Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Humming Cars and Rumbling Trucks

sssssssssssssssssssppppphheevvvvvvvvvsssszzzew. Repeat. Repeat faster. 
I can see them working on it. They were gentlemen. Some were 
gentlemen. Some were pock-marked spics and sweaty niggers. Some were 
lying racist micks. There were a few stoshes bearing the stench of 
stale vodka. A few zips, a chink, and a gook. A coupla snot-nosed 
summer help from the north shore. They all wore work. They wore it in 
their faces, in their hands, in the arches of their feet, and the 
curves of their backs. Crack. Crackety Crack Crack. Beep Beep Beep. 
Reverse. Reversing. Reverse. They looked like cool hand Luke and the 
gang, but not at all. There was a hero, but not at all. They worked as 
a team, but not at all. The concrete guys do the concrete. The 
laborers do the bullshit. The operators work the thunder. The 
electricians play with each others pricks. The plumbers aren't needed 
but they are on the clock-they want a piece of the action. The 
carpenters zip and saw. Zip and saw. Nail and pound. Nail and pound. 
Lightbulb yellow. Sewage Orange. Rusty Red. Oscar Green. Bullfrog 
Blue. All the helmets. All the helmets. I can see the work. I can see 
the gang box over here. The foreman's trailer over there. I can hear 
the work. I can feel the vibrating ground below my feet. It's a 
squiggly line of vibrations running through the rubber soles of my 
boots moving vertically through my legs dancing around my knees and 
tapering in my hips. The Checker Board Lounge style vibration. Blues 
vibration. Squiggly line, blues, checker board lounge vibrations. That 
kind. The concrete pillars are new enough to not be painted, tainted, 
stained, and painted. Speckles of pale yellow and coffee. Dark roast. 
Medium roast. Dashes of cinnamon. Swirls of water and sand. Pebble 
lined ocean floors just beyond the sand bar but not far-close. It was 
perfectly edged, trolled, and finished. Hadn't seen the heat, the 
cold, the salt, the acid, the poison of the humming cars and rumbling 
trucks. Its life had just begun. It stood defenseless. Prey for the 
predators. Opportunity for the elements. 
    A whistle blows for nine thirty break. Fifteen minutes to wait in 
line at the roach coach or unpack a sandwich and ruin your lunch. Some 
eat alone. Some eat together but all separate. There's the sports 
crew. The drinking crew. The car crew. The bible thumpers. The 
complaint crew. The brown nosers. The tokers. The jokers and weirdos. 
Buckets and planks are the tables and lunch pales, the seats. Hot 
spot...on the front right, near the big toe. A blister, a muscle, an 
ache. The heat freezes the frame. A car flashes and cools. A bus air 
conditions. Another pillar pour after break. The roller arrives. Red 
and white striped conical spinner with a mouth hurling slow motion 
globs of wet crete. A man on the hose. A man on the shovel. A man on 
the barrel. A man to strike it off. End break. The screaming voices 
are drown by the humming cars and rumbling trucks. No one can hear 
anyone and everyone can hear everything. Work happened here. 
    I sever my thought. I pull the plug. I disconnect from the server. 
I lose the signal. I have no bars. My battery is dying. A police car 
rolls past. I consider my position. Im staring at the guts of a 
seventy year old bridge. I was here before. I consider my position. I 
feel odd. Why shouldn't I stand here? 

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