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Phyllis T Halle Dec 2012
Caint Complain
                       By Phyllis T.  Halle  February 26, 2006
Growing up in a tiny coal mining town in the hills of Eastern Kentucky,
I frequently heard a response out of the lips of stooped, arthritic miners, toothless women, old before their time,
wretchedly poor widows with six children to feed.
It was just a common reply to the courteous, "How are you?" -
"Caint complain."
The high pitched voices of those descendents of English, Scottish, German, Irish pioneers still echo in my ears and I wonder always at the tenacity, strength and wisdom which resounded firmly in those two words,
                                          "Caint Complain."
Very few people had indoor plumbing, telephones, cars or two pair of shoes. Health insurance, retirement plans, paid sick days, furnaces, pizzas, air conditioners, jet planes, paid vacations, job security, career planning were all unheard of unknowns.
When someone became ill, the ‘‘kindly old general practitioner would come to the house and dispense his little pills and words of encouragement and instruction, knowing the limitations of his skill and ability to heal.
Mothers and fathers still buried their little children who died from diphtheria, pneumonia, whooping cough, measles, diarrhea, croup ( a disorder known in later years as asthma).
Husbands buried wives who died in childbirth, at an alarming rate. "Caint Complain," they'd say gently, with a soft 'almost' smile and deeply troubled eyes.
Sanitation was fought for, vigorously, by hard muscled women, who scrubbed and washed, and swept and mopped.
They'd boiled the family’s clothes which had been worn for a week, in pots in the back yard, "to get ‘em clean."  
Killing germs was not in their vocabulary, but that is what they'd were doing. Ask that little old gal who was out in the yard, stirring the clothes around in boiling water, over an open fire, "How are you doin’?"  
                            "Caint Complain, " she would invariably say.
WHY couldn't they'd complain? Where did their tenacity come from?
Where did that philosophy of not complaining come from?
Where did they find the resolve to place dire, critical deprivation, hard labor and malnourishment behind them and place a smile on their faces and say
                                Caint Complain?

I knew some of those people when they had grown very old and faced birthdays in their late nineties. Without exception, they had the sweetest dispositions, most grateful hearts, kindest words and calmest old ages of any among the many I have known who reached that age!
When the pressures of their life had faded and they had nothing remaining that had to be done except to live out the final part of their life, they did not have a habit of complaint.
Some recent phone calls I have received were what prompted me to think about this. One right after another, friends called and for the first ten minutes of each call, I listened to a long list of complaints about the trials and travails my dear friend was suffering.
Each friend has: no financial worries, a wonderful primary care doctor, prescriptions to keep their heart pumping, eyes seeing, brain focusing, stomach digesting and body sleeping, each night.
They are protected from financial ruin, by medicare and/or HMO, social security checks, pensions, savings and inherited wealth. They have loving, devoted sons, daughters, nieces and nephews who keep in touch and are there for them.
They each one have lovely heated and cooled homes, apartments or condos with every convenience known to Americans; cars or taxi/bus services to get them out and around. More than that, each has beautiful memories which they can call upon to bring a smile to their face at any moment of the day or night. But somehow we find plenty to complain about.
Why haven't we formed the habit of Caint Complain?
Maybe the philosophy of always seeking more comfort, more possessions, more money, more- more- more- of everything, has driven us to achieve, accumulate and accomplish but it required us to never know what the word contentment means.
Contentment doesn't mean having everything at one’s fingertips. It doesn't mean lacking nothing. It certainly doesn't mean every dream and desire fulfilled.

Yet there are many who have enough of everything except the common sense to know when they really "Caint Complain."
Happiness is a fleeting moment of joy. Contentment is finding peace in what you have, what you are and what you have accomplished.
Having the serenity to know which one brings lasting goodness into your life is wisdom.
A SMILE IS THE KNIFE GOD GAVE US TO CUT THE SIZE OF OUR TROUBLES DOWN TO A BEARABLE LOAD.    
Lots of love and hugs, Phyllis
Rachid Oulamine Nov 2017
To whom Shall I complain?
About the agonies,
my entire being flooded by,
About the disappointments,
life has shocked me by,
About those I wished to stay,
But who eventually said Goodbye,
and turned out all to be only pssersby.
To whom shall I complain?
I've exposed my being to the rain
To wash away all the acheing thoughts,
which are crossing my brain,
To wash all worries in every vein.
To the moon,
To the stars,
To the sun,
I complained about all that pain.
To heavens,
To the whole universe,
I did complain
To rescue me,
To save me from the rage,
But every time,
It was in vain.
To whom shall I complain?
About the scars,
And the grazes
Of the abandonments,
About the wounds,
Scratches
Of life's mistreatments,
About all the torments.
To whom shall I complain?
About all the dreams,
which turned to be impossible,
Which turns all things to be horrible,
About all my wishes,
which became unreachable,
About all that is untameable.
To whom shall I complain?
About the loss of the smile,
which I strove to make mine,
But which left without worrying
Whether I would be fine,
Whether I'd be able to rise and shine.
To whom Shall I complain?
About the farness of luck,
About the need for all that I lack,
About the tortures that rack,
And that burden my back.
To whom Shall I complain?
About the talkativeness,
which inhabits my body,
About the exhaustiveness,  
which rules my soul,
And which drives me so insane
That I behave like a fool,
Which paralysed me,
Blocked me,
Crashed me,
Then, to the ground,
It dropped me,
like a tool,
Motionless,
Powerless,
And worst of all,
Lifeless...

Rachid Oulamine
Junebug  Jul 2014
Complains
Junebug Jul 2014
You complain about losing
You complain about winning
You complain every time you've been miss understood
No one ever understands why you complain so much
You complain when you don't get the girl
You complain event if you got the girl
When will this end
You complain everywhere that everyone keeps their distance from you
When will you get the point
When will you realize that you complain to much
Mark Lecuona Nov 2014
And who would dare complain
Without a flood from heaven
Separating us from sin
Knowing some will be lost
Never to see their God again?

And who would dare complain
Without indigenous tribes
Chased by the cruelest of men
Armed with manifest destiny
Ready to take their land?

And who would dare complain
Without bombs raining down
Immoral and ruthless
Serving the ambitions of those
Living inside a fortress?

And who would dare complain
Without starving first
Walking the streets alone
Carrying a sign of mercy
Only to be blamed or ******?

And who would dare complain
Without wearing chains
Feeling the whip crack
Knowing the next day
The master will be back?

And who would dare complain
Without immortality mocking
From a grave already waiting
Because they were not buried
With those God would be taking?
Feeling blessed and a bit angry about those who are spoiled by entitlement
You see that tear slide from her eye
Yet you do nothing
You walk away unsure of yourself
She falls to her knees and cries
You continue to walk away
Thinking only of yourself
It was your fault
Yet you deny it
Later you'll break up with her
And then complain about it
That she wasn't good enough
You could do better

You notice your grades slip
And you complain about it
But you don't study
You say school is stupid
It's a waste of time
Yet you take a test and get upset at the results
You get help for that job placement test
And yet you still say school is ****

You get the job that you wanted
But it doesn't play out like you dreamed
You complain about it
And let yourself feel sorry
Yet you don't try at it
You let it eat you alive
Still not trying and yet you think you deserve a raise
You think it will happen if you stay long enough

You let your body go
Eating, partying, playing games
And you complain about it
Yet you don't try to fix it
You don't feel like working out
Or running like you use to
You say you'll do it later
but never do
Life, you say, *****
But you never try to make it better
You say maybe later I'll take a stab at it

You get angry at everything
Your job
Your friends
Your games
Your life
Yet you don't do anything about it
You'll throw things, hit things, but worst of all

You'll complain
Gavin Barnard Dec 2014
It's dark outside, but its daytime in winter.
I mean like, terrible. Horrible.
We complain about food
When others have none.
We complain about hospital
When others have none.
We complain about homes
When others have none.
We complain about the government
When others have none.

We "starve"
When others really are starving to death.
We complain about the flu
When others fight Ebola and leukemia.
We complain about our homes breaking down
When people have theirs blown up.
We complain about our government being stupid
When others have power struggles,
Who should be in charge,
Or tyrannies for governments.

Take a walk out of developed walls.
See how terrible your life is compared to theirs.
Look at how much they can spare.
Just something I threw together. No revisions, no rereads, no editing.
jeffrey conyers Dec 2015
The joy.
Christ wouldn't complain.
The smile.
Christ wouldn't complain.
To see a child smiling upon Christmas' Day.

He's aware of his importance to us.
And comprehend Santa's importance.
Whether he's frictional.
Just remember Christ wouldn't complain.

We hear people forget the reason for the season without contemplating the joy of the occasion.
Even if adults loves to tell an innocent child that Ole St. Nick truly isn't real.

Within time, they come to realize certain events of how great parents are to them.
Just know one thing stands true.
Christ wouldn't complain.

Not if, a smile is upon someone face.
Cause Joy To the World we all should seek.
Not because of the holiday's seasons.

Funny, when Christmas comes around we find every ministers wanting others to put Santa's down.
As if, JESUS would be upset to share his love with him.

Christ, be the first to recognize him.
Cause Christ wouldn't complain.
Not if the world was at peace.
don't feel sorry for me.
I am a competent,
satisfied human being.

be sorry for the others
who
fidget
complain

who
constantly
rearrange their
lives
like
furniture.

juggling mates
and
attitudes

their
confusion is
constant

and it will
touch
whoever they
deal with.

beware of them:
one of their
key words is
"love."

and beware those who
only take
instructions from their
God

for they have
failed completely to live their own
lives.

don't feel sorry for me
because I am alone

for even
at the most terrible
moments
humor
is my
companion.

I am a dog walking
backwards

I am a broken
banjo

I am a telephone wire
strung up in
Toledo, Ohio

I am a man
eating a meal
this night
in the month of
September.

put your sympathy
aside.
they say
water held up
Christ:
to come
through
you better be
nearly as
lucky.
jeffrey conyers Jun 2014
Addressing issues in society.
Maybe in away with people.
If the man you're messing with is taken.
And you knew of it.
Don't complain now.

If he's a hustler, ****, drug dealer.
Simply unemployed and you're a struggling mother.
Don't complain now.
You made your bed.
You made your personal decision.

If your son should meet the wrong end of a gun.
After deciding to rob somebody.
Don't complain now.
Which many people seem to want to do.

For better or worse.
We must journey on.
Because our life continue on.

We all have done something wrong.
When judging others.
Benji James May 2017
Hey somebody
pass me the eyeliner
Because I want to get Emo
Yep **** it
I'm the drama queen
Always get it wrong it seems
Some say I complain too much
But I don't give zero *****
Sometimes you need a whinge
Yeah just have a little *****
Wise words from the drama king

Focus all eyes  on me,
Attention is what I need
Focus all eyes on me,
I've got something to say
Listen to what
comes out of my mouth
Maybe I'm talking
a lot of **** right now
Focus all eyes on me,
Attention is what I need

Always underachieve
Failing everything I do
Failing them, keep failing you
Can't seem to do
Anything I set my mind too
I'm looking around
For something worth living for
Every time I find something
It escapes my grasp
Always end up back on my ***
Can't seem to get it right
No matter how hard I try
Can't appear to get it right
No matter how hard I fight

Hey somebody, pass me the eyeliner
Because I want to get Emo
Yep **** it
I'm the drama queen
Always get it wrong it seems
Some say I complain too much
But I don't give zero *****
Sometimes you need a whinge
Yeah just have a little *****
Wise words from the drama king

Focus all eyes on me,
Attention is what I need
Focus all eyes on me,
I've got something to say
Listen to what
comes out of my mouth
Maybe I'm talking
a lot of **** right now
Focus all eyes on me,
Attention is what I need

Why does life smack you in the face
When you're circling the drain
The skies have turned to grey
You're miserable every day
Can't seem to catch a break
No matter how many Kit Kats you ate
Is this it, is this my fate
Staying up until late
Just so that I can contemplate
Every **** mistake
I've ever made

Hey somebody, pass me the eyeliner
Because I want to get Emo
Yep **** it
I'm the drama queen
Always get it wrong it seems
Some say I complain too much
But I don't give zero *****
Sometimes you need a whinge
Yeah just have a little *****
Wise words from the drama king

Focus all eyes on me,
Attention is what I need
Focus all eyes on me,
I've got something to say
Listen to what
comes out of my mouth
Maybe I'm talking
a lot of **** right now
Focus all eyes on me,
Attention is what I need

Do you know
What it feels like
To stare at your phone
No messages coming through
Feel like nobody
even cares about you
Yep you wonder what you can do
Is there something wrong with me
Is there are reason people hate me
What is it they need to see
To see I'm worth some time
Every once in a while
Trying to hide this emotion
Behind a smile
All these sarcastic remarks
Covering scars

Hey somebody, pass me the eyeliner
Because I want to get Emo
Yep **** it
I'm the drama queen
Always get it wrong it seems
Some say I complain too much
But I don't give zero *****
Sometimes you need a whinge
Yeah just have a little *****
Wise words from the drama king

Focus all eyes on me,
Attention is what I need
Focus all eyes on me,
I've got something to say
Listen to what
comes out of my mouth
Maybe I'm talking
a lot of **** right now
Focus all eyes on me,
Attention is what I need

Can't seem to make it pay to pay
All this debt is crushing me
And I'm losing my mind every night
To that devil inside
The one that won't let you sleep
He even haunts you in your dreams
There no escaping this reality
And all I can do
Is keep on strolling through
The best that I can
Hope that someone understands
Maybe one day
I'll find happiness again

Hey somebody, pass me the eyeliner
Because I want to get Emo
Yep **** it
I'm the drama queen
Always get it wrong it seems
Some say I complain too much
But I don't give zero *****
Sometimes you need a whinge
Yeah just have a little *****
Wise words from the drama king

Focus all eyes on me,
Attention is what I need
Focus all eyes on me,
I've got something to say
Listen to what
comes out of my mouth
Maybe I'm talking
a lot of **** right now
Focus all eyes on me,
Attention is what I need

I want to get dramatic
Don't tell me not to get dramatic
Don't say I'm complicated
No, I'm not complicated
I'm talking straight
Hey wait, wait
Sister pass me the eyeliner
Because I want to get Emo
You know I want to get Emo

©2017 Written By Benji James
Mitchell Duran Dec 2013
In the Fall, when the temperature of the Bay would drop and the wind blew ice, frost would gather on the lawn near Henry Oldez's room. It was not a heavy frost that spread across the paralyzed lawn, but one that just covered each blade of grass with a fine, white, almost dusty coat. Most mornings, he would stumble out of the garage where he slept and tip toe past the ice speckled patch of brown and green spotted grass, so to make his way inside to relieve himself. If he was in no hurry, he would stand on the four stepped stoop and look back at the dried, dead leaves hanging from the wiry branches of three trees lined up against the neighbors fence. The picture reminded him of what the old gallows must have looked like. Henry Oldez had been living in this routine for twenty some years.

He had moved to California with his mother, father, and three brothers 35 years ago. Henry's father, born and raised in Tijuana, Mexico, had traveled across the Meixcan border on a bent, full jalopy with his wife, Betria Gonzalez and their three kids. They were all mostly babies then and none of the brothers claimed to remember anything of the ride, except one, Leo, recalled there was "A lotta dust in the car." Santiago Oldez, San for short, had fought in World War II and died of cancer ten years later. San drank most nights and smoked two packs of Marlboro Reds a day. Henry had never heard his father talk about the fighting or the war. If he was lucky to hear anything, it would have been when San was dead drunk, talking to himself mostly, not paying very much attention to anyone except his memories and his music.

"San loved two things in this world," Henry would say, "*****, Betria, and Johnny Cash."

Betria Gonzalez grew up in Tijuana, Mexico as well. She was a stout, short woman, wide but with pretty eyes and a mess of orange golden hair. Betria could talk to anyone about anything. Her nick names were the conversationalist or the old crow because she never found a reason to stop talking. Santiago had met her through a friend of a friend. After a couple of dates, they were married. There is some talk of a dispute among the two families, that they didn't agree to the marriage and that they were too young, which they probably were. Santiago being Santiago, didn't listen to anybody, only to his heart. They were married in a small church outside of town overlooking the Pacific. Betria told the kids that the waves thundered and crashed against the rocks that day and the sea looked endless. There were no pictures taken and only three people were at the ceremony: Betria, San, and the priest.

Of course, the four boys went to elementary and high school, and, of course, none of them went to college. One brother moved down to LA and eventually started working for a law firm doing their books. Another got married at 18 years old and was in and out of the house until getting under the wing of the union, doing construction and electrical work for the city. The third brother followed suit. Henry Oldez, after high school, stayed put. Nothing in school interested him. Henry only liked what he could get into after school. The people of the streets were his muse, leaving him with the tramps, the dealers, the struggling restaurateurs, the laundry mat hookers, the crooked cops and the addicts, the gang bangers, the bible humpers, the window washers, the jesus freaks, the EMT's, the old ladies pushing salvation by every bus stop, the guy on the corner and the guy in the alley, and the DOA's. Henry didn't have much time for anyone else after all of them.

Henry looked at himself in the mirror. The light was off and the room was dim. Sunlight streaked in through the dusty blinds from outside, reflecting into the mirror and onto Henry's face. He was short, 5' 2'' or 5' 3'' at most with stubby, skinny legs, and a wide, barrel shaped chest. He examined his face, which was a ravine of wrinkles and deep crows feet. His eyes were sunken and small in his head. Somehow, his pants were always one or two inches below his waistline, so the crack of his *** would constantly be peeking out. Henry's deep, chocolate colored hair was  that of an ancient Native American, long and nearly touched the tip of his belt if he stood up straight. No one knew how long he had been growing it out for. No one knew him any other way. He would comb his hair incessantly: before and after a shower, walking around the house, watching television with Betria on the couch, talking to friends when they came by, and when he drove to work, when he had it.

Normal work, nine to five work, did not work for Henry. "I need to be my own boss," he'd say. With that fact stubbornly put in place, Henry turned to being a handy man, a roofer, and a pioneer of construction. No one knew where he would get the jobs that he would get, he would just have them one day. And whenever he 'd finish a job, he'd complain about how much they'd shorted him, soon to move on to the next one. Henry never had to listen to anyone and, most of the time, he got free lunches out of it. It was a very strange routine, but it worked for him and Betria had no complaints as long as he was bringing some money in and keeping busy. After Santiago died, she became the head of the house, but really let her boys do whatever they wanted.

Henry took a quick shower and blow dried his hair, something he never did unless he was in a hurry. He had a job in the east bay at a sorority house near the Berkley campus. At the table, still in his pajamas, he ate three leftover chicken thighs, toast, and two over easy eggs. Betria was still in bed, awake and reading. Henry heard her two dogs barking and scratching on her bedroom door. He got up as he combed his damp hair, tugging and straining to get each individual knot out. When he opened the door, the smaller, thinner dog, Boy Boy, shot under his legs and to the front door where his toy was. The fat, beige, pig-like one waddled out beside Henry and went straight for its food bowl.

"Good morning," said Henry to Betria.

Betria looked at Henry over her glasses, "You eat already?"

"Yep," he announced, "Got to go to work." He tugged on a knot.

"That's good. Dondé?" Betria looked back down at her spanish TV guide booklet.

"Berkley somewhere," Henry said, bringing the comb smoothly down through his hair.

"That's good, that's good."

"OK!" Henry sighed loudly, shutting the door behind him. He walked back to the dinner table and finished his meal. Then, Betria shouted something from her room that Henry couldn't hear.

"What?" yelled Henry, so she could hear him over the television. She shouted again, but Henry still couldn't hear her. Henry got up and went back to her room, ***** dish in hand. He opened her door and looked at her without saying anything.

"Take the dogs out to ***," Betria told him, "Out the back, not the front."

"Yeah," Henry said and shut the door.

"Come on you dogs," Henry mumbled, dropping his dish in the sink. Betria always did everyones dishes. She called it "her exercise."

Henry let the two dogs out on the lawn. The sun was curling up into the sky and its heat had melted all of the frost on the lawn. Now, the grass was bright green and Henry barely noticed the dark brown dead spots. He watched as the fat beige one squatted to ***. It was too fat to lifts its own leg up. The thing was built like a tank or a sea turtle. Henry laughed to himself as it looked up at him, both of its eyes going in opposite directions, its tongue jutted out one corner of his mouth. Boy boy was on the far end of the lawn, searching for something in the bushes. After a minute, he pulled out another one of his toys and brought it to Henry. Henry picked up the neon green chew toy shaped like a bone and threw it back to where Boy boy had dug it out from. Boy boy shot after it and the fat one just watched, waddling a few feet away from it had peed and laid down. Henry threw the toy a couple more times for Boy boy, but soon he realized it was time to go.

"Alright!" said Henry, "Get inside. Gotta' go to work." He picked up the fat one and threw it inside the laundry room hallway that led to the kitchen and the rest of the house. Boy boy bounded up the stairs into the kitchen. He didn't need anyone lifting him up anywhere. Henry shut the door behind them and went to back to his room to get into his work clothes.

Henry's girlfriend was still asleep and he made sure to be quiet while he got dressed. Tia, Henry's girlfriend, didn't work, but occasionally would put up garage sales of various junk she found around town. She was strangely obsessed with beanie babies, those tiny plush toys usually made up in different costumes. Henry's favorite was the hunter. It was dressed up in camouflage and wore an eye patch. You could take off its brown, polyester hat too, if you wanted. Henry made no complaint about Tia not having a job because she usually brought some money home somehow, along with groceries and cleaning the house and their room. Betria, again, made no complain and only wanted to know if she was going to eat there or not for the day.

A boat sized bright blue GMC sat in the street. This was Henry's car. The stick shift was so mangled and bent that only Henry and his older brother could drive it. He had traded a new car stereo for it, or something like that. He believed it got ten miles to the gallon, but it really only got six or seven. The stereo was the cleanest piece of equipment inside the thing. It played CD's, had a shoddy cassette player, and a decent radio that picked up all the local stations. Henry reached under the seat and attached the radio to the front panel. He never left the radio just sitting there in plain sight. Someone walking by could just as soon as put their elbow into the window, pluck the thing out, and make a clean 200 bucks or so. Henry wasn't that stupid. He'd been living there his whole life and sure enough, done the same thing to other cars when he was low on money. He knew the tricks of every trade when it came to how to make money on the street.

On the road, Henry passed La Rosa, the Mexican food mart around the corner from the house. Two short, tanned men stood in front of a stand of CD's, talking. He usually bought pirated music or movies there. One of the guys names was Bertie, but he didn't know the other guy. He figured either a customer or a friend. There were a lot of friends in this neighborhood. Everyone knew each other somehow. From the bars, from the grocery, from the laundromat, from the taco stands or from just walking around the streets at night when you were too bored to stay inside and watch TV. It wasn't usually safe for non-locals to walk the streets at night, but if you were from around there and could prove it to someone that was going to jump you, one could usually get away from losing a wallet or an eyeball if you had the proof. Henry, to people on the street, also went as Monk. Whenever he would drive through the neighborhood, the window open with his arm hanging out the side, he would usually hear a distant yell of "Hey Monk!" or "What's up Monk!". Henry would always wave back, unsure who's voice it was or in what direction to wave, but knowing it was a friend from somewhere.

There was heavy traffic on the way to Berkley and as he waited in line, cursing his luck, he looked over at the wet swamp, sitting there beside highway like a dead frog. A few scattered egrets waded through the brown water, their long legs keeping their clean white bodies safe from the muddy water. Beyond the swamp laid the pacific and the Golden Gate bridge. San Francisco sat there too: still, majestic, and silver. Next to the city, was the Bay Bridge stretched out over the water like long gray yard stick. Henry compared the Golden Gate's beauty with the Bay Bridge. Both were beautiful in there own way, but the Bay Bridge's color was that of a gravestone, while the Golden Gate's color was a heavy red, that made it seem alive. Why they had never decided to pain the Bay Bridge, Henry had no idea. He thought it would look very nice with a nice coat of burgundy to match the Golden gate, but knew they would never spend the money. They never do.

After reeling through the downtown streets of Berkley, dodging college kids crossing the street on their cell phones and bicyclists, he finally reached the large, A-frame house. The house was lifted, four or five feet off the ground and you had to walk up five or seven stairs to get to the front door. Surrounded by tall, dark green bushes, Henry knew these kids had money coming from somewhere. In the windows hung spinning colored glass and in front of the house was an old-timey dinner bell in the shape of triangle. Potted plants lined the red brick walkway that led to the stairs. Young tomatoes and small peas hung from the tender arms of the stems leaf stalks. The lawn was manicured and clean. "Must be studying agriculture or something," Henry thought, "Or they got a really good gardener."

He parked right in front of the house and looked the building up and down, estimating how long it would take to get the old shingles off and the new one's on. Someone was up on the deck of the house, rocking back and forth in an old wooden chair. He listened to the creaking wood of the chair and the deck, judging it would take him two days for the job. Henry knew there was no scheduled rain, but with the Bay weather, one could never be sure. He had worked in rain before - even hail - and it never really bothered him. The thing was, he never strapped himself in and when it would rain and he was working roofs, he was afraid to slip and fall. He turned his truck off, got out, and locked both of the doors. He stepped heavily up the walkway and up the stairs. The someone who was rocking back and forth was a skinny beauty with loose jean shorts on and a thick looking, black and red plaid shirt. She had long, chunky dread locks and was smoking a joint, blowing the smoke out over the tips of the bushes and onto the street. Henry was no stranger to the smell. He smoked himself. This was California.

"Who're you?" the dreaded girl asked.

"I'm the roofer," Henry told her.

The girl looked puzzled and disinterested. Henry leaned back on his heels and wondered if the whole thing was lemon. She looked beyond him, down on the street, awkwardly annoying Henry's gaze. The tools in Henry's hands began to grow heavy, so he put them down on the deck with a thud. The noise seemed to startle the girl out of whatever haze her brain was in and she looked back at Henry. Her eyes were dark brown and her skin was smooth and clear like lake water. She couldn't have been more then 20 or 21 years old. Henry realized that he was staring and looked away at the various potted plants near the rocking chair. He liked them all.

"Do you know who called you?" She took a drag from her joint.

"Brett, " Henry told her, "But they didn't leave a last name."

For a moment, the girl looked like she had been struck across the chin with a brick, but then her face relaxed and she smiled.

"Oh ****," she laughed, "That's me. I called you. I'm Brett."

Henry smiled uneasily and picked up his tools, "Ok."

"Nice to meet you," she said, putting out her hand.

Henry awkwardly put out his left hand, "Nice to meet you too."

She took another drag and exhaled, the smoke rolling over her lips, "Want to see the roof?"

The two of them stood underneath a five foot by five foot hole. Henry was a little uneasy by the fact they had cleaned up none of the shattered wood and the birds pecking at the bird seed sitting in a bowl on the coffee table facing the TV. The arms of the couch were covered in bird **** and someone had draped a large, zebra printed blanket across the middle of it. Henry figured the blanket wasn't for decoration, but to hide the rest of the bird droppings. Next to the couch sat a large, antique lamp with its lamp shade missing. Underneath the dim light, was a nice portrait of the entire house. Henry looked away from the hole, leaving Brett with her head cocked back, the joint still pinched between her lips, to get a closer look. There looked to be four in total: Brett, a very large man, a woman with longer, thick dread locks than Brett, and a extremely short man with a very large, brown beard. Henry went back

— The End —