Christmas Boss

Chapter Three

Just before lunch, she locked her computer, coming to a conclusion as to how to put Mr. Pretty Boy in his place.

She found Gert showing the new hire the quirk with the printer that they'd all learned to live with instead of her going through the needless expense of getting another. The steel-toed boots were not built for stealth, two heads popped up at her approach.

"Hey, Miss Cruise, Timothy is doing an excellent job! He catches on so quickly."

"I have a great teacher," he said smoothly and right on cue, Gert blushed. Vivacious resisted the urge to snort.

"Glad to hear it," she said absently. "Say Tim—can I call you Tim?" She smiled at his nod. "Great...you're going on a tour of the yard. The dust and grime may not be too bad this morning." She searched his face for horrified indignation and to her disappointment, found none. There was time yet.

Gert butted in. "He'll get his nice clothes dirty."

"Call Herbie," she said. "He'll fix that. Can't promise much about your hands though."

****

Vivacious expected Mr. Pretty Boy to be uncomfortable in his uncustomary outfit but to her annoyance, he wore the overalls, boots and hard hat without complaint or embarrassment and still turned out looking fine enough to take to the catwalk.

"Whatever happens in the yard, you can always count on it being dirty." She didn't know why she was bent on teasing her employee, but walking down the sidewalk beside the big man was tripping all her insecurity alarms. Why did she feel like he was the one in charge?

She stuck her gloved hands inside her pockets. The rumor of snow played on the cold, moist air. With Christmas right around the corner, she doubted the weather would stop her most dedicated customers however.

"We serve the general public as well as the commercial industry." She pointed. "Up ahead is our weighing and buying side as you can see from the assorted traffic."

Customers drove pickup trucks and trailers loaded with refrigerators, rusty bikes, garden equipment, lawn furniture and other metallic odds and ends plucked from old farms or from alongside the road.

"People get here anyway they can, sometimes they come on foot, hauling their metals in trashcans on wheels or even in old grocery carts. Bobby Lee—the janitor—used to come to the yard on his moped. He'd have cat litter containers filled with aluminum drink cans tied to the sides and would only make five or six dollars at a time. I used to tell Herbie to add a little extra to his receipt until I found out how much he likes to clean. He still brings in cans sometimes though. Once you scrap, you never go back."

"I guess that goes for you too."

Instead of feeling insulted, she grinned. "It's in the blood. Scrappers are a motley bunch, coming from many different walks of life. Most are the forgotten and the unseen of society. Some are unscrupulous—thieves that'll steal an air conditioner off a church just for the copper. But for the most part, they're good people and generous."

The closer they got to the yard, the nosier and dustier it became. Waving dust out of his face, Tim asked, "How did you get into this dirty business?"

He was such a pansy. Behind a desk was exactly where he belonged. "My dad. He was like Sanford and Son—without the son. After mom died, he had to earn extra money to pay off the medical bills. Somebody told him about metal recycling and he had me drive him around the city on the weekends, so he could dart out of the truck to pick up discarded appliances, mops, TVs, old bikes—you name it. Anything with so much as an ounce of metal went into the truck. I still remember that truck. It was an old white Jeep Cherokee with a bent up bumper. It was tough and strong though. That's how I learned how to drive a manual—on that old Jeep truck. Those were the days. Never thought they would lead to this." She flicked her hand at the building.