Bob

I know an old mason.

Bob is a good man. His hands are beat up from building masonry walls.

Strong guy, Bob is someone I met about twenty years ago. We became friends and there were a couple of times when I had to bail him out with OSHA because Bob wasn’t a stickler for the rules.

He hated his hard hat because he had a full head of dark hair.

He got busted smoking on school jobs about twenty times.

Bob was about 50 when I met him.

By the time he turned 63 he started talking to me about his retirement.

He would tell me how many days he had left.

“241 more days…208 more days…175 more days…90 more days.”

Every time he told me I would tell him:

“You’re a lifer. You’ll never quit.”

But Bob did.

About two years ago, he shook my hand.

“I’m all done. I’m going to Arizona to be near my daughter and my grandkids.”

I gave Bob a hug that day.

A good, hardworking man.

Cut to yesterday afternoon.

I came around the corner on a job and Bob was there.

We both started laughing.

Not even a word passed between us:

We just both laughed.

I shook his hand.

It was still calloused.

“You still stealing money as a safety guy?” He asked. There was a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“What in the hell are you doing with a block in your hands?”

“I just came up for this job because my son is working it.”

He pointed across the way.

“I wanted to spend time with him. What better way than to work it with him?”

“But you’re retired!”

“I’m still retired,” he said. “I’m doing this for fun.”

“So you aren’t getting paid?”

“I’m getting paid. I ain’t stupid.”

“I knew you couldn’t quit,” I said. “How the hell old are you?”

“Seventy-two,” he said.

“You look good.”

“Better than you.”

We both laughed again.

Had a huge handshake that led to a hug.

“Good seeing you,” I said.

He laughed again.

Bob.