The view from just under the ceiling of the convention center was breathtaking, and that was why Scott was avoiding it as best he could. He was well over fifty feet in the air and standing on scaffolding, working with a handful of others to complete a construction by two in the afternoon. It was already after eleven, he knew, but it looked as if they would make it by the deadline.
     He was holding his end of the new cross member in place, slightly over his head and behind him Bo was busy riveting it into place. The spider-work of latticed beams slightly over Scott's head was much less dizzying to look at then the panoramic view down and out below him. He shifted his weight slightly from one foot to the other, but not his position, while Bo finished tacking the iron bar into place.
     "That's it," Bo called out, and Scott slowly and tentatively let go of the beam, not quite trusting it to hold its own weight. It did, and while Bo was applying the remainder of the rivets Scott stepped to the center of the scaffolding and began helping a group who were hoisting and fastening drywall to the girders.
     He wasn't comfortable at this height, and was conciously not thinking about where he was and what he was doing. It wasn't too bad right now, Scott thought, as he screwed the drywall into place, but he didn't like working over his head while trying to balance. Yes, there was a railing around the scaffold, but it would only save him from falling if he grabbed onto it.
     The work went on and about half an hour before they needed to finish the ceiling was finished and at the far end the painters were busy slapping on a quick coat of light gray paint. Scott and the rest of the construction crew began the descent through the maze of boardwalks and ladders and it took him a full ten minutes to make it all the way back down to the ground.
     "That's that," he said, looking up at where he'd been working. A little shudder dropped down his spine, but this wasn't the time or place to talk about things like fear. It was all right to laugh at it with the rest of the crew, but Scott had a feeling that even their laughter was nervous and carried more bravado than they really felt.
     He left the convention center, his heavily laden tool belt a familiar weight around his waist. He had suspenders to help distribute the weight, but even so he would be happy to get back to the truck and strip them off. He was tired and sore and his neck hurt from the hours of looking up, but it would be a nice check next week, his first in about two months.
     The trouble with construction work, Scott thought, is that it's so inconsistent. He had a good arrangement with Bo, who seemed to find work pretty regularly. When Bo, or his company, got a contract Scott was pretty much assured of a spot on the crew and occasionally, like for this job, it was as a lead. But those contracts weren't coming as quickly as they had been and Scott didn't know if the company was losing out on the bids or if there just weren't many jobs to bid on. In either case, this last week was the only work Scott had been offered in the last two and a half months, and he wasn't looking forward to another stretch that long.
     He reached his truck and threw his tool belts into the locker that ran across the lenght of the bed. There were other, heavier, tools in there and also a number of things that he had no use for on this job. Scott never knew which particular tools he would need for any job going in, and his livlihood depended on his having everything handy. Over time he'd amassed a fairly complete collection of tools, and at one time or another he'd needed every one of them.
     He started up the truck and began the long drive back from Las Vegas to his home in LA. It would take him about five hours to make the trip and he soon settled into a comfortable pace, both for his truck and for him. As he passed through the desert and headed into the mountains that divided California from Nevada, Scott was looking forward to a shower and a good hot meal. He began thinking about where he would go for dinner and was running his finances through his mind when his truck began lurching and losing power.
     Scott had a momentary feeling of panic before the truck returned to normal, but began slowing down just the same. The cars behind him started passing and after a minute or so of smooth driving, the truck again sputtered and slowed.
     Scott pulled off, over to the side of the road and his truck sat there idling for another couple minutes before it died. He slammed his open hand against the steering wheel, which did nothing, and got out of the cab. He lifted the hood and wasn't able to see anything obviously wrong. While he was able to change his own oil and spark plugs, he really wasn't a mechanic. He stared for awhile into the engine compartment, jiggled some wires that weren't loose, and tried restarting the recalcitrant engine. It turned over, but failed to spark.
     He sat in the cab and sulked. He had a cell phone, but had no one to call out here in the desert just inside the California border. Scott didn't have AAA and while the traffic sped past him just outside his window he found himself hoping, for the first time in his life, that a cop would come by.
     A highway patrolman eventually did, and he had no more success in starting the car than Scott did. The patrolman used his radio and called for a tow truck and within an hour an ancient, dented vehicle approached.
     "What's the trouble," the driver asked. He was a slight, dark man, skinny and wiry with a moustache and an accent that Scott couldn't place.
     "It was running fine, and then just stopped."
     The driver, like Scott and the patrolman, tried starting the truck and like them failed to accomplish anything. He gave a quick look under the hood and asked Scott to try the engine a few times, but nothing he did got the truck to start.
     "You do have gas, don't you?" the driver asked.
     "Yeah," Scott replied. "About a quarter tank."
     The driver grunted and began playing with the controls on the back of his truck. Scott watched the arm lower, then extend, and the truck driver got back in his truck and slowly backed up until the grabbing arm was directly in front of Scott's truck.
     He got out of the truck and finished attaching Scott's small pickup to the tow truck. He climbed back into the tow truck and Scott clambered up beside him. With his pickup in tow they merged back onto the highway and began the descent into Baker. The sun was below the horizon by now and the lights of the city were a welcome sight to Scott. He watched them change from a distant blur into distinct elements as they approached the city and the offramp. The tow truck, which had never been travelling very fast, slowed down and pulled off the highway and down the offramp.
     The tow truck hauled Scott's pickup over to a nearby gas station and while Scott began talking with the station's owner the tow truck driver freed the small pickup. Because of the late hour the station was closed, but the attendant said it would be okay for Scott to leave his truck there overnight. He filled out some paperwork for Scott to sign and told him to check back tomorrow morning, after they'd had a chance to look at the pickup.
     Scott thanked the owner and walked a block or so to a motel. He was able to rent a room for the night and ended up finding a Burger King where he bought his dinner. He went to sleep wondering and worrying about his truck and after stopping at Denny's for breakfast the next morning, he walked over to the station to see what they'd discovered.
     It wasn't as bad as Scott had feared. His fuel filter had been clogged and no gasoline was able to make it through the line. They could replace the filter and he could be on his way in a couple of hours or so, unless something went wrong. Scott agreed to let them fix the truck and, after looking at the tiny waiting room, decided to walk along the streets of Baker to kill the time. He wandered through a few stores and had another cup of coffee at Denny's before going back to the station to see about his truck.
     They'd replaced the filter and now Scott's truck ran as good as ever. He paid the modest charges and was glad that it hadn't been as expensive a repair as he'd feared. While he was presenting his credit card for payment, the mechanics were busy stashing the last of Scott's tools out back, behind the building.
     He drove the rest of way without incident and arrived back at his home as the sun was setting. He pulled into the parking lot of the Single Spire motel and found a spot to park in the middle of the lot. He was facing Earl's room and could see him sitting on his bed, looking out the door.
     Scott didn't care for his neighbor, but didn't really mind him. He knew who he was and they would sometimes nod to each other when they happened to cross paths, but he'd never had much to do with the tenant in room 103.
     It was a surprise, then, when Earl yelled at him while he was leaving his truck. Scott, weary of the drive and still unhappy about the forced night's stay in Baker, stood still while the large man came up to him.
     "What's up?" Scott asked. He glanced at his watch after asking, hoping Earl would get the hint.
     "How's it goin?" Earl asked. "You just getting back?"
     Scott nodded and began turning to get his bags out of the back of the truck. There was a large green duffle bag and a smaller knapsack and he picked up the duffle and slipped it over his shoulder.
     "Haven't seen ya around for the last few days," Earl said. He took a swig of beer and offered the can to Scott, who refused it.
     "I was working in Vegas," Scott answered. He picked up the knapsack and held it in his hand, the straps dancing beneath it and sweeping the gravel of the lot.
     "Oh yeah?"
     "Un-huh."
     "Say, ya got a minute?"
     Scott sighed and looked at Earl, gently swinging the knapsack. He hunched his shoulders, rearranging the duffle bag on his shoulder. "I just got back. I was kinda planning on a shower and kickin' back."
     "That's cool," Earl said. He reached out for the knapsack in an offer to help Scott. "I just wanted to ask you something."
     Scott did nothing to accept Earl's help, and turned and began walking across the lot to his room. "C'mon," he said. "We can talk in my room."