When my foreman neighbor gave me, a special education teacher, a laborer’s job building a local nuclear power plant, construction was a misnomer for me. A grunt at best, I swept, carried boards, picked up papers, mainly water cups. Small in stature, I only carried one board at a time until the foreman shamed me into more.
The water coolers were oases. Whenever possible, the men took a break, shuffled over to a cooler, drew the water slowly, sipped as if it were rare wine, threw all cups on the ground, squashed them with their boot, slowly walked back to their work station until their thirst made them turtles again.
Praying for lunchtime to arrive – a great sandwich and iced tea from my loving wife, supportive because a young marriage needed the paycheck. Mostly I sat alone on a spot shaded by a plank I had seen the others prop up for a modicum of heat relief.
And there was no work ethic, but a get-out-of-work ethic. “You’re moving too fast,” spat several times at me. Picking up paper that looked important, a manta ray of a man, hovered and shouted, “Keep your goddamn hands off that iron worker’s paper.”
One of the few Black guys on the crew, an older man, had a mop handle with a nail punched in the end, which he used to slowly spear the water cups thrown on the ground. Naïve, that first week, desperate to fit in, I made one of my own, proudly could not wait to show the paper cup warrior I could assist him. He smiled nicely and said: “Them’s cups are mine, my job. Had it for years, made it up myself. About to retire so I am the only one allowed.”
Every Friday, the paycheck Lotto. A grizzled vet spent the whole morning collecting sawbucks to enter “paycheck poker,” where arbitrary numbers on the checks cost you a bit or won you a ton of cash and honor. Fridays were the easiest day. Nobody worked and all speculated about what they would do with their winnings. It was the height of camaraderie.
I just listened, amazed that most said they would buy the best whore, as I had already heard them diss their crabby old ladies they were glad they could still fuck.
Trying to be cool, I made the mistake of telling them I taught Sex Education to a mixed group. It got me the only positive attention ever as they peppered me with questions about what I taught. Did I teach young girls about orgasms, boys about gays? Myriad other probs about a world that was prurient and hilarious to them.
August ended, and I left to teach, and I was glad to be away from the heat, sweat, and frequent derision. Fascinated by that alternative Hell. Glad I made good money.
That fall I heard the main building had burned down. Ran into one of the workers in a bar. “Was arson,” he insisted, "Definitely arson. For the insurance."
Originally published in *82 Review