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9. Monday, July 3rd, 2023.

Later that night, Sunday night, she's back. Seems natural. I've made fresh vegetable-beef soup. We lay in the recliners in the dark, streetlights and moonlight in the windows light enough.

I go to bed at ten, set the alarm for Monday morning, July 3, 2023, and maybe a new job.

I get up. She's gone. I get ready, go. I arrive at the company about 7:30. I go by instead of going in. There's a cop car there, cop and a guy standing talking. I see three men moving around back by the pickup trucks beyond the trailer. I turn around down the road, come back, pull in.

I maneuver to park, like before, but use the concrete pad I shoveled Saturday. The cop and the man both come toward the truck as I get out. Lyrida comes out on the deck, smiles, waves, leans on her hands on the railing. I think it's a friendly wave, friendly smile, not a... smirk... and a... disarming wave while the noose closes on me.

"Gary E. Andrews?" the cop says. Uh oh! When they already know your name...

"Yes, Sir," I reply, stop and stand, wait for him to come to me.

"Did you bring a girl to the Emergency Room Friday night?" He's not asking a question he doesn't know the answer to.

"Yes," I say.

I don't ask questions, wait to see where he's going with this. This can't look good for the new guy looking for a job! Shee-it!

"What can you tell me about her?" The other guy's not saying anything, standing back a little.

"We found her down on..." I can't think of the name of the street... "Where the homeless people live... by the open air drug market."

I mention the 'open air' factor to accuse the cops a little for not having more... I don't know... awareness... control... something.

"Who's 'we'," he says. I really don't like his tone. Am I in trouble?

"Uh, the lady... and her daughter... I don't know their last names," I realize. "Andrea. Andrea runs... she owns the Broken Places Bar & Grille, and her daughter Caryanne, who is...", how to describe her, "an advocate for the homeless," I explain. I'm reluctant to tell Caryanne's story but figure they'll ask for more if they need it.

The other guy is listening. I'm not sure about his face. A little dark, hostile, a little just... hanging back.

"Why did you bring her to the hospital? What was wrong with her?" He's still not giving up anything.

"Caryanne had shown up at her mother's place and believed she had been given some dope in a peanut butter and jelly sandwich by a preacher named Albert."

There. Bam! I've told what I know. I go on,

"We went back to the place where it happened and she saw the guy..."

I want to just tell my own version, what I witnessed. "I saw him pulling on that young girl's arm, little kid, and the little girl trying to pull away. She looked like she'd been doped too. We... confronted him... and he ran."

I don't tell about Supergirl, skip to, "We got the little girl and she was out of her head... unconscious really..., snoring, and she had peanut butter and jelly on her face. We figured he'd done the same thing to her as he did to Caryanne.
Some people think people don't belong to anybody so they can... get away with stuff."

I'm editorializing. I skip to, "Caryanne picked her up... the kid was out...unconscious. She had stumbled back in the bushes, maybe murmuring a little but incoherent. She got in the back of my truck with her, Caryanne got in the back with the kid," I jerk my thumb over my shoulder at my truck. "We took her to the hospital. Caryanne had stuck her finger down her own throat to vomit the sandwich and whatever was in it. It was... she said it hit her hard and fast. She had a blood test and it came up fentanyl. So, on the way to the hospital she gagged the kid to get the stuff out of her. We... just... left her with the hospital. We didn't know who she was. They wouldn't tell us anything; privacy law."

I want to reference Tilde, who seemed to have authority at the hospital, a known entity, respected, a doctor. Her 'legitimacy' might bleed into my own. Again, I'm reluctant to... name names. I don't know if Tilde wants to be known in this mess.

"How about the other girl?" the cop asks.

"What other... oh... the... dead one?" I say.

"Yes," the cop says.

"She was brought in by an ambulance. I never saw her move or breathe. They... the EMT's... didn't seem to be in a hurry or try any life-saving stuff. I went and watched them take her out of the ambulance and saw she had peanut butter and jelly on her face too. Caryanne said the stuff hit her quickly, Caryanne, and she hadn't had anything else to eat that day, so she was sure that's what it was in the little girl. And probably the dead girl too. She was able to... after throwing up... to ride her bike... Caryanne... over to the Broken Places place and... that's where I met her. I was there, eating a late lunch." 'Drinking an early beer,' my inner voice says. I add, "First time I ever saw her." I don't know why. I'm scared, I guess.

"That's pretty much the story I have," the cop says to me, looks at the man. The man looks at the ground behind me. Cop says, "Do you mind giving me some information about yourself, just for the record?" I open my folder, hand him a resume'.

"Is there anything you need that isn't there?" I ask.

"No, no," he says. "This is everything. Thank you." He hands it back, says, "I already have a copy of this." I glance at Lyrida. She's still standing, smiling, placid. I relax a little. The cop and the man exchange a glance. I see it. Wonder why. Cop asks another question; "Why did you come here to apply for a job?"

"Uh... because... I... need a job," I explain. What a question! "I just got the address and phone number out of the phone book, and called, last... Thursday, and, Lyrida...," I point to her, "the lady... on the phone... gave me an interview. That was Thursday, for Saturday." I'm screwing my words around. I'm nervous.

"That's all I need," the cop says. He shakes the man's hand. The man puts his hands in his hip pockets, watches the cop go toward his car. He turns to me.

"I'm Alan Simpkins," he tells me. "The girl is my daughter. She's fourteen. You... you people saved her life."

Holy shittake mushroom!

The girl... Alan Simpkins. Lyrida's smiling. He's not looking at her but she's motioning for me to come in. She turns, watching, opens the door, waits. I start walking that way, gesture to him, with my left hand, pointing that way, my right arm ushering him, at a distance. Alan Simpkins turns. Lyrida motions again. We go. He gestures for me to climb the steps ahead of him.

"Lyrida said you fixed the steps," he says.

"Yeah," I tell him. "I had that piece of treated wood in the truck. The cut end needs to be treated again. I brought a can of spray. Wouldn't hurt to do the whole rig, make it last an extra year or two.

Inside Lyrida's handing us both a cup of black coffee. She points to a brown leather couch. I go, sit there. He comes, sits on the other end. Lyrida's smiling, sits behind her desk, shuffles some paper. She keeps looking at him, looking at me, looking at him.

"Lyrida's already decided we should hire you," Alan says. "I make all the decisions around here and then Lyrida tells me what to do." He laughs. Lyrida makes a face, nods, affirming that fact.

"Ask him a question," Lyrida commands. He grins at her. She grins back, tosses her head at me, looking at him.

"What... uh... what can we do to advertise more?"

He looks at Lyrida. She looks at him, drops her hands on the desk like... maybe... I think... maybe she thinks that's a stupid question and she meant a question about my qualifications.

It comes to me to say, "You have your name on all your vehicles. Turn the backhoe and the dozer at opposite angles to the road so the name of the company can be read from the street. Angle them, so the name can be read as traffic passes both ways. And keep the weeds pulled!" They both laugh. I sip coffee.

"Except for the morning glories," Lyrida says, without looking up. "I'm going to start parking over there."

Decisions. Alan makes... all... and then... Lyrida tells him... I... I think... I have... a new job! Poker face.

"Well," Lyrida says, again, not looking up, "You people need to get out of here and go to work. We're running late!"

"Let's go," Alan says. I get up, set my coffee on a small glass table there in front of the couch. He tilts his up and empties it, sets it there. We go toward the door. I wave to Lyrida. She grins, waves back.

"We'll get some paperwork tomorrow," Lyrida says. "We're running late already today." We go out.

Outside Alan introduces me to Captain Jack, his foreman, an 'Old Guy' carpenter from Louisiana, a.k.a. Cajun Jack.

There are two other men Alan introduces as laborers, one he says, "Is a pretty good plumber," and the other, "A pretty good backhoe and dozer man!"

We load into two trucks, kingcabs, Alan and I and the plumber in one, Captain Jack, the heavy equipment man in another, and out the gate we go. In about twenty minutes we're down in Buda, corner lot, converting an old bus station to an office and retail space, with a coffee shop on the corner. It's a fairly large job, changing a building from one use to multiple others. They're well into it, plumbing, electric... Alan's the electrician... and a heating and cooling system looking complete.

"Time for walls," Alan says. He and I and Captain Jack go to a south facing window and he unrolls blueprints on a half sheet of plywood, painted white, on sawhorses, the floor plan, everything well explained. I see the fast food places all along the other side of the four-lane street, Walmart sign on down the street. I ask some dimensions on the main hallway, the print being a little less than legible. Captain Jack pulls a pencil, writes them in in a space, labels it 'Hllwy'. I'm looking at the blueprints, the space.

We go to work on the coffee shop, and retail space. Then, Alan decides we should do the offices in the back first, so we can bring lumber in from the front, stack it, without anything in our way, walls. There are side doors in the two back corners, but making the turn past the utilities room there in the right center, would be aggravating on one, and the other one... well... Captain Jack says, "I just don't like it!"

They laugh. And coming off the street, or the parking lot on the other side and in the front would be easier, in their opinion, through the double front doors, which can be opened with no center brace. Cool. Whatever. Alan's apologizing for changing after we'd started but I make it clear I agree, or am agreeable to whatever they want to do. I have no problem changing gears. I kind of like that they rethought it and did so before we... painted ourselves into a corner, cut our options.

The offices go well. Captain Jack's got the floor marked for the base plates. The plumber is plumbing. All the rest of us are carpenter-ing. There will be one restroom on the left, behind the corner coffee shop, then the office in the back, and the same arrangement on the right behind the intended retail space. One side will be a ladies room between the office and the retail shop. The other side will have a men's room, between the coffee shop and that office. The plumbing fixtures are in the space, commodes. One has a urinal mounted to the wall and we use it, feel a little exposed with the glass on three sides up in the front, traffic going by, fast food places across the street. The blueprints show we're framing in lots of openings for glass on the coffee shop side of the hallway, inside the building. I like how I'm imagining that. But I wonder if the equipment inside the shop will need that wall. Some of it looks small, like the retail and coffee areas on both sides of the wide hall, wide as the double doors, but I'm not asking questions, second-guessing that level of planning.

We break for lunch. At a drive-in dairy bar nearby we all get in line and order for ourselves. The plumber's in line in front of me and I hear him say to the pretty little woman in the window, "Baby, I got to looking in your eyes and forgot what I wanted!" He quickly orders a barbecue with slaw, and a chocolate shake. He hadn't forgotten at all. I'm snickering as she closes the window and he turns to grin at me.

"Does that ever work?" I say.

"It did one time; one time," he says. "That's why I keep trying it!"

I have to laugh. I look at Captain Jack behind me and he shakes his head. When I see the girl's brown eyes I see it could just as easily have been a spontaneous inspiration. Very pretty. But... I've become... enamored... of blue eyes... lately.

As I'm walking away with my order I hear Captain Jack say, flatly, "Hey-Baby-I-Got-To-Looking-In-Your-Eyes-And-Forgot..." The girl laughs out loud! I nearly spit out my milkshake.

Back on the job we have the hallway wall up, on the left, spaces left for the doors, interior windows...they want natural light in there, and the back wall of the office leaving a hall for the exit, access to the door on that corner. We frame in the floor plates for the other office, again, leaving a space around the utilities room, a hall to the rear exit on that corner. That's the parking lot side and I suggest a glass door, to let in natural light, as opposed to the solid metal, no windows, security door; to make it a more pleasant entrance for staff, maybe customers of whatever goes in these offices.. We're going pretty good when Alan asks, "Do you guys want to work a little overtime to get this part finished up tonight? We'll make good time tomorrow if we can come in and start the next phase."

Everyone says sure. I nod. We're working when I realize tomorrow's the Fourth of July. I don't care. I'll work it. I look at my watch, four twenty. Cool. I'm assuming overtime pays more, but I don't know. Nobody turned it down. I'm assuming overtime starts at five. I don't know. I'm just glad to be back on a payroll. We get to the stopping point Alan sees... he makes all the decisions... pretty much what he said, where we can come in tomorrow, put in the electrics, and move on. I look at my watch. Damn! It's seven fifty two. Mental note; About three hours overtime.

In the truck Alan tells me Lyrida called to see how I did. I had heard him on the phone, say, "Knocked it out of the park!" He didn't say much else; short call. The only call I heard. I thought he was just talking about all of us getting done what we got done, which was a hell of a good job. Now I wonder if that was his assessment of me.

Captain Jack's sharp as hell, "Measure twice; cut once," he says. And, "You can cut it shorter; you can't cut it longer." He would holler out measurements and I'd cut the boards and we didn't make any bad cuts. Between the two of us and these other guys, on the ball, ready with the next tool you need, the next piece of equipment or material... it rolled. I've worked with other carpenters, other teams. This one gets stuff done.

At the shop we get out and Alan hollers, "Who's working tomorrow? Fourth of July! You can have it if you want it. Holidays don't pay!" Captain Jack raises his hand. I raise mine. Plumber and Dozer-man don't. Head shakes, decline. "Okay," Alan says, "See you guys Wednesday," points at them, points at us, Jack and me, "you guys in the morning."

Everyone heads for their vehicles. Captain Jack shakes my hand, grins. Plumber shakes my hand. I head for mine. Lyrida's gone. In my rearview I see Alan stop on the driveway outside the gate, get out, roll the gate closed. Okay. Behind me now. I head for home. Broken Places is closed by now, and further away than my turns, so I ain't goin' by there. Although... I kind of want to. But no. I'm damn it tired!

When I get to the trailer I see Caryanne out on the highway, arriving just ahead of me. She turns in. I'm... elated. She stops, looking at the empty carport, turns her bike like she's going to come back up the lane, sees me coming, straddle-walks the bike out of the way. I pull up to position to back in, roll down the window.

"Are you just getting in?" she asks.

"Yeah," I tell her. "We worked some overtime."

"You got the job?" she says. I tell her I did and she does a two fists arms up celebratory move, shakes her arms and... other stuff... jiggles. It's... nice to come home... and find her here.

I back in, get out. She's still on her bike.

"Are you just getting here?" I ask.

"Yeah, I helped Mom again with the lunch rush, and took leftover food down to the people. They're... desperate enough that a piece of hamburger or a container of leftover soup from a pot on the stove is not... repugnant to their... palate. Hell! They're starving, some of them. Then I went back to the shop and worked on bicycles. Time flies whether you're having fun or not." She grins, looks at the ground. I unlock the door, open it. I'm waiting for her to come. She sits there.

"You coming in?" I ask her.

"I don't know," she says. "I... I could probably... stay at... my place. That shower curtain worked." She's twisting her hands loosely around the handlebar grips, nervously, grinning. She's so damned cute! "Well... full disclosure," she says. "There was this... shiny... black beetle laying there, dead, in the middle of the room. I'd seen it. I knew it was dead. I haven't done a full sweep of the place yet. I don't have a broom. I... don't want to... borrow Mom's."

I'm thinking she's almost giving away her 'upstairs visitor' status by implying that borrowing mom's broom is logical due to proximity. I don't say anything. I'm imagining that long room, long as the bar, concrete floor... completely open? Sweep it, mop it, likely to clean up nice and stay clean.

"And... anyway, this thousand legger thing comes racing down the room!" she says. "I can see it in the sunset light from way down at the other end," ...she gestures with an arm wave, indicating far away, "...coming, and it's bookin'... really fast, zig zagging, coming, weaving, and it gets about this far..." She gestures with her hands about fifteen inches apart... "from the dead beetle...and it stops, stands there for a second, and then leaps! It leaps that far..." gestures again... "...onto that dead bug! Now, I ain't afraid..." she laughs... "...of dead beetles or even thousand legger thingies... except... when I know they can leap! I never knew they could leap! It was... scary violent!" I laugh out loud. "So... I'm a little freaked out about... that place. I gotta... decontaminate or... exterminate... a little before I'll... sleep comfortably there!" She's glancing at me, grinning. She looks shy.

"So, you need to stay here another night? I told you to make yourself at home," I tell her.

"Yeah, I need... sanctuary!" She laughs her lovely laugh, steps off the bike, rolls into the carport. I open the door. She puts the bike in, goes in, bicycle shorts, very... attractive.

She declines food. I take shorts and underwear and a t-shirt into the bathroom and take a shower, come out. She comes through the trailer, toiletries in hand. I reach in the bedroom and hand her my robe. She grins, takes it, squeaks, "Thank you," goes in, showers. Comes out, asks, "Candy, can I... borrow some of those... briefs you wear? The ones with... legs?"

"Sure," I say, without really thinking about what she's asking.

"I saw the package in the bedroom, and they kind of look like bicycle shorts," she says. "I... don't have any underwear..." she confesses, "so I wear bicycle shorts all the time. I have four pairs but..." She doesn't finish. "I can take an old pair that... maybe are getting worn out for you."

"Take the three new ones left in the package, Caryanne," I tell her. "Take them... all three. I have plenty." I don't have plenty. That's why I bought six new ones. "I don't like them," I tell her, explain, "Too hot." But I have enough. There's another 'homeless' worry. Your underclothes wear out, or... get soiled because you don't eat in a normal fashion, don't have a toilet to get to, and get surprised sometimes, and you can't just wash them. That costs money, your socks, underwear. Soon you're just wearing outer clothes, and it doesn't feel... comfortable, physically or psychologically.

"I don't..." she says, doesn't finish. She goes in the bedroom, closes the pocket door, comes out, the white legs of the boxer briefs, I think they call them, are longer than the black bicycle shorts. She's tugging at the bottom of the legs. I think it's sexy. I don't know why. But I do. Her legs are shapely, muscular. The little white cuffs around those thighs... I don't know.

We talk. I tell her about Alan Simpkins and who his daughter is!

Her jaw drops open! She says, "You're shittin' me!", apologizes, asks for details.

I don't have much more. We talk about 'small world' and karma and she tells me about a karmaic circle concept (kar-MAH-ic), where an action or failure to act, words spoken or just thought, opens a circle that will come and close with you, behind you, for better or worse. She describes a bad karmaic circle as, 'Snapping shut on your ass!' I'm thinking about that when she asks me to play guitar. She lays in the recliner, covers up with one of my Mom's quilts, and falls asleep. I slip off to bed, reset the alarm. In the morning, just before the alarm goes off, she's there, sits on the side of the bed, pushes at my shoulder!

"I don't want you to go to Longview," she says. I think, I'm not sure, she says, "Or take me with you if you do." She must have heard Tulane leave the message on the answering machine.

I'm trying to form a sentence, point out I may have to, don't want to, but may have to. She's gone again. I hear the trailer door close.

The alarm goes off. Tuesday, July 4th. I have to get to work, but I had allowed for the possibility of giving her a ride to work. I'm early. I like talking to her. I like Mrs. Wright's fence. I... like that... she doesn't want me to go to Longview. I...r eally... like that... she... Did she say, 'Take me with you'? I'm... I can't think.