Max sat under the shade of a seagrape tree at the edge of the property on Longboat Key, eating the turkey sandwich he brought for lunch, watching the wakes come in from boats passing through the channel. He ate half the sandwich and tossed the rest to a great blue heron that stalked the embankment. He watched its fluid, powerful strikes shred the mutilated remains of flaked meat, Miracle Whip, mayonnaise, and Wonder Bread. He still had the earbud in that he’d put in that morning, but having forgotten to hit play on the Alan Watts Zen Buddhism lecture, he’d spent the whole day painting in silence. He spent the remainder of his lunch break in the shade, smoking three cigarettes and drinking a can of Diet Coke.
He heard someone approaching through the thick St. Augustine grass.
Bill said, “Max, I’m gonna have you and Mikey sand and scrape the garage doors after lunch. Antonio just got here, so he’ll pick up where you left off on the topcoat.”
Max looked at Bill expressionlessly through his shades. “Sounds good.”
“I’m gonna try to spray those doors. Might run a little late. I’m ready to punch out here and put this place in my rearview.”
“Hear that.”
“You feeling alright?”
Max thought: Goddamn it. I’d finish this whole job myself if it meant not having to work next to Mikey today. That fucktard has been on one all day.
Max forced some pep and said, “Oh yeah, man, just had a late night.”
Bill chuckled and said, “Well, I’m sure Mikey will wake you up. It must’ve been a full moon last night or something—he’s already run through his Scarface impression three times.”
Max laughed.
“You guys speed through that, and we’ll be close to wrapping up after I spray.”
“Copy.”
After lunch, Bill unloaded the sprayer from his truck and rolled it to the garage that jutted out in an L-shape at the entrance of the house. The shade from two banyan trees shaded most of the driveway, stopping six feet short of the garage doors, where Max and Mikey had begun sanding under the scorching afternoon sun.
Mikey took an empty five-gallon bucket to stand on, and Max used a two-step stool. Max had worn his sunglasses since before the sun came up. He wet a rag under the spigot, draped it over his head, and wore a paint-splattered, sun-bleached blue trucker hat with a tattered Grateful Dead patch over the rag to hold it in place.
“Last one to finish buys the beers,” Mikey said and began violently sanding.
“I’ll get my wallet out. Bill said it just needs a light scuff.”
“Shit, you’re right.” Mikey eased up on the pressure and increased his speed.
Max used his five-in-one tool to scrape flakes of old, dried-out gray paint. He watched memories like flash clips with distorted sound and color: a trash bag full of blackberries, Dad watching him and Jerm in Taekwondo, Rita’s Italian ice in the summer. It was like watching TV with a hangover. The memories ran through his head passively, evoking no feeling but inescapable. He could think of nothing else, and nothing else was of interest.
Mikey took a smoke break under the tree. Max smoked and continued to scrape and sand. The disjointed, spastic sound of Mikey swiping through TikTok made Max realize he’d had his earbud in without listening to any music, so he stuffed it back in his pocket. Mikey went back to sanding his door, stopped after a moment, then said, “What’s wrong, Max?”
Max turned his head and looked at Mikey.
“What?”
“What’s wrong, bud? You feeling down, bud?”
There was something in Mikey’s tone that Max couldn’t grasp. He’s not asking me what he’s asking me. Max’s face showed no feeling or interest, more barren with sunglasses obscuring his eyes and brow. He looked at Mikey.
“What are you asking me, dude?”
“I said what’s wrong, pal? It seems like you’re having a bad day.”
Max caught the act—the unnatural sell of authenticity and condescension. Max felt a rush of adrenaline possess him. He looked down and saw Mikey’s phone in his pocket with the camera pointing right at him. He stepped forward and spoke directly.
“Did I say you could film me, motherfucker?”
Mikey got jolted. He pulled the phone from his pocket and tried to show Max the video. Mikey was proud; he had a big, cheesy grin on his face as he held the phone up for Max and played the interaction: it was the conversation that had transpired, but with a filter over Max’s face to make him look like a crying baby.
In one motion, Max smacked Mikey’s phone out of his hand and shoved him, sending the phone into a bush and Mikey stumbling over an empty five-gallon bucket. Mikey immediately rallied, threw up his hands in a boxing stance, and flamboyantly hopped and bobbed.
“What’s good, nigga? Can’t take a joke, bitch-ass nigga?”
Bill poked his head from around the corner, wearing a tattered raffia cattleman hat and a cigarette in the corner of his mouth that fell as he shouted, “Hey! What the fuck!” He set down his cut pot and ran to get between them.
“You think I want to be on camera like some faggot actor?”
Mikey cut left to fake out Bill, then cut right and threw a jab. Max pulled back, dodged the jab, and caught Mikey with a left hook to his jaw, but didn’t lay him out. Mikey caught Max with a jab square in the mouth, stunning Max, then took his leg. Max went down on his back. Mikey threw hooks, catching Max’s temples. Max threw a jab inside and hit Mikey’s nose and upper lip just before Bill got a leg between them and pushed Mikey off Max. Mikey spun around, pulled off his shirt in one motion, and got back in stance, ready for round two.
Max paced, spit, and wiped the blood from his lip.
Bill said, “What the fuck happened?”
The Mexicans and Ukrainians stood by, watching. Antonio, the old man, shook his head and spoke to himself, “Too many bullshit. Too many bullshit.”
Bill repeated himself, demanding attention from both of them, “What the FUCK was that?”
“Ask this pussy,” Mikey said, breathing heavily with his hands on his waist. Shorter than Max, but far more muscular.
“Like I’m some high school girl trying to be famous, like you. Fucking retard.”
“You get no pussy. Scrawny, weird-ass nigga. What’s up? You want me to fuck you up again?” Mikey threw up his stance one more time and stepped toward Max, who watched him unfazed.
“Hey!” Bill cut in. “It’s done! Mikey, go with Antonio and finish the lanai. Both of you cool off. You dipshits need to work and cool the fuck off. Max, finish the doors so I can spray. Fuck.”
Max worked steadily and attentively. He finished both doors ahead of schedule, then smoked a cigarette and the joint he’d forgotten to smoke that morning. He lay in the grass and looked up at the tangled mess of the banyan tree, then pulled his hat over his face and embraced the silence.
After a few minutes, footsteps approached from the driveway. Max raised the brim of his hat to see Bill standing at the edge of the grass, his head eclipsing the glare of the sun, shading his profile.
“You started it?”
Max didn’t speak, feeling that he hadn’t.
“I guess so.”
“Make it right.”
“Alright.”
Max set his hat back on his head and began to get up, brushing off the back of his pants and shirt. A small stain of blood remained on his collar where he’d wiped it.
“Is something wrong, Max?”
Max looked at Bill, then off to the side where Ivan was rolling holidays by the AC unit.
“Some bullshit with my dad. He’s in the hospital.”
“He’s sick?”
“Not the regular hospital, the crazy house or whatever.” Max was dismissive.
In no great detail, Bill knew Max’s dad had been homeless or living in and out of hotels for some time.
“I know Mikey can be fucking annoying. Especially at the worst time—he’s got a knack for that.”
Max nodded, looking at Bill, then away again.
“We can’t be fighting at work, though, you know that. I get it, shit gets out of hand sometimes.”
“Yeah.”
“Look, square up with Mikey. We’ll spray and get the fuck out of here. Take a long weekend. I’ll tell Vlad you had a family emergency and spare the details.”
“I’ll be fine, really.”
“You’ve never done something like this before. Some of the other guys have hot heads, and I can expect that from them. Once we finish here, we’re cruising on jobs for the rest of the week until that apartment complex on Coconut. You get a pass this time. Take tomorrow and text me Friday to let me know if you want to work.”
Bill began prepping the sprayer while Max took a bucket of dry rags over to the spigot. He heard Spanish ballads playing from a Bluetooth speaker around the corner. Max peeked and saw Antonio and Cedro rolling a final coat around the lanai doors. Mikey was smoking a cigarette and looking up at what he had left to cut in around the ceiling fan. Max walked over. Cedro slowed for a moment and observed.
Mikey tapped his cigarette; ash floated to the polished concrete.
“We good?”
Max raised a fist. Mikey put the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and bumped Max’s fist.
“We good.”
At 3:20 p.m., Max rode with Dimitri and Ivan back to the shop. He called Nichole and explained that he had a family emergency and needed an advance on his check, and that Ivan would graciously pick it up for him as a way to avoid Vlad or anyone in the office possibly seeing his busted lip and swollen head. After Ivan returned to the car with Max’s check, Max loaned Ivan a cigarette, shook their hands, walked a block to the bus stop, and headed home.