http://quinbrowne-words.blogspot.com/ Quin Browne
http://linda-leftbrainwrite.blogspot.com/ Linda W.
http://albruno3.blogspot.com/ Al Bruno III
http://disenthrallme.wordpress.com/ Walter C.'s stunning ezine
http://thomg.blogspot.com/ Thom G.
"Two and tree lines," Saul yelled. Bryant resented the sheet-rocker. After ten years in America, couldn't the hairy Canadian translate "tree lines" to "three-eights-of-an-inch?" Bryant fumed, swore his best harsh-k's under his breath while Bryant whistled an Alanis Morissette tune.
"Bri-ent, bring me up more nails you."
Bryant balanced the cut piece of sheet rock up the ladder and considered what his ideal job would be. A CIA agent maybe, trained at Guantanamo Bay, one skilled in the art of torture. He'd use those skills to administer pain to anyone that couldn't sing all eight verses of America the Beautiful. Or not read a goddamn tape measure. Or whistle "All I Really Want" incessantly.
Bryant struggled over to Saul, shoved the freshly cut section of wall at the Canadian. Saul thanked Bryant, replenished the supply of nails under his moustache and blithely seated the dry wall, biceps bulging, still whistling. Saul's effort exposed armpit stains which not only offended Bryant's gaze, but also his nostrils… and his machismo. Two hours a day at the gym and he could barely balance one sheet of drywall, never mind lift it alone. Where did the goddamn Canadian get his strength?
Saul wriggled nails to the corner of his mouth. He snapped the tape measure out, marked the air between the studs. "You cut piece, eh…."
"Two and tree lines? Isn't that what it always is?" Bryant sneered. "Come on man! It's TWO FEET, THREE EIGHTHS OF AN INCH! INCHES! Not 'TREE LINES'!" Bryant punched a hole through the new sheet of drywall. "Cris-sakes, you live in AMERICA!" Bryant punched a second time.
His knuckles, obscured by a cloud of chalky dust slammed a stud. Bryant screamed in a pitch high enough to rival pre-teen girls at a Jonas Brothers concert. He yanked his throbbing fist to his chest, held it with his healthy hand and side-stepped in rhythm to his, "Ow, ow, ow, fuckin' OW!"
Bryant stumbled onto a loose piece of plywood, rocking it off the support beam. His arms—hurt fist and unimpressive biceps included—wind-milled as he teetered between second-floor sub-flooring and space-between-cross-beams.
Saul shook his head, took one giant step and reached for Bryant's tool belt, yanking him back onto the sturdy, nailed-down flooring.
Bryant collapsed, gasping for air. "Thanks, man. You saved my life."
Saul shrugged, wriggled the nails between his lips and hummed what Bryant eventually recognized as, "You Oughta Know."