The sound of bustling tonnage trampling about the second floor bounced off the floorboards of the porch, where Kane stood quietly. He had a firm gaze reflected on his pale red face, the cold swift breeze pushing back the few strands of brown hair left escaped under his ball cap.
Swear words splintered the sound barrier every five seconds, pummeled against the thin veil of window glass above, Kane’s calm appearance buoyed by prideful thoughts of yesterday’s promotion.
The beast of furry cuffs and yellow fangs roared webbed palms like big stamps against each undiscovered patch of room above, searching for his tools and his work card. He’s looking for where it could be again, not where it is right now, Kane thought in his morbid self-satisfied way, though the seed of rumination was a more jagged line than its final lettered form.
The frustration was two fold. He had bet on this job, his brother. Kane didn’t promise any outcome for certain, but he trusts his brother thinks he did. As soon as the scrolling fat index finger finished reading out loud the department swaps on the shop floor, Kane heard his brother snapping the dirty red towel and erupting out from the push-out side door, the metallic slow wisp of the door catching its falling gusto in lock with an emphasis of prolonged echoes.
The high ceiling and the stern green eyes below a high forehead on Mohawk Mick’s (the foreman) face, airing his shivering pupils at the left and second row, where Kane’s wondering eyes stood firmly. Kane wanted to pinch the searingly bald chunk of folded blubber on his right temple, his attention focused on its dough-like shape. His mind easily fell prey to absurdity.
The porch smelled of burnt pan oil, gasoline exhaust and the Dollar General cologne Kane forced on himself before his coffee but after showering. He knew his pores smelled of greedy slickness, and he knew the folks who always lurked about awaiting any scent of its particulars were nearest by early mornings.