(Page 1 of 2) Hard Work by Sean Regan
 (6 ratings)
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SUMMARY: For the May flash fiction contest, theme is "the hole"
Not three weeks into their summer together, Bobby's grandpa had had enough, and so he told his grandson to grab the shovel in the carport and start digging.
"Where?"
"Back of the loblolly pines behind the house."
"How deep?"
"Until you get to China," said grandpa. He reconsidered. "That might not be deep enough."
Bobby grumbled under his breath and his peach-fuzz mustache, but he took up the shovel and got to it. Maybe he'd had enough of grandpa too.
Grandpa strolled out after him and watched for a while as Bobby got started. He wasn't good with a shovel and he was stupid, bless him, which is why he'd done eighth grade three times. He was only allowed into ninth grade out of pity. But he was the sly sort, and after grandpa went inside, the kid stopped. Grandpa noticed this, and so after eating lunch in peace he brought Bobby half a peanut butter sandwich on white bread and a glass of lemonade with no ice. Grandpa unfolded his lawn chair and sat a few feet from the small hole and told stories, made up of course, about how he used to work in a diamond mine and had to dig for 16-hour shifts five days a week. He said digging made a man out of boys.
"I ain't no boy," Bobby said.
"You ain't no man neither. You remind me too much of your daddy for me to think you're a man. End of discussion."
They didn't talk much while Bobby was digging. Grandpa liked the stand of tall loblolly pines. Their shade and the carpet of needles kept out the underbrush, and he enjoyed sitting in his chair in the cool air. He nodded off after a while but was awakened by errant dirt splashing across his legs.
"Sorry," said Bobby.
"Got that right. OK, you've sweat enough today. Remember where you started tomorrow morning."
Bobby was digging among the pines the next morning, the morning after that, and the morning after that. Grandpa supervised while sitting in his lawn chair beside the growing hole. He told Bobby to make the hole sort of an oval shape, maybe not quite 20 feet long as its longest. Pretty deep too. And he had to dump the dirt evenly around the top rim. Bobby asked how long he'd have to dig to make a hole like that.
"I don't know," said grandpa, "but your mother gave you to me for the entire summer."
"But what am I digging for?"
"I already told you. To dig to China. Or maybe there's some buried pirate treasure in these pines."
"Wasn't no pirates around here," said Bobby. The kid looked at his hands again. "I'm getting blisters."
"Those ain't blisters. Those are calluses. Those are good things. You know a man by the texture of his hands." Grandpa paused and shook his head. "Your dad should have had you working when you was seven."
"I was working."
"His meth lab don't count," said grandpa, and that shut Bobby up.
Bobby dug for another three days, sometimes fast and sometimes slow, but it was good enough for grandpa. Grandpa brought a mystery with him, one he'd read before, and he read it aloud to Bobby. Grandpa wasn't confident about how well his grandson kept up with the story, and whenever he reached the end of a chapter, he explained what was going on.
At last one morning the hole approached grandpa's preferences, and around noon that day a man drove up and delivered a bag.
"Congratulations, Bobby, you reached China," said his grandpa, and sitting beside the big hole, they split moo shu pork and sweet & sour chicken from Happy All.
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