Working Men

My Dad enjoyed telling stories about my first few days as a union laborer back on the job in San Francisco.

Dad was the big boss and I enjoyed seeing him on the job. I was pushing a garbage tote, filled with drywall, when he walked by.

“Hi Dad!” I yelled.

Little did I know I was approaching the edge of the ramp. I went over the top of the tote I was commanding and I ended up in the dumpster.

Dad denied knowing who I was waving to.

Later on, I was asked by my off-the-boat Italian labor foreman to go get a tube of grease.

After looking through the tool container for awhile I returned:

“What is tuba grease?” I asked.

He told my Dad and they laughed and laughed.

On Thursday morning, Sam was moving around the kitchen at 6:30 a.m.

“It’s going to be a long day,” he said.

He headed for the door.

“You want a ride?”

“I’ll walk,” he said.

Then he stopped on the stairs.

“I’ll take a ride.”

I’m the only person at Camp Clifford who is awake in the morning. I sing to the dogs, I talk baseball, I joke around.

“You gotta relax,” Sam said, as I talked to him during the short ride.

He got out of the car, yawned deeply, and gave a quick wave.

Jake had worked the evening shift.

And they’re a lot more tired now.

I watched Sam walk away.

So many work days coming up.

He came into the house a full 10 hours later.

“How was work?” I asked.

“Sucked.”

He’s already a pro.

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