looked as though we would be late to the job. I turned, and said “You know, these aren’t the best circumstances, but I’ve really enjoyed being with you!” “Well thanks,” he said a little gruffly. “I’ve enjoyed it too, guy.”

We finally reached Colfax, and as we turned left, I could see the big VW sign two blocks away, and what looked like blue and red lights flashing up ahead. “It looks like someone’s had an accident,” I said. “Yeah,” Dean answered. “I hope nobody’s hurt!”

As we got closer, I saw a fire truck and an ambulance in the parking lot of the dealership. My heart speeded up and I guided the truck into the parking lot and to my usual spot. I had time just to glance over and see a blue Ford like Dean’s a few spaces away. It gave me a disjointed feeling, but I shrugged it off, and opening the door, began to make my way toward the front entrance. Glancing around, I looked for my partner, but didn’t see him. Thinking he’d moved quicker than me, I walked in to see paramedics working over someone, a white hard hat lying on the floor nearby.

The next few moments, in my mind, have the grainy consistency of an old, flickering news reel. The job superintendent saw me and walked over to talk to me. “He apparently came in early and started working up there,” he pointed to a scaffold by the railing on the second floor, over the showroom. “It looks like he lost his balance and fell over the rail. I came in and found him where he is.”

My heart sunk as I walked slowly forward, trying to determine who was on the floor in the circle of ambulance attendants. As I approached, one of them looked at me, then quickly reached out, and pulled the blanket over the worker’s face, but not before I recognized who was lying there. It was Dean.