Finest Worksong

I was in that hazy in between sleep and being awake state when someone said, "That's what I'll be doing in about thirty minutes."

"Drinking a beer or sleeping?" I asked, since I was doing the former before the latter.

"Drinking an ice cold beer," he said.

"You say ice in a way that makes me want to drink another beer." I told him.

He laughed. Smiled. Stuck his right hand behind his back in a way that hid the fact that he was missing most of index finger.

Too late I thought. I noticed. Same way I couldn't help notice that his left hand was bandaged in a very home-style way.

"You want a beer?" I offered.

"No thank you. I'd love one. But I got thirty minutes until I'm off work."

"I can dig it."

"Looks good though," he said.

"It is," I said.

He stood there for a moment and then asked, "You from Oklahoma?"

"Originally...but that car is my friends. They live in Norman. But we're all from Sand Springs originally. That's outside of..."

"I know that area," he said. "I lived in Bartlesville for a while. With my in-laws."

"Really," I said. "The lady who lives in Norman, my friend, her Grandma lived in Bartlesville for a lot of years."

"Yeah," he said shifting. Uncomfortable. Because of what he was about to say, "I didn't much like it. It was too cold. We were up there after one big snow storm and Mommy said, 'Neale, it's time to go back home.'"

I took it from his tone and the context of his story that 'mommy' was his wife, not actual mother, so I said, "Yeah, Oklahoma weather can be crazy. I can understand your wife wanting to come back to here. It's pretty in that part of Oklahoma. But man, it's really pretty right here."

"Yeah," he said, looking around, almost for the first time to see his work place from the point of view of a vacationeer.

"Can I ask you something?" I said.

"Sure."

"What happened to your hand," I asked. And the remembering the hand he had hidden because of the missing finger I added, "Why is it all bandaged up?"

"Oh," he said smiling. Thinking. Trying to decide what he should tell me. "I hit something."

He said it in such a way that I added, "Or somebody?"

He laughed. Good natured. Shifted on his heels. And then said, "You're pretty sharp."

I smiled and said, "Maybe, but I've never been called the sharpest tool in the...." and pointed to the handy man tool shed / wprk area behind him.

He laughed again. Harder.

"Maybe it's the beer." I offered.

"Well, I better get at it," he said. "How long you here?"

"We're here until Friday." I said.

"I'll see you around then," he said.

"Coolio." I said.

He looked at me quizzically. I guess trying to figure out what I had just said.

"Yeah."

"Yeah," I said, smiling and then I held up my beer in a half ass salute of solidarity I guess, and took a long pull.

Until I BLOG again...Another chance has been engaged, to throw Thoreau and rearrange.