Hoyt Lewis (F)

Hoyt stood at the edge of the loading bay and watched the light flurries swirling around on the asphalt in front of the warehouse. He took one last deep pull on his cigarette and then flicked the butt out into the cold air.

“Hey, Boss.”

Hoyt stared across the parking lot.

“Boss? Terry called. Wants you at the store at 12:45.”

“Okay, Frank. Did you get the carpet invoices matched up?”

“Yep.”

“Good. Thanks.”

Hoyt nodded to the other man and glanced one more time out the bay before closing the metal door. Hard to believe, he thought, hard to believe it had been 30 years since he was hired to manage the warehouse.

He remembered Terry shaking his head. “Kind of young, no warehouse experience.”

“No, sir, no warehouse experience.”

“But management experience. Platoon leader, right?”

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“Well I’m not one to fiddle fart around. And we want to support our vets. I’ll run it by the Old Man. I’m sure he’ll listen to me. Plan on starting next Tuesday. I’ll call Monday, set up a time for you to come in and get the paperwork done.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, and by the way, your chain of command is me, and the Old Man, but he will never set foot over there. Any of the floor managers come over and start giving you crap, just call me. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Nearly 54 and still here. Hoyt picked up his coffee mug from the loading area desk and headed to the office.

His oldest brother Harold said he would never last a year there. Too monotonous. Told him he could get on with the railroad, told him to be patient.

Henry told him to go to college, maybe get an accounting degree, make some good money. “Baby Brother, you’ve got some brains. Use them.”

Howard told him to stay with the army. “Bro, you’ll have 20 in before you’re 40. Then maybe the railroad or maybe something like the post office and, man, you’re going to be set.”

Set? Set, as in settled? Who was set? Felt set? The hell with set.

Unsettled? Like when Dad died from lung cancer and seven months later Corrie died in the accident.

What did the Old Man say to him? “Well, that’s a gut punch.” Yes, that’s what it was. That’s exactly what it was. That’s the wording he would use. “Really punched me in the gut. Yep, a real gut punch all that. A sucker punch. To the gut. Got me right in the gut.”

Terry shook his hand at Corrie’s funeral. “Damn shame, Hoyt. A damn shame and I’m sorry.”

Is there any other kind of shame of that sort? All of it, always, a damn shame.

Hoyt poured himself another mug of coffee.

Frank leaned his head in the door. “Boss, we got 200 mattress sets due later this afternoon. We going to stack them on 1 and 2?”

“Yes, probably, for now.”

Lyman 2022