Hard Hat , livre ebook

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129

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2019

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129

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2019

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Loretta "Lolly" Novak has a great job as a project manager for a construction company in San Francisco. She likes to work hard and play hard. But when she begins to experience her life in a male-dominated world, Lolly realizes that the hat she chose to wear is harder than she ever imagined.
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Date de parution

30 octobre 2019

Nombre de lectures

0

EAN13

9781645368229

Langue

English

Poids de l'ouvrage

1 Mo

Hard Hat
C. Atkinson
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-10-30
Hard Hat About The Author About The Book Dedication Copyright Information © Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine
About The Author
C. Atkinson derived her pen name from her given name, Charlene; her nickname, Cricket; and her maiden name, Chopnak. Born and raised in a suburb of Pittsburgh, PA, she attended the University of Pittsburgh and received a degree in Civil Engineering. She was recruited out of college to work at a major construction company in San Francisco. She currently lives in Penngrove, CA, with her husband, Kerry, and cat, Mango.
About The Book
Loretta “Lolly” Novak has a great job as a project manager for a construction company in San Francisco. She likes to work hard and play hard. But when she begins to experience her life in a male-dominated world, Lolly realizes that the hat she chose to wear is harder than she ever imagined.
Dedication
To my mom and dad, who encouraged me to follow my dreams, and to my husband, Kerry, for making all my dreams come true.
Copyright Information ©
C. Atkinson (2019)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Ordering Information:
Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
Atkinson, C.
Hard Hat
ISBN 9781643785837 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781643785844 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781645368229 (ePub e-book)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019912398
The main category of the book — FICTION / Contemporary Women
www.austinmacauley.com/us
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
40 Wall Street, 28th Floor
New York, NY 10005
USA
mail-usa@austinmacauley.com
+1 (646) 5125767
Chapter One
As the plastic door slams behind me, I turn around, slide the latch on the closed door, and sit down on the cold toilet seat in the bright blue Port-o-John. Mouth breathe. At that moment, I realize the construction industry has many perks, but luxury bathroom facilities are not one of them. Running water isn’t either.
Mouth breathe. I look around and notice some new graffiti on the left wall. I read, ‘TOILET ROOM TENNIS. SEE OTHER SIDE.’ I turn my head to the right, and read, ‘SEE OTHER SIDE.’ My head turns back to the left, and I read, ‘TOILET ROOM TENNIS, SEE OTHER SIDE.’ My head shakes as I grin. I wonder who was playing toilet room tennis in here. This is MY bathroom, or blue room, as I so affectionately call it.
I remember my first day on this job-site. I got a full tour of the twin doublewide trailer office complex. Each and every wall was clad with simulated wood paneling, finished in a light walnut color. The vinyl flooring was dull but full green. The mini-blinds were gray beige. The whole office had this sort of green bean casserole motif. In fact, the entire place reeked of potluck. I was paraded through the conference room, the coffee station, the office supply closet, and my future office. It was very impressive. But I will never forget how special I felt when we arrived at Mike’s desk. Mike is the superintendent on the construction project. Since a superintendent’s job on a construction site is to manage the work in the field, the furniture in this part of the trailer has to accommodate that job. Besides Mike’s desk, there’s a twenty-foot-long shelf table, to keep the construction drawings, and only one chair. Mike’s chair. It was clear that anyone else that spent time in here was welcome if you were willing to stand. This was where all the real construction stuff came down, where all the tough guys talked tough. What was said was said standing up so the orders could make it to the field and get built.
I walked into Mike’s side of the house. “Hi. Loretta Novak,” I said as I reached my hand towards him, just to make sure he remembered my name. We met twice before, so you never know. I don’t really know him, so I don’t know if he remembers me, my name, or why I’m on site, for that matter.
Mike got up from his chair and extended his hand to mine. “I know your name. I might be old, but I’m not senile,” Mike declared as I immediately started to try and figure out how old he was and equate that age to senility. “Welcome.” We shook hands. Mike had a firm, dirty handshake. I wanted to wash my hands immediately. But he looked me straight in the eyes with his baby blues, sat back down in his chair, at his desk, and opened his desk drawer. I was standing. He reached in and grabbed a key, with a bright yellow floatable keyring. He turned his chair as he shut the desk drawer, looked up to me, and said, “Loretta, this is the key to the ladies’ room. You don’t have to use the same toilet as the rest of the guys.”
Well now, how ‘bout that. Separate men AND ladies’ bathrooms! What a modern concept. It’s 1994, for Christ’s sake. The construction business is really zooming into the future, and I’m glad I’m strapped in for the ride.
Mike added, “And if you drop the key in by mistake, we equipped it with this here floatable device, so you can retrieve it.” I’m thinking not.
Two days later, when I make my morning trek to my blue room, I go to open the padlock with MY key, but the lock wasn’t there. I think, Oh my God. Someone stole the lock off of my blue room! I look at the front of the plastic structure and staring me right in the face, in bright red letters, are the words OCCUPIED. There they are, right there on the front of the door. Did I mention it is morning? Details are not my strong suit in the morning. I stand there, in the mist of the morning fog, like I am at the county fair or a rock festival, waiting in line to pee, along with the rest of the general public. Only then, it starts to occur to me. WAIT A MINUTE! I’m the only woman on this job-site and my blue room shouldn’t be… At that very moment, the latch slams open and the door swung wildly toward me. I jump back a little as Mike steps down out of his plastic-clad throne. “Ahh, good morning,” he said, avoiding eye contact as he v-lines straight for the trailer, his hands still rustling with something around his crotch. I suddenly realize the only time any of the guys use my blue room is when they have to sit down.
I bounce out of my blue room, with the cheap, hollow bang of a plastic door behind me. As my feet hit the ground, my left foot lands right into a puddle of water. Fuck. Mud splashes all over my work boots. Good thing I have my high heels to wear to my meeting at 4:45 with one of San Francisco’s oldest landlords, Cohen, Tanner, and Swimmer. This meeting is worthy of high heels. CTS is a ‘high heel’ kind of client. Professional, sophisticated, successful. And they recently awarded Henderson and Steinberg (H&S), my employer, a contract to build out seven floors in an existing building in San Francisco. H&S is the oldest general contractor in San Francisco. There is one thing about being a builder in earthquake territory, building is good business, rebuilding is great business. H&S built most of the real estate currently owned by CTS in San Francisco before the big one hit in 1906 and rebuilt it afterwards.
I start to think about the meeting with CTS this afternoon, and the similarities between H&S and CTS. Both companies have been around for well over one hundred years, have offices in the financial district, and are family-owned. Now, H&S is employee-owned, but why do I think the family still owns most of the company? The big difference between the two is that H&S is a construction company, and CTS is a development company. I don’t know why, but deep down inside, I wish I worked for CTS. As I start to plan the rest of my day, the goal is to leave here by 4:00 p.m., enough time to change into my high heels when I get to the city.
I used to like being alone at the job-site. It’s quiet, my blue room is mine alone, and I can get a lot of work done. On a normal day, I get here at 8:30 a.m. and stay until 5:00 p.m. Everyone else gets here at 6:00 a.m. Or, at least, that’s the time I’m told everyone else gets here. I wouldn’t know, because I’m surely to God not here at that time. Must not be the hours that attracted me to the construction business either. I am not a morning person. Thirty minutes is my minimum time awake before doing normal morning things like showering and shaving. And I have to have coffee. Good coffee. The village project is about a twenty-minute drive down the east shore freeway from my triplex. When I arrive at 8:30 a.m., everyone else is usually on site and well into their workday routine. And it is a routine. Fifteen-minute morning break at 9:30 a.m. Thirty-minute lunch is at 11:30 a.m. sharp. Afternoon break at 1:15 and every day, just like clockwork,

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