“I need you guys to work tomorrow and the next day.”

“No,” said Pete. We were on the roof of the building.

“Come on,” said the site superintendent, “The roofers are coming on Monday and we need to be ready for them.”

“No,” said Pete. He lifted a sheet of plywood from the big pile on the roof deck and set it up on the horses. The superintendent looked worried.

“He can come,” said Pete, and he pointed his stubby thumb at me, “But I’m not.”

“Can you work this weekend?”

I looked at Pete. Then I looked at the 95 sheets of plywood still piled up. Then I looked at the superintendent. “OK.”

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked Pete, once we were alone.

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?”

“Uh, nothing. You’re the one that wants to work every weekend.”

“Since when?”

We spent the rest of the day cutting plywood and nailing it onto a wooden framework we first had to build from 2x6s. The detail we were working on was simple but time-consuming and, by the end of the day, the big pile of plywood was mostly still there.

When we got off the roof, the site superintendent once again asked Pete if he would work the weekend.

“No,” said Pete, and he threw his workbelt into the back of his truck.

“No, man, come on, we need you.”

“You got him,” he said, and he pointed his thumb at me again. “He’ll be more than enough.”

“But the roofers are coming, man. They’re gonna come and take one look and leave.”

“No,” said Pete, “They’ll set up. We’ll be far ahead of them by the time they start.”

The site superintendent chewed on the inside of his cheek, which is not a habit which instills confidence in onlookers. I got in the truck. Pete got in the truck. We drove away.

“Have fun tomorrow,” he said as I got out.

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be fun. I won’t get very much done, you know.”

“You’ll get nothing done. You’ll get paid a little bit, though. That’s good enough, isn’t it?”

“I guess so.” And he left.

It rained all weekend.