The View From Scranton

An End to Sloglessness

Well, it didn't last long. Yesterday morn I walked off one slog, this morn I'm back at another. See this cat called the House last night, asked for some laborers, and one of my, er, colleagues told me about it. Curious, I went to the Monitor, asked if it were true. He countered with a question of his own: Was I sure I wanted this kinda labor? Sure thing, I replied. I'm Johnny Labor.

Boy am I. Not. This general labor stuff. It's not me. I mean, I'm not that kinda good with my hands. I'm not a good man with a hammer. I'm not a good man with a drill. Hell, I'm not even a good man to have on site, unless perhaps you're looking for entertainment. I can fight, I can write, and I can gesture. But the fight's all bluster and the write's all wrong (thanks Joey G). That leaves gesture. And there's only so much a man can do with gesture. I was given a drill; I broke the bit. I was handed a saw; I broke the blade. I was asked to hold something still; I let it unstill. Thrice.

Then I got wise. Turned down the sound in my head and just went with it all. Sure, I still made mistakes, but they were less and less noticeable, of less and less consequence. Best, the mistakes began to be outweighed by no mistakes, the pitch went from squeal to hum, until before I knew it, I'd helped to finish an entire deck. Okay, so it was a nothing deck affixed to a nothing house in a nowhere place. Still it was some small accomplishment. A tangible result of something coming from my hands. Something other than hyperbole and boil, that is.

At the end of the day, sunburnt to beet, scratched to shred, bruised to purple, I got in the truck and looked back at that deck and smiled, a little less impressed with myself, but impressed nonetheless. I'd constructed a thing, a touchable durable. It was almost cool. Just so long as I don't make a habit of it.

The Monitor was correct, it's not my kinda work. It's work best left to men of such habits, such strengths. I know my place, and it is not on a construction site.

My place is the story, and this could be some story. The company's called Good Cents. I know, the name's unfunny; the man behind the name though is a riot. Broken of nose, square of jaw, loud of mouth, and manic of manner, he's cartoon incarnate. Pulpy. Peppery. Profane. I tell ya, talking to him's like a nonstop bop with a well-connected townie who wants nothing but to make you blink and think twice about it. That's if you get a blink in edgewise. The cat's a natural, a natural rascal, of some ill-repute. Smart. Sharp. And unafraid to stick and jab. In other words, my kinda guy. If I don't have to last too long in the slogging, it might make for a slingable story.

posted by John Hood. @ 11:16 PM