The One Labor of Jordan
Jordan now understood why Lena said that her father was mythologically old school.
“Three things you gotta do to date my daughter,” Mr. Iraklidis said, holding up sausage-like digits. “Hey, it usta be twelve. First, clean the cellar steps.”
But Jordan could go mythological too. He had no river to reroute, but he hooked a hose to the fire hydrant and aimed it down the stairs. Five minutes and the steps were gleaming.
Of course, now the basement was flooded.
“Number 2, wise guy,” Mr. Iraklidis said. “Pump out the basement.”
Jordan texted Lena. Maybe we should just be friends.