Time unknowingly slipped into Sunday.
Today, Shane and Fiona had a rare sleep-in and didn't set up the stall.
Because this Sunday marked the last day of the Thanksgiving holiday, apart from some essential shift jobs, basically not many people were working, and the construction site had also stopped work.
So they slept straight through until noon.
Debbie had taken Liam to a classmate's house to play. Carl had run off somewhere, probably to catch cats or do something else. Ian and Lip were rarely home on Sundays.
The two of them stared blankly in the living room after lunch.
Shane nudged Fiona's ankle: "I'm going to the bar to give Kevin his cut. Wanna grab a drink while we're at it?"
"Just what I needed." Fiona rubbed her shoulder. "I definitely need something to soak this 'South Side breakfast stall owner' identity out of my brain."
For this week's revenue, Shane rounded the costs directly to make calculations easier.
He set the revenue at $6,200.
If calculated according to Shane's external claim of a 70% gross profit margin, their profit for the week was $4,340. So Kevin's 10% share would be $434; and Fiona's 30% (since Fiona paid for lunch herself on several days, she got a bit more) would come to $1,302.
As for Shane himself, after deducting all actual costs, his take-home profit was actually $3,898.
The average monthly salary in the US in 2010 was around $3,400 at best, and Shane had earned much more than that in just one week.
Thinking of this, Shane nodded. At least he hadn't shortchanged himself for this week of hard labor.
When that stack of bills was placed in Fiona's hands, she seemed to be injected with some kind of bright radiance.
In Shane's memory, he had never seen Fiona look so relaxed and spirited.
It was as if the exhaustion and anxiety that had accumulated in her heart for years were temporarily dispelled by the hard cash in her hands.
Shane put Kevin's share in an envelope and left the house with Fiona.
...
On the other side, inside the Alibi Room, Kevin was pouring beer for some patrons and complaining to a few old regulars gathered around the bar.
But his tone sounded suspiciously like bragging.
"...I'm telling you, that kid Shane was definitely sent by the devil! I only trained with him twice, seriously, just twice! Now I feel like my ass isn't my own, and lifting my arms is a struggle. Look, just this—"
Kevin flexed his arm hard, doing the front double biceps pose Shane taught him, trying to show off his biceps.
Of course, having only trained twice, what results could he have? He only managed to squeeze out a lump of curved fat.
"...Okay, maybe it doesn't look obvious, but I can tell you for sure, something is burning inside. I can feel it. My muscles are regrowing! Shane calls this... what was it... delayed onset muscle soreness. He says it's a good thing."
"He said pain means muscle growth!"
As he spoke, Kevin suddenly sighed again. "But, oh God, sitting down and standing up right now feels like torture."
The old regulars sitting at the bar erupted in laughter. Tommy teased directly:
"Come on, Kevin. That pain is your fat protesting your abuse. They've lived on you comfortably for so long, and now you suddenly want them to move out? Of course they're going to show you who's boss."
"Bullshit," Kevin stiffened his neck.
"I can feel it. Even though it's still soft now, it's tight inside. It's different from that puddle of mud before. Veronica can testify."
Kevin looked at V, who was stifling a laugh nearby, hoping she would say a few good words.
V turned her head to glance at him but didn't tear him down.
"Yeah, I testify. The muscles are a bit harder, but he was moaning all night last night. Even the mattress was groaning with him."
These words made the surrounding patrons laugh again.
At this moment, a man sitting in the corner sneered. He had broad shoulders, and the sleeves of his work jacket were rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick forearms.
His name was Jack. He was a foreman at the new construction site in the South Side.
It was a rare day off today, and a coworker had introduced him to this bar for a drink. But he didn't expect to hear the bartender here bragging about this stuff as soon as he arrived.
He had a fiery temper and had always looked down on these "fancy" fitness types.
"Heh."
Jack took a big swig of beer, then slammed the glass heavily on the table. The noise drowned out some of the surrounding chatter.
"Muscles burning? Muscles growing? Brother, I think your brain got squeezed by a door. If you want to suffer, do you need some so-called training? ...Just with what you have on you, come to the construction site and help me move bricks for two days, lift cement boards for half a day. I guarantee you'll grow more substance than posing in front of a mirror in the gym."
Hearing someone challenging him, the bar quickly quieted down, ready to watch the show. Everyone loved this kind of thing.
Inside the bar, Kevin's face couldn't hold up. "Hey, buddy, if you don't understand, don't talk nonsense. Training is scientific..."
"Scientific my ass!" Jack interrupted him directly.
"It's all sissy tricks of taking off shirts, touching yourself in the mirror, and taking a photo after sweating! Real strength comes from bleeding and sweating on the construction site! Not from drinking protein powder and grunting on those iron lumps!"
"Who the fck are you calling a sissy!" Kevin's temper also rose.
Generally speaking, Kevin didn't pay much attention to this kind of provocative talk, treating it as atmosphere adjustment, but this guy really pissed him off.
"I'm talking about you people who are superstitious about gyms," Jack stood up directly.
He was only half a head shorter than Kevin, but he had a large frame, and years of physical labor gave his figure a very oppressive presence.
"What's the use of training so well? Can you carry an I-beam? Can you steady a mixer with one hand? Having too much money to burn, finding those fancy so-called coaches."
"Shane doesn't train for show," Kevin had seen Shane's superhuman strength with his own eyes.
"Shane? Oh, the one who often sells lunch at my site? Heard people say he has some muscles. Hmph, but I reckon he got them from eating protein powder too. Soft skin and tender meat, can he take a few hits? These powder drinkers, their piss is white!"
"You mother—" Kevin was about to come out from behind the bar to have a go at him face-to-face, but V pulled him back.
"What? Not convinced?" Jack raised his chin. "All talk and no action. Aren't you a believer in that stuff? I won't bully you. Call your coach over. If he has the guts, compete with me. Let's compete on something real..."
His words weren't finished.
Squeak. The bar door was pushed open, and Shane and Fiona walked in one after another.
In an instant, all eyes in the bar turned towards them. The tense atmosphere from just now was replaced by a more enthusiastic emotion.
Someone whistled first, followed by cheers and catcalls exploding.
"Whoa whoa whoa! Look who's here—"
"The Mayor of the South Side has arrived!"
"Your student is being picked on, Shane!"
Shane, who had just entered, was stunned by this inexplicable welcome. He subconsciously turned his head to look at Fiona, and Fiona also blinked at him in confusion.
Shane turned back and shouted to them: "What's going on? I haven't beaten Frank up these past few days."