The subway car is rattling along. It is lurching and throwing itself in every direction. Joe is standing inside of it, bouncing around in its long steel bowel. Joe listens to the encouraging voice, and the sound of the brook and nothing else happens. He gets off the train at Mt. Eden Ave. in the Bronx and walks four block to where a C.E.D. office is located; a mobile trailer amongst a lot of construction machines. He turns the CD player off and heads into the mobile headquarters to find his manager. Inside is rough carpeting and a desk with a receptionist (Anne) and stacks and stacks and stacks of forms in various trays and boxes. From further back in the mobile unit comes the cry of a man named Dave—“Joe! Come on back here. I got somethin’ good for ya’.”

Joe heads past Anne, smiling, and goes to the back of the trailer where Dave sits behind stacks of paper so high, he can barely be seen. Joe stands and waits. Dave is on the phone. “Yeah, yeah, I told ya’ that prick would never get it in for that much. Tell him to sit on it.” Dave motions for Joe to sit down and wait a second, but when Joe looks around, there is nowhere to sit; no chair. Dave pays no mind and continues on the phone, “because there’s no way we could afford that—that’s why!”

“…”

“Because he doesn’t or he breaks the contract, period.”

“…”

“Fine. I gotta’a go.”

“…”

“Fine. We’ll talk.”

Dave unceremoniously slams the handset of the phone down. He looks over a piece of paper and then shakes his head and shoves it aside. “Joe! You’re gonna’ be happy about this. Why aren’t you sitting?” Without waiting for a reply, Dave, harried, heavy, and sweating, yells, “Anne! Where are the God damned chairs!”

Anne does not turn away from what she’s doing, but says in bored tone, “They’re out in the garage so we could have that safety meeting.”

Dave rubs the bridge of his nose. Then he looks up at Joe, “No matter! I got you work on Tunnel #3!”

Joe shuffles a bit and says, “Thanks, Dave, but—“

Dave, bald and mustachioed stands up from behind his fortress wall of paperwork and says, “No buts!” In one swoop of motion, he removes a cigarette from a pack and lights it with a zippo. He takes a long big drag. “You’re doin’ this job, Joe–ain’t no way around it. Hell, the money, the time… why in God’s name would you have a problem with it? You’re gonna’ get paid well, son. They got an emergency situation up there and they—hell, everybody knows—you’re one of the best guys to take care of the problem.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know… a minor wall fracture. They need a clean up before they can repair the retaining wall. It’ll probably only be a two-three week job for you, but I’ll tell you it’ll pay damn good. C.E.D. is demolition and we need to ge this kind of work right now. We give them our best, you do your thing with, uh… Beatrice, and we’re good to get more contracts on this kind of job. Son,” Dave comes around the desk, takes a drag off his cigarette like he’s mad about it and throws his hand on Joe’s shoulder, “you’re our diplomat; our rep, ya’ know. I’ll take good care of you on this one.”

There are no stars underground “I don’t…”

“Take the job, Joe.”

Read the whole thread: The Hunger Engine

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