The Poacher
He walked in the front door feeling defeated. He’d eked out a few bucks selling the metal stars and Texas-shaped wall decorations to local nurseries and a gift shop up in the stockyards district. But he hadn’t earned nearly as much as he’d hoped and definitely not enough to keep them afloat much longer. Vicki still hadn’t applied for jobs. In fact, she’d been talking lately about maybe taking some classes at the community college. Computers and stuff.
“I’m tired of being on my feet all day,” she said. “I want to work in an office. I’ll have to work on my typing speed, though. Nobody’s going to hire me if I can only type twenty words a minute.”
At least Harper took his mind off his woes for a bit. “Daddy-daddy-daddy!” she’d cried, running to him as he came in the door. “Look what I made you in art class today!”
Valentine’s Day was still three weeks off, but she’d used pink construction paper to make a big heart. She’d written “I love you Daddy!” with glue in the middle of the heart and covered it with silver glitter. As always, she’d written her name in big letters at the bottom of the heart, putting a cute little tail on the p.
He took it from her. “I love it, squirt. I’m going to hang it up at work so I can look at it all day.”
Vicki glanced over from where she stood at the stove, browning ground beef. “Where would you hang it up? You don’t have an office. Aren’t you out in the field most of the day?”
Uh-oh. He’d screwed up. “We have lockers in the work trailer,” he lied. “That’s what I meant. I’ll hang it on my locker.” He turned to Harper. “All of the other daddies will be so jealous.” He reached out to tickle her and she giggled before his fingers even touched her.
The following morning, he made a loop with some of the remaining painter’s tape, stuck it to the back of the heart, and hung it on the wall inside his garage. After, he put the final touches on the sign he’d been building for his shop, KING MIDAS METALWORKS spelled out in corrugated sheet metal. Sturdy, but lightweight. He spray-painted the letters in a shiny copper color, the same shade as Vicki’s and Harper’s hair. A little of the paint had ended up on the floor, but his landlord could hardly complain. The concrete floor was already covered in oil stains and cracked in a number of places.
Once the paint had dried, he rolled up the wide bay door and carried the sign outside. Metal brackets left over from a former tenant remained affixed to the outside wall over the door. He found a ladder and carried up the sign, planning to fasten it to the brackets. Before he could get to it, he felt his cell phone jiggle in his pocket and heard his ringtone. He wrangled his phone out of the back pocket of his coveralls. He didn’t recognize the number, but it had an 817 prefix, meaning it was local. Is someone finally calling to hire me?
He jumped down from the ladder, nearly busting his ankle in the process. He scrambled to accept the call. “Hello?”
“Is this King Midas Metalworks?”
Dammit! He needed to remember to answer with his business name. “Yes, this is King Midas. How can we help you?”
The caller was the owner of an auto body shop. They had some jobs they needed welders for.
“I got three cars needing work,” the man said. “How many guys can you send me?”
“We’ve had high demand lately,” the Poacher lied. “But I’ve got one guy I can spare.” Me. “Good guy. You’ll like him.”
“When can he start?”
“Right away,” the Poacher replied.
“Send him on, then.” He proceeded to provide the address of the shop.
The call completed, the Poacher pumped his fist. The job would be temporary, but it was better than nothing. It had taken longer than he’d liked, but it looked like the new year was bringing him a fresh start, after all. Just in time. The money was running low again.
He carried the sign back into the garage. He’d hang it later, after he finished at the body shop. He locked the place up and drove off.
The collision-repair business was in a low-rent area on the east side of town, where Fort Worth bordered Arlington. The body shop was housed in a brick building painted black with the name of the shop in big yellow letters on the side.
The Poacher wandered into the small office area to the side of the three bays and addressed the man who sat at the counter, ordering parts on a computer. “I’m from King Midas Metalworks.”
The man turned out to be not only the owner, but also the manager and chief mechanic, all in one. He led the Poacher into the bay, where a rock station played through speakers mounted overhead. Thank goodness it wasn’t country music. His supervisor at the gas company had always played country and the Poacher couldn’t hear it now without thinking about how the man framed him and wanting to punch something.
The boss introduced the Poacher to the other two guys on his crew and directed him to a crumpled Nissan 350Z parked in the last bay.
“Whoa,” the Poacher said. “Someone did a number on this car.” The front end was smashed in a foot or more, and the back end was crushed twice that much.
“Eighteen-wheeler in front,” the boss said. “Postal truck at the rear. He got sandwiched between them. Lucky to be alive.” The man gestured to a row of mangled cars sitting behind the garage. “Those need work, too.”
Good. These banged-up cars will keep me busy a while.
The Poacher retrieved his tools from the covered bed of his truck and set to work. It felt good to be putting his skills to use, to be earning honest money. For the first time in a long time, he felt a tiny tingle of pride.