The Drip, a novel by Michael Gullo
“Buddy, you’re not just here first, the machine is warm, you have the whole back corner down to grade, and the dirt is piled all around you like a kid at Christmas.”
“Ya, baby had me up, ’n I juss drive down, git workin’”
“Heck of a walk up in the dark, ain’t it?”
“We used to hunt up here ’n fish. Been dark a lot, but that gravel mask the senses.”
“Is that it?”
“A little.”
“Hey, Tanner. Banker’s hours?”
“It’s 7:30.”
“We’re Smurfs.”
“So, um, you punched in at 6:15.”
“Ya, started working, and realized I forgot.”
“You gotta be careful – overtime.”
“Actually, guys. You’re not hourly employees. That punch clock is just so you know how to bill me.”
“We pay by the hour though.”
“Like I said, that’s up to you, but owners don’t get overtime.”
“No overtime, bossman?”
“That’s up to you. Tanner, let’s get going on that shed, Cody’s got the window open up there letting all the hot air out.”
“Hot air’s gettin’ in just fine.”
“Ouch.”
“So it’s ceiling insulation today.”
“Itch.”
“Get to it, scratchy.”
“Cody, make sure you grease the machine once Rusty gets here. That bucket’s squeaking.”
“Do we have grease?”
“So, um, I picked it up yesterday. It’s on the right side of the trailer.”
“Heads up. That one looks pissed.”
“Wow, she does, Tanner.”
“It’s that time the year.”
“What time’s that?”
“They’s gettin’ ready birth them cubs. Fat, tired, cranky.”
“Good eye. Keep watch on her. Let’s go, brother. We got shit to do.”
“Hey. Devin text. Say he be here at nine.”
“Can’t wait to meet him. Come on, Tanner.”
“So, the ceiling fan is huge, seventy-two inches in a room’s twelve feet across.”
“That seems like a question. The house needs fans, and I’ll need one in this shed come Summer – one-stone doctrine.”
“Two birds, one stone. Just say it.”
“Nope.”
“Twist and turn every word. Don’t it get old?”
“Nope.”
“We ever gonna get back on this door handle?”
“I’ll leave it there for a while. A chance for me to raise hell when I find it faulty.”
“Fix lock before you notice it languishing, check. And two, extract foot from mouth.”
“Languishing, ha?”
“To suffer through neglect, to.”
“Got it, Webster. There’s actually a bigger point here. Notice we ditched the 1099 architecture. Do you know why?”
“It’s a trap.”
“Good go, Tusty, but it’s the word, trap, that matters here. It’s not a trap at all, really. The trap is the morons that abuse the practice without ever even knowing what it means, and their 1099 gets hurt on the job. The lawsuit will show you the error of your ways real fast.”
“That’s what the workman’s comp is for.”
“A slap down here would not serve the cause, but please insert one in your internal dialogue, I have real work to do. Listen up. Workman’s Comp does not cover you for fraud, and they will test you if you submit a claim. This is the short version. The state, and thereby the federal government, have rules for this. A simple list. Does your 1099 have his own tools? Does your 1099 schedule his own hours? Does your 1099 bid his own jobs? Do you tell your 1099 where to be and when to be there and how to do the work when he arrives? And here’s the biggie: Can your 1099 lose money?”
“I see it.”
“All of it?”
“If a 1099 cannot lose money on this project, then the 1099 is an employee.”
“That’s right, Tanner.”
“Whoa, hey Robby. I didn’t even hear you come in.”
“I walked up with Rusty.”
“Him, I heard. That’s the hole in the net. Just like the cat door lets in the chipmunk in the cat’s mouth.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Sheesh, the whole crowd’s out there. Who’s got the Frankincense?”
“I hope you boys was listenin’. This kind man’s got wisdom.”
“Ya, I heard you, bossman. Count on that.”
“This man been in the dark before, tried and taught so when he’s sent in to get you all, he knows the way out.”
“Who’s paying who here, Robby. You come up here to bring me an invoice, and you drop that in my lap instead.”