Tony

Tony “Measure Twice” Marino stood on a steel girder six stories up, tool belt jingling with every move. His thick arms flexed as he secured a tension rod into place, cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips—not lit, just chewed for show. His yellow boots scuffed the beam with confidence, the spirit level at his waist gleaming like a sheriff’s badge.

Below, his crew was gathered near a pile of rebar, tossing empty coffee cups into a cement bucket like it was basketball. They were still laughing about the incident at O’Malley’s—how Rico had tried to dance on the bar and ended up kissing the jukebox.

“Swear t’God,” Rico was saying, “I thought she said she liked a man with rhythm!”

Tony hollered down, “Yeah, well your rhythm’s got two left feet and a warrant for public indecency.”

That got a good roar from the boys.

Then—

Whistle.

A loud, unmistakable cat-call whistle echoed across the scaffolding. Followed by a “Eyoooooo!”

Rico elbowed Mike, who was halfway into a hoagie. “Whazzat? Pretty dame?” he smirked, looking around.

Tony squinted over his shoulder, wiping sawdust off his gloved hands. “Where?! Lemme see.”

Sure enough, walking along the street level in a crisp skirt, smart heels, and a little bounce in her step—was someone who had the whole crew's attention. She looked up, shading her eyes against the sun, probably wondering why a Greek chorus of construction workers had just broken into low whistles and shouted compliments about her "gorgeous gait" and "divine posture."

Tony grinned wide, yanked off his hard hat, and smoothed back his curtain bangs with a practiced flick.

Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “You walkin’ like that on purpose or am I just real lucky today?!” with the kind of Boston accent that could sandpaper paint.

Laughter rippled through the crew, but Tony raised a gloved hand to settle them.

“Easy now, boys. Be respectful. We compliment, not harass. There’s a line, and we don’t cross it.”

Still, as the woman tossed them a sly smile before disappearing around the corner, Tony gave a small, satisfied chuckle.

“Hot damn,” he muttered, grabbing his wrench again. “That’s the kinda view they don’t put in the blueprints.”

Rico looked up. “What’s the matter, Tone? She got ya all flustered?”

Tony grinned, spinning his wrench like a gunslinger. “Nah, just thinkin’ I shoulda wore my good gloves today.” He flexed theatrically.

“Weren’t ya already wearing your good gloves?”

Tony winked. “I am now.”

Tony “Measure Twice” Marino knelt beside the foundation line, gloved hands brushing over chalk marks on the concrete like a priest laying hands on sacred ground. He squinted up at the wooden frame taking shape overhead, tapping the baseboard twice before rising to his feet with a satisfied grunt.

“Level as a nun’s bedtime, boys,” he called over his shoulder, voice thick with Boston charm. “Let’s keep it that way.”

He stood tall—well, as tall as his 5’8” would allow—and stretched his arms behind his back with a crack and a sigh. A bit of sawdust clung to his stubble, and sweat glistened faintly on his temples beneath his yellow hard hat, which still bore that goofy heart sticker on the front. He glanced toward the porch, where Mr. and Mrs. Faber sat in rocking chairs with iced teas in hand, watching the crew like proud grandparents.

Tony gave them a bright wave and strode over, tugging off one glove with his teeth and leaning casually against a support beam.

“Y’know,” he said, voice honey-smooth and half-teasing, “this addition’s gonna come out real nice. Your kiddo’s gonna have more space than a studio apartment downtown. Might even make their ex jealous.” He winked.

Mrs. Faber smiled wearily, clearly appreciative but tired. “That would be nice. Poor thing’s been through it. Caught their partner cheating—with someone from their study group, no less! Can you believe it?”

“Disrespectful and unoriginal,” Tony said with a click of his tongue. “If you’re gonna blow up your relationship, at least don’t do it with someone who has to borrow your lecture notes.”

Mr. Faber chuckled into his drink. “We just want them to have a fresh start. Thought the extra space might help 'em feel independent again.”

Tony nodded sincerely, hand on his hip. “You’re good folks. World needs more of that—actual love, the kind you build things around.” His expression softened a little. “Some people chase sparks. You two? You laid a foundation.”

Mrs. Faber’s hand went to her heart, touched.

“And hey,” Tony added, slapping the beam beside him affectionately, “this place? Solid wood. Reinforced joints. We’re talking earthquake-ready—emotionally and structurally.” He paused, then gave a sly grin. “Not that we get earthquakes, but if we did? This place’d judge the Richter scale back.”

That got a laugh from both Fabers.

As he turned to head back to the site, he muttered under his breath with a smirk, “If this kid’s anything like their folks, they’ll bounce back just fine.” Then, louder: “Alright, ya animals, break’s over! Someone find my drill—she wandered off again, and I swear she’s hiding under the lumber like a diva.”

He rolled his shoulders, picked up a plank with one hand like it was paper, and sang under his breath as he returned to work:

🎵 “Some folks fix hearts with ice cream… me, I use a sander.” 🎵

Tony “Measure Twice” Marino sat at his battered desk, a bead of sweat sliding slowly down the side of his neck, absorbed unceremoniously by the collar of his light grey t-shirt. He tugged at it absentmindedly, trying to peel it off his chest where it clung like cling wrap to a lasagna.

The AC had given up around 8AM, and the unit now made a sound like it was choking on a wrench. He had a toolbox open and half-disassembled coils scattered nearby, but he’d given up fixing it after the third swear word set off the motion sensor light in the hallway.

His yellow hard hat rested on the desk, next to a sweating glass of iced coffee that had long since watered itself down into what he now called “Caffeine Soup.” He twirled the straw with one finger and sighed.

“Hotter than a welding torch on the fourth of July in here…” he muttered, grabbing a folded rag from the drawer and dabbing his forehead like an old Italian nonna at Sunday Mass. “How the hell did people build Rome without central air?”

He leaned back in his creaky office chair and stared at the ceiling tiles like they owed him an apology. Then he checked his watch.

1:03 PM.

They were late.

But hey, the call had sounded promising. Real promising. The voice had been serious—someone with money, taste, and ambition. The kind of voice that said: “I want a house that makes my neighbors weep and my ex question all their life choices.”

Tony smiled to himself at the thought. “C’mon… gimme a good one. 4 bed, 3 bath, vaulted ceilings, maybe a goddamn indoor herb garden.”

He drummed his fingers on the desk, the call replaying in his head:

"You come highly recommended, Mr. Marino. I have a job I think you'll be very interested in. Big scope. Big expectations. I'd like to meet—discuss the details in person."

Now, that was what got his boots tied up early. A job with teeth.

He glanced over at the little whiteboard near the door where he’d scribbled some hopeful titles:

“Project Aphrodite” – potential spa getaway “Casa di Comeback” – revenge house, post-divorce “New Money Manor” – self-explanatory

Tony grinned. “Man builds a good house, people remember it. Man builds a great house? They name the pool after him.”

The fan hiccuped again. He took a long sip of the cold coffee soup and leaned his elbows on the desk just as the doorknob clicked.

His eyes lit up.

“Well, well,” he murmured, standing up, straightening his shirt and adjusting the tape-measure straps on his overalls. “Let’s see if this heat wave brought in a storm worth building for.”

He opened the door, smile ready, sawdust still clinging to his boots, and that signature heart-shaped sticker shining under the dim overhead light.

“Tony Marino,” he greeted warmly, voice like Boston honey on gravel. “You must be my client. Come on in—ignore the heat. She’s a temperamental old gal, but she’s got character.”

He held the door open with one arm, already imagining blueprints and hammer swings.