It was six o’clock before we got to the old cabin we were contracted to tear down. Located on the primarily undeveloped Little Foot Lake, the cabin –and the 100 acres of shore front property around it, were bought by some rich bitch couple from Chicago. Now they wanted to tear it down and build a modern McMansion cabin on the site so they can entertain other rich bitch couples and say they were roughing up at the cabin on the lake.
I parked the truck in a clearing about fifty feet from the old one room cabin. Jim got out, wiped his forehead with the back of hand and lit a cigarette. I turned off the truck which rumbled a bit as if to tell me it didn’t want to turn off and reached under the for the clipboard that had the contract on it.
The job had been contracted in June, but the couple, the Sheridans, who had bought the place wanted to stay in the old cabin for a while to get ‘a feel for the land’. I remember Mark Sheridan saying something about his ‘own person Walton wood’ or something like that – whatever, I was just happy to get the job and took three-hundred dollar down payment with a smile and a nod. I needed the money, bad…the economy had nearly wreaked my business. I am not too sure what a sub-prime mortgage bubble breaking mean, but I know it put a lot of the newly built lake homes back up for sale, which means no new construction or renovations. So I was glad for the work.
The couple only stayed in the place for a weekend – surprised they lasted that long. The lack of running water, other than the old hand pump outside, and only the old one-seater shit house out back might have gone beyond their threshold of ‘roughing it’. I met Mark at the cabin back in June, signed the on the dotted line and he told me he’d get a hold of me when I could start. He had some surveyor work and plans he need drawn up first, and wanted to see if they could incorporate any of old place into his new plans. I knew he wouldn’t, but didn’t say anything. Last week he called and gave me the ‘green light’ as he called it.
Sweat was running down my back as I sat in the truck reviewing the contact when I was startled by Jim pounding the hood of the truck. After the start, I look up and Jim’s standing there holding an old fishing pole like some sort of trophy fish.
“It’s still got old braided line on the reel….wonder how old it is?” Jim asked as I got out of the truck and walked to the cabin door. The Sheridan’s told me it would be unlocked – it’s wasn’t. I didn’t think it would be.
“How old you think it is?” Jim persisted.
“Man! I don’t know, grab the tape measure and measure that back wall for me.” I said, brushing past him to get something to open the door with.
“The south wall?” he asked as took another look at the pole and tossed it aside in a brush pile.
“Yeah, and let me know if any of the wood on that wall is salvageable.