Andre set his laptop on the desk next to the window and slumped against the mullion, squinting into the sunlight. From his desk on the 39
th
floor he had a crystal-clear view of Lake Ontario. From here he had a semi-obstructed view of the construction site next door.
"Why are we down here again," he asked no one in particular.
Across the divider a co-worker looked up from unpacking a box of portable hard drives. "Because our office has no power," he said, "remember? They're rewiring the entire floor this week."
Andre nodded. "Right. Three hundred-million-dollar building fucked up by a raccoon." He slumped into his chair and flipped open the computer. The model of the condo tower he was working on materialized on the screen, toolbars and menus on the monitor next to it. He took a sip of coffee from the paper cup near the edge of the desk and got to work.
Two hours later, he leaned back in the chair and sighed, rubbing his eyes. The glare on his screens from the unshaded windows made it impossible to concentrate on the fine colored latticework of lines defining the model. He shifted in several directions, attempting to block the light, but nothing worked. To make matters worse, the drone of the pneumatic hammers next door had been constant for the last 40 minutes. Snapping the laptop shut he shoved himself away from the desk and headed to the break room for a drink.
He popped open the refrigerator, frowned. All the shelves were empty, save for someone's plastic-wrapped peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a small tub of Greek yogurt set on top. He shut the door and surveyed his remaining options; one vending machine loaded with soda and another with juice and tea. He dug a credit card out of his pocket and swiped it through the reader. Two-fifty seemed like a lot for lemonade, but whatever.
He tossed the lid into the recycling bin and leaned back against the counter, taking several swigs of the liquid refreshment. He sighed. Considered returning to his desk. But decided against it for the moment, instead distracting himself with the construction underway on the other side of the glass.
The skeleton was taking shape. The structural columns were already up and the concrete floor plates in place. Near the elevator towers a worker cut steel studs to size with a chop saw. Two guys lugged rolls of vapor barrier to a pile of material off to the right. And at the edge of the floor nearest Andre's window a worker in jeans and a tee shirt with a full sleeve tattoo over one arm nailed steel track to the concrete with something resembling a large elongated handgun.
Andre paused. That tattoo looked familiar. Like an H. R. Giger drawing. "No way," he muttered, disbelieving his eyes. He rapped his knuckles on the window. The worker looked up. Then around. Then away. The reflective coating on the glass probably made it difficult for anyone to see in from outside. Setting the lemonade on the counter he dashed out of the breakroom into the stairwell, down to the lobby and out to the street.
Rounding the corner of the building he sprinted across the narrow plaza and up to the orange construction fence surrounding the neighboring site. He searched the edge of the second floor for the person he'd seen through the window. Directly above him a tattooed arm appeared, then disappeared beyond the edge of the concrete. "Lucy!" he shouted over the buzz of the chop saw. He waited a moment, then called out again. A white hard hat appeared over the edge, followed by a familiar face. Her eyes narrowed, squinting in the sun.
"Andre?" she asked.
"Yeah," he replied. "So...what are you doing here?"
Lucy shed the hard hat and rested a knee on the floor. Her hair cascaded over her shoulder as she pointed to the scene behind her.
"Working," she replied. "What um...what are you doing here?"
Andre pointed to the building behind him. "Working." They smiled at each other. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped when she did the same. They laughed. She motioned for him to continue. He shrugged. "How have you been?"
"Good," she said, "I've been good. How about you?"
Andre's reply was interrupted by a voice from above them both. "Larsson!" it shouted. "Where do you want these strap anchors?"
"Be right up," Lucy shouted back. She looked down at Andre, rolling her eyes. "I have to go," she said, "I'm sorry."
"Yeah, no, I understand. Do you um...do you get lunch?"
She smiled, seeming suddenly, inexplicably shy. "11:30," she answered.
He nodded. "See you at 11:30 then?"
She nodded, rising to her feet. "11:30." She lingered a moment, watching him, before disappearing beyond the edge of the floor. Andre nodded, smiling to himself. He slipped his hands into his pockets and headed back inside.
...
The next 90 minutes flew by, and before he could accomplish anything productive, Andre found himself back outside, leaning on the corner of the fence, waiting for Lucy. It was warmer now -- at least it felt that way. He unzipped his sweater a quarter of the way, the April breeze cool on his neck. As he watched the traffic roll by, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find Lucy, now in a white knit Maple Leafs beanie and a light jacket, pulling off her gloves and stuffing them into the back pockets of her jeans.
"So," she said, tucking hair behind her ear, "what is there to eat around here?"
"Well," Andre replied, "on this block we've got tacos and burgers. You have a preference?"
"Mmm. I would kill for a taco about now."
Andre laughed. "Fortunately, you won't have to," he replied. "Luis will make you as many as you want."
...
Ten minutes later they were seated on the patio of Taqueria Mexicano, each with a soft drink and a basket of tacos. She had shed her jacket over the back of her chair, hung her beanie over a finial of the wrought iron fence between them and the sidewalk. Andre pulled his sleeves up over his forearms, set his phone face down next to his cup. The midday sun danced across the metal table, reflecting pools of light up onto their faces and warming their arms. The traffic provided a white noise background for their conversation.
"Okay, help me out here," Andre began, midway through his first taco. "How does one go from selling guitars to framing condos in ten weeks?"
She laughed. "Right, soooo that was a temp job. This is my real job."
"You're a carpenter." His disbelief was evident in his tone.
Lucy shrugged. "I don't look like a carpenter?"
Andre laughed. "I've met hundreds of carpenters.
None of them
look like you."
"All right," she conceded. "How does one go from shredding metal riffs in a sound booth at a music store to...standing on a street corner catcalling construction workers."
He raised a hand in protest. "That is not what happened."
"I know," she admitted, "but I have no idea what you do now so I made something up."
