Man At Work
Day Labor Stories, Part 1
originally published June 13, 2007
First, I will ask the rhetorical question, “What is a man with a master’s degree doing up at 4:30 a.m. to prepare to sell his labor at the local labor pool?” The answer is, “What you would be doing if you had to.” This is a reality in America today, and the streets of downtown Athens, GA are no different.
Athens is a town renowned for the intensity of its music culture, as well as the fact that it is home to the University of Georgia, and, as such, styles itself as sophisticated, cosmopolitan and hip. But beyond the gleam of good-looking college kids bopping around town with cell phones glued to their heads, the shadow of poverty clings to the streets of Athens. All that it takes to confirm this statement is a little time at the outdoor seating area of any coffee shop or bar, during which a panhandler will most certainly hit you up for change or a cigarette. The Classic City hosts classic poverty, and much of this poverty is black.
The Labor Pool
At 5:30 a.m., I was at the Pool. Already there were a few cars in the lot. Walking into the unobtrusive one-story building, which looked like a dilapidated one-time dry-cleaning store, I was struck by the plain grimness of it. The walls were aged, chipped, irregular cement block, painted in two broad stripes of blue and white. Informational signs cluttered sections of the wall, explaining payroll policy, defining acceptable on-the-job behavior, and reminding us of the simple logic of the enterprise: “Work Today, Get Paid Today.”
I was groggy, but was getting my sea legs as the iced coffee began to kick in. Having filled out the requisite paperwork the day before, as well as having taken (and passed!) the “are you a violent, dishonest, shiftless, drug-crazed bum?” computerized questionnaire, I took my seat among about 20 other nodding desperadoes, waiting for an assignment. It was clear that gathered here was a good sample of the poorest of Athens’ working poor: mainly black men, but also some whites, ages from approximately 25 to 65, dressed for industrial labor and, for the most part, not yet fully awake.
As dawn broke, the activity in the room began to increase. A few sporadic conversations began. Men got up from their chairs to smoke a cigarette outside, or just moved about to wake themselves up for the day. I heard loud gangster rap from a car stereo and conversation from the outside of the building. I stepped out to see what was going on. Parked close in upon the building, a couple of men sat in a ‘70s LTD, its doors flung open. A couple of others leaned against the wall. The smell of pot was thick in the air. I stood out there for a minute or two, just to see whether there would be any interesting talk. But the talk seemed to stop when I showed up, so I returned inside.
Waiting Game
The dispatcher was a white woman who addressed the men, many of whom she seemed to already know, with a brusque familiarity, an odd blend of hostility and charm. I noticed her scolding people for infractions such as walking off a job early or failing to cooperate with a foreman. Sometimes she fielded questions about payroll discrepancies. I tried to have as little reason to talk with her as possible.
Jobs began to be dispatched and the level of energy in the room once again bumped up a notch. Clearly those receiving assignments were pleased to have beaten the waiting game. In labor pools, it is not uncommon for people to languish two or three hours in a room, waiting for a job that may never materialize. The process of waiting, and the immense wasting of people’s time, is among the commonest and most costly features of being poor. In another labor pool earlier in the week, I spent two and a half hours waiting, along with a couple of other people, and finally left for the day, while they remained, as silent and sullen as they were upon arrival.
A man got up to turn on a small TV set. A chase scene was underway. This was some kind of futuristic James Bond thriller, featuring a sexy, expressionless female combatant with blue hair displaying certain superhuman, perhaps cybernetically enhanced powers. The program’s garishly modern metallic sheen, broadcasting into the washed-out emptiness of our room, made for an appalling contrast.
After our heroine had single-handedly dispatched about a dozen marauding thugs atop a skyscraper (having applied a combination of martial arts and death rays) it was time to laugh. The man sitting to my right found the show as ridiculous as I did. We started talking. He looked to be in his 60s. I noticed a set of drum sticks jutting from his backpack. He was a working musician, and this was his day gig. At once, my sense of alienation lessened. I told him I was a musician, and we traded numbers. I asked him whether he knew a certain singer. He told me he’d done a show with her the night before. What a coincidence!
Before long, his name was called and he got up to get his work ticket. Soon after, I was assigned to another job. I would be joining a crew of four others. We would shovel and rake Georgia red clay within concrete planting areas, which would later receive grass and shrubbery, decoratively setting off the parking lot of a revamped Eastside shopping center. It was the kind of landscaping touch meant to brighten the shopping experience: little hints of nature budding up among the droves of SUVs.
The job would not start for an hour: a blessed reprieve! I could go to some coffee shop, down some more life-giving caffeine, and play a few songs before plunging into the deep end.
To be continued…
I Hate Summer
Now Let Me Count the Ways
originally published June 13, 2007
Jason Crosby
I loathe summer. I just hate it. The stultifying heat, the hovering clouds of voraciously hungry mosquitoes, the fact that all my trashy reality shows vanish until autumn, with its cleansing breezes and crispy days: all these factors conspire to jack up my electric bill, sap my will to live and ratchet up my Diet Coke consumption to near-record levels. Add to that the fact that both of my children have decided that any iteration of summer camp is akin to being boiled in oil - well, suffice it to say that summer is a trial to be endured, the itchiest hair shirt yet slapped on a martyr’s back.
I don’t understand my sons’ aversion to camp. When my sister Paige and I were children, we spent most of our summers at two lovely camps. One was the day camp, where we canoed, shot rifles, made those braided-plastic lariats, and smuggled cartons of magenta-colored faux-fruit punch out of the cafeteria for later consumption on the sweltering bus ride home. The other was a sleep-away camp, ostensibly to teach us to sail (although I suspect it was just to keep us out of our mother’s hair for a month.) Despite seven blissful summers at Camp Gulf Park, I cannot sail to save my life. I can, however, hurl a jellyfish with deadly accuracy and also whip up a batch of sogs, a carefully calibrated mixture of dormitory-issue toilet paper and water which, when properly mixed, thrown and baked in the Gulf Coast sun, achieves the approximate hardness of titanium. Sailing, at least where we live, is not so useful. Sogs are useful everywhere - they transcend geography, and are mad fun to throw. They adhere to almost any surface - stucco, dorm room wallboard, cars, people - with thrilling and inspiring tenacity. My brilliant sister conceived the idea of adding sour milk (stolen from the cafeteria - see how camp-learned skills transcend geographic boundaries?) to the sog mix for a piquant bouquet.
I digress. Summer is upon us, and I am grouchier than ever.
Bad Things
Summer brings myriad bad things - and not just heat and humidity. I think that perhaps my pasty family should relocate, maybe to some frosty and windswept clime, with plenty of trees or at least dense cloud cover so that sunscreen would no longer be necessary. When we were younger, blissfully ignorant, Paige and I would attempt to deny our pallor, lying out on our roof slathered in baby oil. Now, of course, twice-yearly visits to my pale and superior dermatologist offer a painful and pricey object lesson as to why this is a bad idea.
My lovely children, just like their parents, turn welty and red in the heat and seem to be grouchy from sweltering morning to blistering nightfall. Trips to the pool are fraught with peril, as various skin sensitivities tend to cause one or all of us to retreat to the showers to frantically remove whatever offending chemical is rendering our fair hides mottled and painful. As a group, my little crew is allergic to the following summertime regulars: some sunscreens, some insect repellents, all salt water, various and unspecified chlorine and other pool treatments, perspiration and tears. And also rice, although that is not a seasonal hazard.
My heavenly dog Colonel suffers in the heat as well. He develops the inevitable skin infection, requiring yet another visit to my friends at the vet, which inevitably entails round after round of antibiotics as well as the swabbing (yeesh) of various and sundry hot spots with various and sundry unguents and powders. The Lovely Maude, our abysmally stupid Clumber Spaniel, suffers from a seasonal recurrence of the foully-named moist dermatitis, which of course requires yet more of the above. One cat, Tinky, writhes in our driveway dust until she resembles a chocolate truffle, then wends her way into the house to clean herself on whichever piece of furniture sports the newest and nicest upholstery. Billy, my husband Winston’s cat, now approaching 150 years in cat-time, is allergic to something in the spring- and summertime air, and spends the warmer months sustained by cortisone injections and fishily reeking wet cat food (the only thing he can smell and therefore eat) and sneezing round the clock.
I can’t think of a thing to recommend summer, other than tomatoes.
Camp?
As I’ve said, I cannot fathom my children’s aversion to camp. I would go, right now, but with certain updates. I am all for a scheduled day, and a camp for grown-ups would need a schedule. (I won’t call it Adult Camp, as that sounds unsavory and unwholesome and frankly unhygienic.) Activities in the morning, perhaps Cooking or Pedicure Hour, interspersed with snack breaks. A refreshing light lunch, followed by a substantial rest time. A few more activities, such as Manicure Hour, A Pause for A Massage, and Advanced Hors d’Oeuvres, followed by the Grooming Lull (when we bathe and put on breezy summer garb that makes us look thin and tan), Cocktail Hour, and Great Big Dinner. Bedtime, preceded by the ritual singing of Taps, might be a tad late, but since sleeping late is considered a grown-up camp skill to be mastered, I don’t foresee a problem.
Grim Reality/ Tomato Sandwiches
As I don’t foresee anyone creating such a camp, or my being sent there, I shall have to muddle through. I don’t anticipate much success convincing my sons that camp is a good thing, although if I told them about the sogs they might prick up their ears and sign up. I also don’t think I can convince them that making bread-and-butter pickles is a fantastic way to spend a summer afternoon, or that a worthy time-filler for an August morning is drinking sweet tea and watching Pretty in Pink while painting one’s toenails.
With some luck, our early-morning dog park visits may scare up a snake or turtle to observe, and almost certainly some blackberries. My sweet boys, William and Ted, may brew up a couple of batches of Glippity Glop, a medley of dried-out spices, moldy unidentifiables from the deep dark recesses of my refrigerator, and baking soda and vinegar (because it foams up like a volcano), which provides us all with some welcome diversion. The boys, because they can cackle over a festering pot of frothy goo. Myself, because I get to clean out my kitchen cabinets. We’ll attempt to dodge the heat with homemade popsicles, ice cream runs, lurking in the basement playroom dodging manic and (I believe) blood-thirsty camel crickets and concocting new ways for the Playmobil men to meet their maker. It’s the Playmobil men or me, and as I over-purchased tomato plants (I think I now have 12), I will hopefully have numerous, very pressing appointments with some white bread, Duke’s mayonnaise, and a couple of vine-warm Brandywines to sustain me until fall.
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