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Honest Livings. |
| Written by Nunyo Bidness | |
| Thursday, 03 July 2008 | |
The shorter worker tries to grip it on opposing sides but doesn't have the wingspan to pick it up. He pushes it up onto an end so it stood tall, a good three feet taller than than the black shag of matted hair on his head. From there, he maneuvers it so it rests on his back, and like a turtle carrying it's shell, the shorter worker shuffles into the house towards the living room where the taller worker is pulling off the old carpet. I don't see the carpet hit the ground, but from the heavy thud it made on the bare concrete floor, I can bet he is relieved. The sink faucet in the carpet less room comes on, and I have no doubts that the shorter worker is replacing the sweat he lost because he will have to lose it again tomorrow, and the day after that. That is, if he can keep his job these days. The family is in the living room while the workers are tearing up the family room. The contents of the house are scattered everywhere without carpet, on counters and the kitchen floor and plenty in the garage. We are crowding around a child because they are lively enough to entertain the boring by nature, like campers around a fire. The child is many things; my nephew, my parents grandson, my brothers son, and we are all competing for his affection, whether we admit it or not. My nephews grandpa that is unrelated to me is a firefighter and is talking about the job. When he gets together with my father, the personal injury attorney, there is a catastrophic collision of people too used to bad things and good people. My nephew is untying my shoes and giggling when I snap out of the aura of happiness emitted by a child who isn't old enough to stop laughing without a reason. His smile is a virus that we like around. The firefighter is talking about a man that ran through two steel posts into a one-story office building, starting a fire at two AM. "Our station responded to the call," he says, one leg crossed over the other, with his dark brown, thick mustache riding out the words, "the whole front of the building where the car hit was on fire or starting to catch. Ten more minutes and the whole thing would have caught. The guy was rooked out of his head." My father shakes his head with his hand on his chin. "Did the driver die? The drivers never seem to be the ones that eat it." "No," the firefighter says. "He walked off. The cops got him a few minutes afterwards." "At least he didn't hit anyone. I've gotten so many of those cases lately, drunks getting in accidents." The firefighter sighs. "Yeah." There is a pause, sporadically interrupted by my nephews laughter from making me retie my shoes for the fifth time. "I was riding with the ambulance to a scene of a crash. Drunk lady blew a red light and T-boned into the back end of a car. Ended up being a family. Two kids, both in the hospital. The mom died, but the dad made it out with a few bruises, that's it." "What happened to the driver of the other car?," my father asks. "She walked out of the crash without a scratch. On her feet by the time we got there." My father nods. "It's always the drunks that God seems to watch over." The shorter worker comes through the room, wiping sweat off his forehead, heading towards the porch. He sizes up the next roll of carpet before applying the same technique of standing it up and turtling it on his back. "I wouldn't mind so much if it were the idiot drivers of these cars who were killed, but it's never the right person," the firefighter says. The top of his head is bald and very tan, dotted with the occasional stranded hair. "Yeah. We get an unbelievable amount of cases involving some boozed up moron getting behind the wheel. Some of them kill, some of them don't," the lawyer says. "It's tough for me to deal with." My nephew wanders out the room and the women follow him, while the men continue their conversation. The shorter worker, carpet on his back, waits at the end of the hallway for the women and my nephew to pass through before he crowds the way. I watch him struggle, sometimes dragging it along the floor, sometimes corralling his energy into bursts before rolling the burden, a color-confused roll of carpet, off his back. His work boots are mangled and covered in black contact scratches. The shorter worker grabs the collar of his tee shirt and wipes his brow. He takes a sip of water from the jug filled from our sink, then heads back to the porch for the last piece of the inexplicably offensive carpet. The unrelated-grandpa-firefighter and the father-lawyer are talking about fire-related damages and I hear my nephew having a tantrum in the other side of the house. I lace up my shoes for the seventh time in the last twenty minutes and follow the shorter worker out of the door. "Need a hand?," I ask him. He shakes his head and points at the taller worker, "No," he says, in unsure English. "No. Fine. Thanks." I grab one end of the carpet, and he scoops up the other, his breath returning to normal speed and all of the tired in his body finally tires out. His urgency and stress wear while we stumble the thirty feet, carrying the atrocious carpet before dropping it next to the other two rolls on the kitchen floor. It was white tile. "Is that the last of it?," I ask. The shorter worker nods his head and the taller worker continues to strip the floor. They both continue their work. My nephew continues to scream. The firefighter and the lawyer talk about the tragedy in their jobs. I go to my room, untie my shoes and feel the old carpet on my feet for the last time. My hands go behind my head. It's been a hard day already. Copyright 2008 Nunyo Bidness |
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