Saturday I stayed inside the house and took medicine. Sunday too. I ran one errand on Monday, otherwise it was recliner entrapment and copious use of analgesics and chicken soup.
So now it’s Tuesday. Ally came downstairs on her way to work this morning and said, “It’s much too cold out. I forbid you to step foot out of doors or go up to the Watering Hole. If this is some sort of pneumonia you need to stay put.”
But she didn’t take my car keys away, and I can be a damn stealthy old coot when I wanna be.
I’m steadily bidding jobs and making the occasional phone call, but when your voice sounds like a ninety year old ganga farmer you have to sorta pick your battles. One of our big contacts had a massive heart attack over the weekend and is hospitalized. As I might have already said, this is the worst time of year to be without backlog in the construction business.
And it really doesn’t help matters much when you have a highly talented rising star in your midst. Maggie the Middlest is taking 11 credit hours at college, waitressing ‘til 2 am at night and shooting a wicked game of 9-ball in between. I see her at odd times, although if I wasn’t stuck at home I probably wouldn’t see much of her at all. It’s funny how you can live in the same house and be able to track the people who live there only by the level of ice tea in the fridge.
Plus, I get the feeling that having everybody in the house working except for me is starting to work on my ego.
The Magster rolled out of bed just before kickoff on Sunday and scuffed to the kitchen table in large rabbit slippers and sweats. A kiss for me and a “How are you feeling Daddy?”
“Lousy. How was work last night?”
“Pretty good, actually, I made about $140 in tips.”
“Wow, that’s great. Course, it was Saturday night and all. That place always draws well on Saturdays (it happens to be a huge family pool hall, which works well with her 9-ball game, of course). You going in tonight as well?”
“Well, don’t be too surprised if it falls off a bunch. Being Sunday and all.” It can’t be denied that even if I’m not actually out there drawing a salary, I can content myself with the knowledge that I truly do know everything, as do all men my age.
I saw her again Monday morning and the conversation was repeated, except this time she had made $150. On the dead Sunday.
She worked last night and I caught her just before she left. She wanted to know her best banking options locally. So that she could trundle her bags full of cash to the proper place, I guess. And I don’t even want to know how much she made on a holiday evening.
She earns it, no question. She’s quick and hustles and I’ve been proud to tip her several times when Ally and I stop by her place. It doesn’t hurt that she’s gorgeous, that men tend to lose all sense of reason when she walks into a room. When a gorgeous waitress serves a man food there is always a scramble for that extra fiver or so at check out time. It’s normal, hell I do it myself. But Maggie just seems to drive them completely mad.
She always said that her dream was to open a restaurant and have me build it.
I just wish she’d hurry up about it some. Kinda hurry the dream along a little.
I really need a place to hang out during the day.
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