"Ey Jack," he yells. "Thought you were an actor."
Jack has his foot on a pile of 2"x8"s stacked off to the side. He's leaning on his perched up leg, a burning cigarette on the corner of his mouth. He eases up straight, his black t-shirt tucked in a pair of faded black jeans. He's got on red suede Fila's, shoes that look like they could be used for bowling. He flicks the cigarette away.
"I was," Jack yells back, "but I quit doing the porn. Only sell the toys now." Jack grins and the man with the black visor laughs. A few other workers within earshot look over their shoulders and share in the laughter over the sound of hammers and drills.
They shake hands and exchange a few words before they part. The man heads down the New York Street with his tape measurer and checks a door detail on one of the brownstones. Jack turns to the mess of fiber skins laid out on the pavement, and begins to separate the stone skins from the brick skins, the sun slanting down on his shoulders.