C H A D

The hot Louisiana sun laughed at me as I poured the last of the boat's paint into the plastic container. I bitterly wiped the sweat from my brow as I dipped the paint brush in the bright white paint and continued brushing it along the motorboat's right side. As I grabbed a nearby towel and ran it across my face and chest, I couldn't help but think, why did God decide to make it so dang hot? Seriously, when he was creating the world, did the place where Louisiana would be have some giant sign that says, 'HEY, GOD! MAKE ME THE HOTTEST AND MOST HUMID PLACE IN AMERICA!'? Sometimes I think that God had it all mapped out. The heat and humidity seems to effect me more than everyone else... so when He's bored up there, does He just decide to make the heat index 110 degrees to see me suffer?

I wouldn't be surprised.

It always seems like the heat likes to kick itself up a notch whenever it's a day when I have to work outside. Whether it's testing new baits, cooking up some new bait combination, working on boats, even just feeding Mr. John's dog, the thermometer spikes! God, I'm sweating so badly that it's dripping onto the paint. I look up from my thoughts and glance at the thermometer on the cabin's outside wall behind me. It read 103 degrees. Havin' a good laugh, God? I sure hope so, because I sure as hell don't think it's funny.

"Chad!"

I turned at the familiar sound. It was my boss, Mr. John, walking towards me with a skip in his step. I could tell that from a distance, he was already inspecting my work. Now, Mr. John Munroe is a great man and all, but this dude is the purest Cajun born if there ever was one (not counting his clean house and nice clothes). He's got a pot belly on him (but I'd never tell him that to his face) with a pronounced chin and shining eyes. He's always wearing his Mossy Oak cap, a pair of knee-high rubber boots, and some old t-shirt with dirty jeans to work. But that's just to work. You see him out in town, or making a trip to New Orleans, this guy is all fancied up with a suit and everything. Always got some gold rings on his fingers, but never works with them on. He treats those things like his wife birthed them.

"Hey, there, Mr. John," I tried to smile, but knew it was a wasted effort. Even without my shirt on, I sweat so much that it looks like I just got out of the shower. Well, maybe not that bad, but you get what I'm saying.

"You close to done, boy?" he asked, resting his ringless hands on hips and looking over what I've painted so far. I couldn't tell you how badly I wanted to tell him to stop nitpicking about my work. He's not the one out here in 103 degree weather with 90% humidity, painting and building a boat in the middle of the sunlight, soaked with perspiration. I'd never say that out loud, though. I don't say a lot of things on my mind. I've learned that it's just better to nod your head and say 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir'. That's what a Southern gentleman does.

"Just poured the last of the paint in there," I indicated towards the paint-filled plastic container. "Should be done in an hour or so."

"Alright. It's not lookin' too bad for the first coat," he nodded in approval. I did an internal sigh of relief. "Don't work too long." He looked up to the sky, squinting, the shadow of his cap retreating. "It's as hot as Hades out here. Don't want you passin' out or nothin'," he laughed, patting my back. He tried to hide the fact that he wiped his hand off on his jeans by saying some more compliments about the boat. It wasn't long before he nodded in a definite way and backed off so I could finish my work.

Mr. John is a good friend of my dad's. They were best friends at LSU and both came back down to the bayou after college, not sure of what they wanted to do with their lives, I guess. Mr. John had always hunted alligators every season along with my dad, but it didn't occur to Mr. John until a couple of months after they had gotten back that they might could use that as an advantage. They ended up making a business of it. Every year, in that 30 day gap where you can hunt, we unleash our army of alligator hunters. Me and my friend Buford included in the forces, of course.

No one had really heard of a business that focused on hunting gators, so it seems like it's the only one around. Of course, Game Management and animal rights freaks were on the doorstep, totally against it. In the end, we signed a contract saying that we would only hunt during the regular season, and if we were caught hunting anywhere at any other time, we'd be charged with animal cruelty and be put out of business. Extreme, I know. But even if we didn't own a business specializing in it, it'd be illegal to hunt outside of gator season anyway, so I peronsally don't see what the big deal is.

My dad had his doubts. Since gator season is only 30 days a year, he asked what they'd be doing to make money for the rest of the time. They had to sit on that one for a little while, but decided to be making handmade boats and special, catered-to-the-customer baits that could be the business for the rest of the year. Of course, gator hunting isn't the only big thing around in these parts. Deer season, fishing, rabbit hunting, squirrel hunting, turtle hunting; there's not really anything that some of these down-home Cajuns won't hunt. We make equipment for all of that, too, and actually make pretty good money off of it. There's not many places around these small parts for stuff like that, so everyone (and I do mean everyone) comes to us.

I sighed and kept painting the boat, sick and tired of this heat. Well, it's too bad that I don't care more about my looks, or I'd be happy that I'm probably getting a killer tan right now. The girls seem to like it. I just finished my freshman year of college at LSU, but I don't know if I'm gonna go back. I might just stay here since they really need me at work. I do a lot of the heavy lifting, building, and Buford and I are one of the first boats to be tagged out every year. It just seems like this business is my life. I don't have time to worry about my looks or girls right now. Of course, according to my dad, this job is helping me with girls in the long run. It's paying me pretty well, and girls like a guy who can support himself. Not to mention (ahem) that it's keeping me in pretty good shape.

My mom always used to say that I was an 'Angel Baby'. Sent straight from Heaven, she'd always say. Up until the day she died, she'd tell me that I was her Angel Baby, with my 'golden blonde hair and eyes as blue as the clearest river'. Too bad she didn't get to see the person I am now. I miss her, always so sweet, so kind. I'd never admit it to any of my friends, but even when I was a teenager and she'd call me her Angel Baby, it would still give me a confidence boost. Just when I was starting to muscle up from work, a couple of months before she passed, she'd look at me with those adoring eyes that only a mother could possess and sigh. She'd look me up and down and say, 'What a handsome boy.' I would groan and then she'd correct herself. 'Oh! I mean, what a handsome man.'

God, I miss her.

She went up to Heaven about two years ago, looking just as beautiful at her funeral as she would any day when I'd come home and see her smiling face. I don't know what it was, but my mother was always the total romantic. I think that's why she complimented me all of time and tried to set me up with girls... she was so determined that I find 'The One'. It got so ridiculous that at one point, me and dad just had to laugh about her matchmaking antics behind her back. She'd be known to go up to girls she didn't even know and try to get them to go out with me. They'd see me, smile, but then when Mom would keep on pushing and pushing and pushing, they'd get too freaked out and keep a distance.

It used to be annoying, but now I just miss it. I wish she'd embarrass me in front of every girl at LSU, if it meant her coming back. But thinking that way won't help me, and it won't happen, so I pushed her out of my mind. I just thought the word 'paint' over and over again until the word itself seemed to soak my brain. I could see Mr. John watching me through his nearby cabin window. Who knows how much longer I've been out here. I'm pretty sure that I've been so absorbed in my thoughts that I've been painting on the same spot for the past who knows how long.

Did these hot work days never end? Told ya, God's laughing.

"Is it just me, or does John seem a little more stressed than usual?" my dad asked me at supper that night. We were having left over deer tenderloin. It'd be delicious, if it weren't for the fact that we've eaten it for supper for the past two nights. We both kind of picked at it.

"Come to think of it, he didn't talk to me much today," I told him, chewing a piece of deer meat thoughtfully. "He usually stays out there and offers me a beer—I mean, water." My dad narrowed his brown eyes. "Mr. John always asks me how my day is, how school's going... I don't know. Weird."

Dad chewed on this for a minute. "I hated that I had to miss work again today, but those damn migraines... they just won't go away. My point is, when he called me to see how I was doin' this afternoon, he sounded a little stressed. Almost a little nippy with me, if you know what I mean."

That surprised me. Mr. John is practically a member of our family, he's always very considerate—especially towards my dad. I've never seen so much respect shared between two men in my life. There has to be something up if he's being short with my dad. I made a mental note to see if I could get Mr. John to talk. I had to be careful, though. It took a lot to get him mad, but once you did get him angry, you better watch out. He has a temper on him. And since I'm not 21 yet, he still looks at me like a kid. He doesn't have much patience with children... I guess that's why he doesn't have any.

The next day at work, before I even got a chance to ask Mr. John if he was alright, he called me into his office inside of one of the many cabins on his land. We weren't in the main building's office, which is much larger and more 'serious' than this, so that relieved me some. That means that whatever it is can't be that bad. Or, at least, I'm not getting fired. It'd take a lot to get me fired, right? He's best friends with my dad, he's been around for my entire childhood. Firing me would be like spitting in my dad's face, and Mr. John surely wasn't going to do that.

"Take a seat, Chad," he sighed, removing his cap for a second to run his hand through his reddish-brown hair (I've never been sure if he's a ginger or not) and replacing it on his head. I quickly obeyed. "I need to have a word with you."

Oh no. He was trying to talk all proper. This is more serious than I'd thought. "Fire away, Mr. John."

He sighed again, really deeply, and clasped his hands together on his desk. He waited a moment before he spoke. As he was silent, I glanced around the small office, counting the points on a deer head on the wall to the right of me. I always count things when I'm nervous. Don't ask me why.

"First of all, I want to apologize to you and your dad. I've been a little... on edge lately. Nervous, I guess."

"Nervous? Everything okay?"

"Of course, Chad. Just some family... issues, I guess. Nothing I can't handle." He didn't sound too sure.

"No one... ya know... died or anything did they?" I asked hesitantly. If that was the case, I'd be good with advice. I've gone through the pain, so maybe I could help.

He laughed. "No, no, no. No one's croaked. It's my dead-gum brother..."

Oh, God. Not the brother. Long story short: I'd rather get fired than talk about this, scared I'd say the wrong thing that might imply that I take his brother's side when I'm really not, and then get canned. That's how sensitive this subject is. "Oh."

"You know what he calls me for?" Mr. John asked me the rhetorical question. I stay silent. If there's one thing I know, it's when to keep my mouth shut. As I predicted, the question was just a starting flag for his rant. "The bastard hasn't spoken to me or anyone else in the family for twenty years, and he calls me up out of the blue. Tries to make it sound like nothing had ever gone wrong, that we were just a pair of old buddies catching up. I could barely even talk I was so damn pissed! So, while I'm sitting there with my chin touchin' the floor like a dumb ass, he starts explaining to me all of this shit about how he wants me to take in his daughter for a while, some kind of discipline crap... I couldn't believe it! That idiot calls me like nothing ever happened and asks me a favor? Who does he think is?

"Ever since he moved to LA to 'get out of this hillbilly hell'—that is a direct quote from his stuck-up ass—he has refused to have any contact with any of us 'poor people'. How do you think I felt? My own brother not even speaking to me? Momma was heartbroken... he's such a piece of pig shit. We didn't know if he was dead or alive... then he got to be a 'household name'. Freaking record producer. Can you believe that? He leaves us like we're trash, then goes off to California and never communicates with us whether he's okay or not, then a few years later we hear about him on the radio. The freakin' radio! We can't get a phone call, nothing. Now, he wants something from me for the first time in twenty years, and he expects me to just accept with arms wide open?

"Well, I'll tell you something else! He's apparently gotten a wife, has had a kid, and lives in a five million dollar mansion with a nanny! A nanny! I'd at least thought he'd be the kind of assertive dad, the one that wanted to raise his own child. God, poor kid. Probably only speaks Spanish because of that freaking nanny." I could barely keep up with this speech. "He has the NERVE to call me! BASTARD! He doesn't deserve to have a family, a wife, a kid! And a daughter, no less! She's probably messed up because of him..."

"Um," I cut in hesitantly, feeling so freaking awkward right now, "that's horrible, Mr. John. I'm sure my dad didn't take it personally, and I didn't, either. But, uh, if you don't mind me askin'..." the look he gave me was lethal "... what does this got to do with me?"

For the first time in what felt like an hour, a smile cracked across his face.

"Well, you see, Chad," he said smoothly, like he was trying to sell something, "my niece needs to be watched. She's... not exactly a saint. Being sent down here is my bastard brother's idea of the most torturous punishment there is, apparently, so she needs to get her hands dirty. See how reality works." He rolled his eyes at me. "I know my brother, and he never does anything half-assed. That means that if she's spoiled, she's spoiled. It's probably gotten so bad that she believes that she craps gold."

I swallowed. "She'll... need to be watched?" I repeated. Great, now I've got to work in the God's-making-fun-of-me sun all day, worry about whether I can earn enough money to go back to school, and babysit some spoiled kid! Hell no, I'm not doing it! "I'd be glad to."

"Great." God, I'm such a pushover. I think another way that God laughs at me is by making me a pushover. I almost can't say no. "Lord knows why I said I'd help... I guess because I want to meet my niece... or because somewhere deep down, I guess it'll give me some line of communication between me and my brother. BUT, the point is, you'll do it?"

No. I can't do this. I can't waste my time with this. "Sure, Mr. John."

"Here's what the job will involve," he grinned, apparently thrilled that he didn't have to be bothered with looking out for the 'little brat'—a quote from him. "She'll stay with you, eat with you, follow you around and see what you do every day. The point of this is for her to learn how to work and get her hands dirty, and she'll be getting here around gator season, so I want you to... ya know... take her under your wing. Show her the ropes. Then, when she's got it down, let her help you and actually do the job."

Wait... he's gonna let some little kid handle full-grown alligators? Well... I started at a pretty young age, too, I guess. I dropped that question. "So, I have to tote her around everywhere I go?" I couldn't even begin to get the bitter tone out of my voice. This caught his attention.

"Oh, Chad," he smiled, "I left out the most important part. You're getting paid for this."

I almost did a double-take. "Uh. W-what?"

"Sixty a day. If you're okay with that. I know it seems like a little much," he winked, "but I think that in a few months... that should add enough for you to go back to LSU for your sophomore year, am I right?"

I almost couldn't speak. What I'd thought was a curse at first that would make it even harder for me to get the money together, in the end, could be my ticket back to school. This was unbelievable. This was great! All 'cuz all I have to do is look after his niece for a few months. Sixty a day! Could it get any better than this? "Mr. J-John... I—I... thank you. Thank you so much, sir—"

"None of that 'sir' crap," he shook his head. "Makes me feel old. And anytime, kid."

"What time is she getting here?" I couldn't ask fast enough. Faster I get the money, the better.

"In a couple of days," he told me, messaging his temples. I noticed that he had his gold rings on. "You might think that sixty is a good deal... but from what I've heard, you'll be working for that money. Hard. Trust me."

I didn't think his comment through too much. All I know is that I walked out of that office with a huge smile on my face. All I know is that I'm goin' back to college, baby! The sun suddenly felt like less of a pain, and more of a shining reminder in the sky of why I was so happy. Does that make any sense? Well, I had no problem getting to work today, working with precision and with speed. The faster I went, the faster the world around me went, and the closer I was to that money. So, I'd have to lug a bratty kid around for a while? I'm getting paid sixty bucks a day! What could go wrong?