Love on Site (3 page)

The next morning I wore one of the polo shirts Estefani had given me, with a pair of jeans and my Doc Martens. On my way to work, the street lights along the highway glowed in a halo of morning fog and an orange glimmer in my rear-view mirror promised dawn would come soon. I pulled up at the trailer about six forty-five and was surprised to see a row of cars already there.

A couple of construction managers slunk past, looking sleepy and hungover, and I followed them into the conference room, nodding hello to those who acknowledged me. Around the table, guys fumbled with papers and coffee cups. Camilo stood next to the tiny window, coughing hoarsely as he lit up a cigarette, then blew the smoke out under the jalousie.

Walter walked in promptly at seven, handsome as ever in the dark green polo shirt that reflected his eyes. He began with a weather forecast from his smartphone. Temperature, winds, and rain all had an effect on our construction, so we had to know what was expected and plan around it. The prevailing weather pattern for Miami was a thunderstorm every afternoon in the early part of the summer. Any work sensitive to the elements, like fine grading of the warehouse pad, had to be done before the rain swept in.

He led us through a quick meeting about what had to be accomplished on-site that day. Everyone spoke English, which put Camilo at a disadvantage. He was waiting on a delivery of ten-inch sewer pipes; there was some kind of shortage he wasn’t clear about.

“You talked about that yesterday,” Walter said. “How come you haven’t done anything about it yet?”

“They got no ten-inch pipe in the warehouse,” Camilo said, his accent heavy.

“Talk to the engineer. See if we can swap out for nine-inch. I always thought that pipe was overengineered. You’ve got barely a two-foot decline in that line, and nine inches should get us enough flow to meet code.”

“Sí,
jefe
,” Camilo said.

Walter turned to Adrian. “You get the scope of work for the flooring yet? I want that out to bid yesterday, if not sooner.”

“Drove over to the architect’s office last night after work,” Adrian said. “Stood there until he finished the last calculations and printed the drawings for me.”

“Good man. That’s the kind of initiative I like to see.”

We were done by seven thirty, and as the rest of the guys filtered out, Walter said, “Manny, come to my office and let’s talk about what you can do.”

I followed him, trying not to notice the way his black jeans hugged his ass. “Let’s get a couple of terms straight,” he said as I sat down across from him. “Loredo Limited Partnership Number Six is the developer of this project. I’m the president of that entity as well as of Loredo Construction.” He slid a piece of paper across his desk at me—an organization chart that showed Walter at the top. Beneath him were Camilo and Adrian. Estefani also reported directly to him, and he sketched in a box for me as assistant manager, with a line up to his name.

“LLP Six hired Loredo Construction to build this project,” Walter said. “LC is the general contractor, and we hire subcontractors for each trade. I’m the only one authorized to sign contracts, but Adrian and Camilo can negotiate schedules and prices.”

He handed me a blank contract of the kind he used when hiring subcontractors. “I want you to know this contract from front to back. You’ll be in charge of the project schedule, which means knowing what each trade has promised and when they’re due. You’ll be out on-site every day, checking on progress, coordinating with Adrian and Camilo. You’ll meet everybody and start to see how it all comes together. Oh, and tomorrow morning? You’re the new guy, so you get to make us all coffee before the meeting.”

Walter assigned me one of the empty offices, and Estefani set me up with a computer, a phone, and a radio. She ordered me business cards with the Loredo logo. Then I walked the site, checked in with the contractors, and made notes on their progress. I took my notes back to the trailer, where I pulled up the scheduling software and adjusted a giant Gantt chart that showed each item, how long it would take, and what depended on it.

When every item on the chart was green, we were on target. If something turned yellow, that meant it had become a priority, and could potentially hold up something else if anything went wrong. An item that turned red would throw off a significant part of the schedule.

That afternoon I watched from the trailer window as contractors scattered with the first sheets of rain. It was the kind of downpour that sweeps in from the Everglades and drenches everything in its path, and within a half hour the site was deserted. I stayed in the trailer, hearing the water pound the roof and sluice off in a drain by the front door.

My abuela often took care of me and my two little sisters during the summers, and I remembered sitting in our house with them through many storms. Abuela was frightened of thunder and lightning, and she’d gather the three of us around her in the hallway that led to our bedrooms. It was the center of the house, far from any windows. She wouldn’t let us comb our hair, watch TV, or listen to the radio.

The rain had eased by the time I left the office, though the drive home was slow on wet, slippery roads. I nuked a frozen dinner, ate it, and spent some quality time in bed with Maurice Vellekoop’s
ABC Book
—an erotic comic with sexy naked guys representing each letter of the alphabet. I busted my nut over “E is for executives reaching their goals,” loving the gray-haired boss getting his ass eaten by one of his staff.

The next morning I got to the site a few minutes early so I could make Cuban coffee for everyone at the seven a.m. meeting. I made it the way my father always had—only Pilon, a Cuban brand of beans, with demerara sugar, a natural brown sugar. I let the first bit of espresso drip into the glass pitcher and paused the machine while I mixed in the sugar until I had a creamy, light brown paste. Then I ran the rest of the espresso into the pitcher and mixed it up, creating a light brown foam layer, an
espuma
, on top.

Estefani kept a dispenser of tiny white paper cups, and I filled them up, put them on a tray, and carried it into the conference room as everyone was getting settled. The guys liked my technique, and an appreciative murmur spread through the room. Even Camilo grudgingly admired the taste.

When I looked at the schedule after that meeting, I saw that the formwork for building two was red. That was where Walter had showed me the runny concrete. Heavy rains the week before had delayed building the forms, and the bad concrete meant that a row of footers had to be pulled out and repoured. I met with the superintendent in charge of the forms and concrete, and talked to him about what we could do to make the schedule green again. He said if he could hire a second crew, he could increase his deliveries and get back on schedule.

I reported that back to Walter, along with a cost estimate for the extra crew. Because they’d be short-term workers, and not regular guys getting overtime, the cost was negligible, and Walter authorized the addition.

“Good job,” he said, looking up from his desk and smiling at me. My heart thumped an extra beat as I thanked him and walked back to my office, basking in his praise.

I tried not to bother Walter with simple questions, addressing the relevant super instead, but I was still in and out of his office all day as he gave me small assignments or asked for progress reports. Each time I saw him, I got a jolt of sexual energy. At the same time, whenever I heard him holler my name I jumped, worried that I’d done something to screw up that would get me fired.

Wednesday afternoon when he called me in, he had a stack of papers in his hand. “Goddamn change orders,” he said. “These subs will screw you every way to Tuesday if you don’t keep an eagle eye on them.”

I had learned that sometimes the contractors bid, or even began building, from incomplete drawings, resulting in the need to amend contracts to accommodate changes that had come up after the contract was signed.

He held the first order up. “Expand graded area as per drawing L-12 of July 1, 2012,” he read. “Fourteen thousand dollars. He’s full of shit.” He showed me a rough sketch he had drawn, calculating the area and multiplying it out by the figure in the contract. “It’s only worth twelve grand.”

“Will the contractor accept that much?” I asked.

“He’ll accept it,” he said, pushing the papers toward me. “If he doesn’t, I’ll get out there with a D-9 and handle the grading myself.” He smiled. “Won’t be the first time. Now take these out and distribute them to Adrian and Camilo. If they give you any shit, tell them you’re just the messenger.”

I took the papers from him and walked outside, so impressed with Walter. Not only could he run the whole project, he could handle any trade. Yet another reason to swoon over him.

I spotted Camilo sitting in a plastic lawn chair at the far side of the site, where he was supervising a couple of laborers clearing away brush. It was hot and dry, and a strong wind kicked up a dust bowl worthy of the 1930s. By the time I reached him, my hair was plastered to my scalp and beads of sweat dripped down my back.

I sorted through the pile of change orders and handed the site work ones to Camilo. “
Qué comemierderia
!” he said, when he saw the change order for the site grading.
What kind of shit is this?
“Walter Loredo is an engineer now?”

I shrugged. “He told me to tell you I’m only the messenger.” I didn’t bother to add that Walter was willing to do the work himself.

I found Adrian next, behind building two. He had his hard hat under one arm and his phone against his ear. He had worked construction in Cartagena until his twenties, when he got tired of all the violence and drug trafficking and managed to snag a visa for the US. He had taken the piece of paper and never looked back, he said. I gave him the change orders and trudged back to the trailer—hot, sticky, and tired.

I was also obsessed with Walter. I listened to the Spanish-language gossip behind his back and learned that he had gotten married very young, while he was still in college. His wife’s father was wealthy and politically connected, and he had helped Walter’s career in big and small ways. But the marriage hadn’t lasted, and he was in the middle of a divorce. It was an awkward one, because his father-in-law was one of the investors in the warehouse project.

There was apparently no new girlfriend in the picture. Some said that Walter’s wife had cheated on him; others that he had worked too hard and ignored her. I didn’t know whom to believe. The only important thing, I figured, was that he was straight and therefore not worth lusting after. At least, I kept telling myself that.

Getting Wet

I stayed as late as I could each day that first week; I didn’t have a key to the trailer, so I had to leave when the last manager did. Walter stuck his head in my office door a few minutes after six Thursday evening. He wore a ratty white T-shirt from a charity fund-raiser, electric-yellow nylon running shorts, and expensive sneakers. He looked so handsome and sexy I had to close my mouth to keep from gaping.

“I’m going for a run,” he said. “You’ll still be here for a half hour or so?”

“Take as long as you want,” I said, struggling to stay aloof. “I’m reviewing the drywall contract, and it’s a bear.”

“You having a problem with something?”

“I don’t understand the penalty clause,” I said.

“Let me show you.” He stepped into my office and bent over the contract beside me. I was so conscious of his body next to mine that it felt like my brain circuits had fried. His scent, a mix of lemon cologne, sweat, and dust, filled my nostrils.

“You have to keep an eye on the penalties,” he said, moving my hand off the pages so he could lift a couple up. My skin tingled from his touch.

He went back and forth from the schedule to the penalty clause, pointing out what had to happen in order for the contractor to get his full pay—and what the consequences were if his schedule ran too long and interfered with the work of other trades.

He was excited by the ideas—his voice caught a couple of times, and it was almost like his pulse was racing. That excitement was contagious. “I get it,” I said. “I see how it works.”

He stood up, and there was a look in his eyes I couldn’t quite understand. I guessed it was pride—he was pleased that I was learning. “I’d better get out there.” He backed away, knocking into the door frame, then turned and hurried out. I got a great view of his ass, and the way the bright yellow fabric clung to his cheeks got me hard.

I knew it was stupid, but I couldn’t help myself. My handsome, straight boss had stolen my heart. Walter Loredo was everything I wanted in a man—he was charming and smart, and old enough to satisfy the craving I had for mature men. Looking at him made my heart race and my dick jump. But I was going to have to tough it out, keeping my desire hidden; I needed the job and the experience, and I needed to learn how to control my libido too.

After I pored over the contracts for a while, I took a break and looked out the window. Walter pounded across the site, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He swerved and darted to avoid new trenches, stacks of stockpiled materials, and parked earthmovers and cranes.

I couldn’t figure out where he got the energy. I’d only been on the job for four days, and I was beat. I’d worked full-time jobs before, during the summer, but never ones as physically and mentally demanding as being a construction manager for Loredo.

Walter returned to the trailer as I was ready to give up work for the day. We were the last ones left on-site, and he pulled his T-shirt over his head as he walked in the trailer’s front door. His chest was magnificent—muscular, lightly furred, with areolas around his nipples as big as quarters.

He used the T-shirt to wipe his forehead. “Make a note, Manny,” he said. “The rear tire on the golf cart looks like it’s going flat. And the forms on the northwest corner of building one are crooked.”

I scribbled the notes. “You saw all that as you were running?”

He smiled. “Gotta keep an eye on things.” He raised his right arm and sniffed under his pit. “Better get out of here before I stink up the place. You go on, and I’ll follow you in a minute.”