When I was a special education teacher,
my foreman neighbor gave me 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 a boot, ambled back
to their work station until their thirst
made them turtles again.
Praying for lunch-time to arrive—
a great sandwich and ice 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.
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.
Naive, 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,
collected 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.
.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 probes about a world
that was prurient and hilarious to them.
August ended and I left to teach,
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 Bronze Bird