Well, this was certainly spice for mom’s casserole.  In two short weeks, I’d be the Big Daddy of the Building.  Think of all those coffee-makers!

     Far out, groovy, and dig that shit!

     I’d be a good foreman, though, not a jerk like Dan.  Me, I know how to lead people.

     I didn’t let on to the guys about my impending career launch.  They’d be around for the blast off.

     I did tell Joletta.  Good news always gets her excited.  I love it when she gets excited.  I’m a direct benificiary.

     Just after Dan’s departure, Scary Barry briefed me on my new job.  It was simple.  There were three crews of electricians in the building (I had been in charge of one of them). My job consisted mainly of corralling these guys into getting their work done on time. 

     Crew one did all the exterior work: landscape lighting, parking garage, etcetera.  It was led by a salty-looking guy named Neal Berrigan.  Neal had immense pride in his work.  It was a hard-to-find quality.

     The second crew had been led by me.  They (we) were (quite professionally) installing the lighting and power on the individual floors.  According to the completion schedule Scary Barry showed me, my former charges were four weeks ahead of everybody else.  This proved Dan Carlson a big fucking liar, but of course, I was already aware of that.

     The third crew was Dan’s ex-pet crew.  They were installing the electrical panels and transformers throughout the building.  Dan had hand-picked these electricians, and ordering them around would be a perverse pleasure.

     My first duty was to choose a successor for my previous position.  The choice was obvious.

     “Bubba,” I said, “have a ball.”

     Bubba was loving it now.  “Titty fuck!  Can I get you anything for lunch?”

     Ah, the endless cycle.

     I bid farewell to Spence.  “Later,” I told him.  “See ya ’round.”  He looked so sad. There was no way I could justify having a personal dumb helper anymore.  I would have to open doors, taste food and roll joints for myself, now.  Some aspects of my newfound glory sure did suck.

     I found old Neal Berrigan, so’s we could chat.  He was an intelligent guy.  Two could play at that game.

     “Hello!” Neal beamed.  “How are y’all doin’ today?” We both lit up and Struck the Pose.

     “Good, good.  How are y’all?” I countered.

     “Fine!  You know, I’m sure glad to have that prick Dan Carlson out of my hair!  Say, you’re a young one, ain’t ya?” He sized me up.

     “Gosh,” I said.  “Gee whiz.”

     “Ha!” Neal loved it.  “Ha!”

     “Really.  It’s not age that matters, Neal.  It’s common sense.  I got a truckload of common sense.”

     “Common sense?” Neal was taking notes.

     “Yes, Neal, common sense.  Most people believe that common sense is instinctual, somehow instilled into our DNA or chromosomes.  I believe otherwise.  Common sense, I postulate to you, must be learned.  The Earth is the campus for the College of Common Sense, and I am a graduate student.”

     “Well!” Neal proclaimed.  “I ain’t never heard such bullshit!  How did you get this job?”

     Neal was destined to become a fan.  It just takes a little time to win over the skeptics.

     Time, three syllable words, and all the free weed they could smoke.    

2026 R.M. Reliable Electric