BEFORE Josh called and told me that he had nearly run the semi off the road to avoid a
head-on collision with an anesthesiologist texting away while behind the wheel of her
brand new Camero , I was sitting at my desk, head in both hands, sweat soaking through my first winter layer, brought on by my most recent employee confrontation. I thought about what I
was trying to convey to Beau that morning as I chewed him out, steam pouring
out of my mouth against the cold in the air and the cold emanating from him towards me. I
told him to leave his troubles at the gate and pretend that nothing was more
important inside this fence than work.
I imagine what it
would look like if we could leave all our troubles at the gate when we arrive
at work each morning, at varying times before the production lines start up at
6:00am. Children and wives and grandparents and girlfriends and mistresses and
at least one self-proclaimed baby mama hop out of trucks, cars, vehicles that
can only be described as jalopies, where they take their places behind the chain link
fence, twining their fingers like ivy through the cold thin metal. “Can’t take
ya with me, baby,” the guys say, and the concerns hop out of their vehicles
with a “Pick me up when you get off?” Everyone, myself included, offer some
kind of affirmative- nods, smiles through pain, a chipper ‘you know it’. Each passenger door slams closed and we blow a kiss to the fight we had last night
about soggy meatloaf, or the light bill that’s two months late, or the affair
that won’t die, or the bottles hidden at the bottom of the trash can again, the
surgery our daughter needs that this job’s wages won’t come close to covering.
With a clear head
and a clear conscience each man works like a bandit. A ten-hour day knocked out
clean and true, one swift strike to the workday’s jaw. We power machines down. There’s
not much about life work anyone talks about on the way back to the time clock,
because inside these gates we're all pretending that work is all there is.
Everyone’s an actor giving a flawless performance as a dedicated lumber
stacker, lumber grader, truck driver or maintenance man, even the boss’ son
starring as planer mill manager, a steadfast pillar of commitment that
assures the community that this plant is here to stay. They clock out and I lock
up.
We start up our
cars and trucks and pull down to the gate to find our worries and troubles and
concerns right where we left them. A few of the lesser concerns talk amongst
themselves, but the big ones- Is my wife going to leave me? Is my girlfriend
pregnant again? Am I about to lose my job? Am I going to be a good daddy?- they
are silent against the fence, fingers like ice cold vices glued to the fence.
The greetings are much different than the partings. Each man sighs as his
biggest Worry slips in the vehicle. Each Worry leans over as if to stroke her
hard-working man’s face and give him a kiss. Instead, her frigid hand slips
through his chest, as if the flesh was an unbuttoned shirt in July, waiting for
one cool breeze. Worry slips her fingers around her man’s heart and
squeezes, infrequently, but enough so he doesn’t breath like he did at work
today, after he left this worry down by the gate, put on his work face and
began to act his part. Each man tries to breath, but a full and satisfyingly deep
breath is just out of reach. “I missed you,” each Worry coos, looking deep into
her man’s eyes. The costumes are off, the play is over, and the lights are now
going up. The lighting reveals more worries, more concerns. possibly pebbles of happiness if they could focus. But today the worries are like a broken tooth he can’t stop tonguing.
It’s broken and it’s hurt, but it’s his. “Missed you too, baby,” he says, and
they hit the dusty trail.
