Oldest guy on the crew

Wiry, white hair pokes out from underneath of his hardhat, like straw from a scarecrow. He walks with a limp and a stooped back, a half-step behind his coworkers.

Young people, he thinks about the forty-something-year-olds next to him, always in such a damned hurry.

They each wear bright yellow vests, unifying the team in safety.

The creases in his ironed khakis look sharp enough to cut through the soft and baggy jeans of his vested companions.

“Got a long day ahead of us, Bill.”

“Eh? What’s that?”

Bill is deep in thought and hard of hearing. He pulls out a tape measure from his pocket and starts taking measurements of something in the air.

His co-workers laugh, quietly and with as much respect as possible.

He is, after all, the oldest guy on the crew.

  

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