Waylon Cox's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

The referral from Harlan sat in Waylon's pocket for two days before the visitor arrived. A black sedan pulled up to the shed, clean despite the dirt road. The man who stepped out wore pressed jeans and a shirt with a logo Waylon recognized from ten years of sponsor photos. The man pulled a rolled banner from his trunk and unrolled it across the hood. Champion's Champion, it read in bold letters, held up by two muscled cowboys flexing at the corners. He produced a glass bottle from a leather case, amber liquid inside with a Greek god etched into the glass. "Five thousand for two hours," the man said. "Same smile as the old photos. We set up the banner, you hold the bottle, we're done by sunset." He gestured toward the half-finished workshop behind Waylon, stone sculptures scattered in the sand, torn canvas flapping in the wind. "We can work around all this." Waylon looked at the banner, then at the workshop he'd been clearing out for storage. The stones would eventually become part of the ranch foundation. The canvas would get pulled down tomorrow. None of it was pretty, but it was his. He thought about the three ranch names in his pocket, the doors Harlan had opened by seeing work that was square and solid. Those ranches wouldn't hire a performed version. They'd hire the man who built things right. "Not interested," Waylon said. The man blinked, started to counter with more money, but Waylon was already walking back toward the workshop. The sedan left ten minutes later, banner still rolled on the hood. Waylon pulled Harlan's list from his pocket and spread it flat on a workbench. Tomorrow he'd drive to the first ranch. Tonight he had stone to move and canvas to clear. The work that would get him respected wasn't the kind you could smile your way through.