Clyde leaned forward and cracked open his third beer. In the four months since we started clearing ditches together, he ate no lunch, just drank three beers. I held out half of my sandwich and received the customary headshake. I told him roast beef, but he waved it off. I knew he would never take the sandwich, but asking him became routine. The other guys at work joked that I must have done something wrong to get assigned to Clyde for the summer.
Without saying anything, he finished his beer and stood up at twelve-thirty on the dot. He installed the empties into the plastic holder with the remaining full cans and put them behind the seat of my truck for the ride back to his car.
At first, I tried to engage him in conversation, going on and on about my wife and daughter, fishing, politics, baseball, anything I thought might crack his seal. I talked about getting drunk, but even that was met with the same blank stare. At lunch on the third day, Clyde got up in the middle of his beer, walked across the road, and sat on the guardrail until twelve-thirty. I didn't try again after that, and we have eaten on the same side of the road since.
He scuffled through the trash for an empty coffee cup. I put my lunch pail on the front seat and took out the maps of the water and electric lines. I set them on the hood. Clyde looked at me, sighed, and then walked toward the backhoe. It was my responsibility to make sure that we didn't hit anything, but I could feel his contempt every time I consulted the maps. I knew he looked at it as an insult to his skill and experience. I left them rolled up and put my gloves on. We were in the middle of a twenty-eight mile stretch of woods. It wasn't worth suffering his disgust along with his silent treatment for the afternoon.
Clyde climbed into the cab and put the empty coffee cup between his legs. He positioned the backhoe and dipped a pinch of chew. He sat behind the hoe controls and raised the cup to his lips. A jet of brown fluid streamed out between his lips. It was my job to guide him by hand signals as he positioned the giant claw. I stood on the opposite side of the ditch and raised my hand. He nodded at me, pushing a lever forward.
I curled my fingers in, like I was inviting Clyde out of the cab, out of his shell. The teeth on the hoe pressed through the grass and Black-Eyed Susans into the loamy topsoil. Roots from the stand of pines behind me crackled and popped. I waved my finger in a circle, and he pulled back another lever, curling the bucket in.
There was a loud crunch and I looked up at Clyde. He looked back at me with raised eyebrows that said, it's your job not mine, Bub. I looked down at the hole. Water oozed up around the teeth. I scissored my arms at Clyde. He pushed one lever full forward and pulled the other back hard. A plume of water sprang from the clay layer in the ditch, soaking me from head to toe.
Clyde jumped out of the cab. I crossed my arms on my chest, expecting his tirade. I realized I didn't have a single argument against it and dropped my hands. He hopped down into the ditch and stood in the falling water, watching me. He tipped his head back and opened his mouth, and then leveled his gaze back on me.
A wide grin cracked his face, and he danced. He skipped in the forming puddle, pulling his hat down on his head and kicking water at me. I couldn't do any more than stand there and watch him move his feet in some sort of soft-shoe.
It lasted for the full five minutes it took for the water pressure to die down to a trickle. He ended his routine with a flourish, and stood hunched over with his hands out at his side, smiling. His eyes sparkled. He took his hat off and bowed while I clapped for him. I couldn't think of anything to say. Clyde climbed out of the ditch and back into the backhoe. The smile was gone, and he didn't look at me again. Neither of us spoke on the way home. Clyde downed the rest of his six-pack.
The next morning, I put my cup of coffee in the holder and another one on Clyde's side. When I pulled up to his car, he threw a section of replacement pipe into the bed of my pickup, and climbed in. He looked at the coffee for a bit like he couldn't remember putting it there. He shrugged his shoulders and sipped.
Halfway there, I couldn't take it anymore. "I hear the ballet's hiring," I said. There was a brief silence and Clyde raised his middle finger and chuckled. He stared straight ahead, but left the finger up as his chuckle built to a full belly laugh.