Short Brush

“What are they calling you?” he asked, both because everything was loud and also because the words seemed so close to that other slightly politically incorrect phrase.

Looking up from the task, Short Brush shouted, “What?  Oh.  Short brush.”

“Short bus?” he guessed, yelling in attempt to inch closer to a conclusion.

“No.  Short brush.”

“I don’t get it.”

The two men silently went about their work for awhile before Pete began again.  He asked, “Is it a some kind of play on short bus?  They didn’t seem to use it to flatter you.”

Exhaling in an only slightly annoyed fashion, Short Brush began a practiced recitation.  “It’s short brush.  When we clean the rig, there is a normal sized deck brush type brush, and then there is a shorter brush.  Everyone thinks I’m a little slow, so they call me short brush.”

“Oh,” he said, pausing for the same reason one does when securing his footing in order to prepare to handle a heavy load.  Attempting to not betray his thoughts, he quickly continued, “I see.”

“But I’m not slow.  You married, Pete?  My wife had divorce papers written up on my last ‘days off.’  We’re going to counseling now and it seems to be helping, but when she told me, I kinda felt like a failure.”

“Nope.  Divorced.”

“Yeah, she says I’m not the man she married.  She says that when I’m home, I never want to do anything anymore, and that I have no friends.   I just don’t like people.  I don’t like to hang out with her friends and their husbands.”

“Yeah.  I hate when you’re supposed to enjoy yourself.  I don’t go out much either.  Never really have.”

“Sounds like you may be like me then.  You’re alright Pete.”

“Thanks Short Brush.”

They Earn More Than You And They Don’t Even Know What LinkedIn Is

The restaurant doors might as well have been ripped off the hinges if they were pulled open at all.  The culprits were four men who had just finished a long day of hard work.  They were hungry and ready to sit down.  One of them, the newbie, knew he was under the microscope.  The other three would be watching his every move.  They would be silently analyzing his table manners, how he addressed the server, what meal he chose, and most importantly what beverage.  Beyond the age of caring about such things, our man was just looking to make people laugh.  The workday was over; everyone still had all their fingers and toes.  He couldn’t help but want to promote a light mood.

Asking the server to keep the chips and salsa coming, he sarcastically inquired of the men, “So, hey.  On your LinkedIn profiles, do you put your position or just ‘roughneck’?”

The driller, one might say leader of the bunch, had the most steely, unflinching eye-contact one could imagine, and after letting it linger long enough to determine the question was not rhetorical, he asked, “What?”

“You know.  On your LinkedIn profile.  Do you put ‘driller’ or the more generic ‘roughneck’?” the newbie pressed, unwilling to lose the staring contest.

“Linked-what?”

“No way.  What about you two?  It’s not surprising that this neanderthal doesn’t keep his LinkedIn profile updated, but surely you two do,” he continued, purposefully.

“Pete, what are you saying?  Linked…in?”

“Oh my god,” Pete said, unable to not connect the dots.  With an unabashed enthusiasm, he continued, “On top of you guys doing the most impressive work I’ve ever seen, you’re now going to tell me that you don’t even know what LinkedIn is?”  He almost let the “L” word slip out, but the men’s unrelenting eye contact allowed his rational side to win that battle quickly.  “And that’s why I like you guys so much.  You don’t even know what LinkedIn is.  You’re so pure and good.  LinkedIn is like facebook for people with office jobs.  It’s ridiculous.  And you just helped prove my theory.  I only use it to publish my blog posts in the hopes of getting someone to read what I write.  But I’d rather have never heard of it–like you guys.  Nice work.”

“You done?  The server’s waiting on you to order.”

“Oh.  Apologies.  I’ll do the chimichanga.”

“And to drink?”

“Do you have root beer?”

Will I Ever Become a Man?

He taught me so much, and I don’t even know his name.  All I remember is that it was a sunny, hot afternoon at Heritage Square.  H- and I had been pounding the pavement and riding the rides all morning.  It was time for a break.  We headed to the grill area.

There happened to be a vintage motorcycle show on the same grounds as the theme park that day.  As expected, there were plenty of leather vests, bandannas, and unkempt beards.  Wearing a black leather vest over a black t-shirt and sporting a very unkempt beard, my average sized soon-to-be mentor was even missing a tooth.  I can still see the gap now.  Yellow, yellow, yellow, black, yellow, yellow, yellow.  I also remember that the remaining teeth on his mandible were strikingly tall and thin for some reason.

But what really made him stand out was the rather long sentence that was typed in white font on his black shirt.  As usual, I noticed “fuck” before any of the other words.  I became simultaneously terrified and curious.  What kind of randomly long t-shirt slogan contained the eff bomb?  His vest, which cut off the first and last letters of each of the three rows, did not make the task any easier.  Attempting not to stare, after several volleys, I finally made out:  “Off is the general direction in which I wish you would fuck.”

“So, H-, what would you like for lunch?  They have grilled cheese.  Do you want grilled cheese?” I queried, the shrinking line forcing the discussion.

“I don’t want a grilled cheese.  I want a hot dog.”

“We’re having hot dogs tonight, so it’s gotta be a grilled cheese.  Well, I guess there is also chicken fingers, or a corn dog.”

“Corn dog?”

“Yeah, it’s a hot dog wrapped in corn bread.  Is that what you want?” I asked, devastated that she found a loophole to my no-hot-dog reasoning.

“I think I want a corn dog.  No, I want a grilled cheese.”

“Good.”

Only one more customer to go, I noticed that they had some beer bottles on display, in addition to the typical beverages I’d come to expect.  Not just beer, they also had three flavors of delicious Mike’s Hard Lemonade.  Debating for longer than I’d like to admit, I decided to stick with soda.  I really wanted a Mike’s, and figured just one wouldn’t be weird or inappropriate on a nice afternoon of riding roller coasters with my daughter, but I couldn’t do it.  I genuinely feared what the biker behind me was going to think of me for buying a Mike’s.  Not knowing anything more than any of us about the guy, I was afraid because I knew that if I was him, I would loose a smart-ass comment on the strange man in front of me whose t-shirt didn’t have the eff-bomb on it and then bought a Mike’s.  So I stuck with the combo meal that came with a soft drink.

Even knowing that there was only one line was not enough to prevent me from nearly breaking my neck as I turned to confirm what my ears reported next.

“Will that be all?” I heard the cashier say, as I saw her hand the biker a Mike’s Hard Lemonade.

Eating Cereal Quietly

“So, George, remind me again what you were telling me last night?” Pete asked upon returning to the kitchen after setting H- up with cereal.  “Other things I was doing at the time caused me to miss the significance of the meeting being one-on-one, but I think I get it now.  You said you had a one-on-one meeting with your boss and that he asked for your opinion on how your performance should be measured.”

“That’s right.  I asked him if he wanted to know how I thought I should be measured, or if he wanted to know how I thought I was being measured.”

“Which was it?”

“He said he wanted to know how I thought I should be measured.”

“And you said that you think your performance should be measured on the quality of your work, but he said that he was going to measure you on the duration of your work?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus,” Pete responded in disbelief, “that’s totally inverse.  The goal should always be to get more done in less time–not just to work longer.”

“Pete–I know.”

“So what happened next?”

“He told me that to achieve an excellent on my review next time that I will need to work nights and weekends.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him that I wouldn’t be aiming for an excellent then.”

“Ha.”

George opened the door to leave for work and paused, saying, “You don’t know how close I was to asking him, ‘Do you want to be a soul crusher?'”

“Ha.”

As always, the crack of the wooden blinds against the door signaled George was off to work.  Pete then turned to H- who was all the while quietly finishing her cereal.

“Are you a soul crusher H-?” he asked her, using extended, slightly squinted eye-contact to signal playfulness.  “I know I don’t want to be a soul crusher.  I want to be a soul creator, a soul grower,” he reported, increasing the melodrama with the repetition in an effort to summon a response from the speechless little girl.

With her familiar, lovable earnestness and attentiveness H- responded, “I’m still growing.”

It Took Fourteen Days

It took fourteen twelve-plus hour days, but on his last day before going home, his co-workers bore witness to a sight generally reserved for Pete’s closest relations.

Pete could only shake his head and smile after it happened.  Only moments before, he actually felt like he was getting the hang of the job.  He was almost able to anticipate the tasks, and he was receiving more and more responsibility.  But he should have known he couldn’t hide them forever.

“Peter!  What are you doing with your lips?” called the driller from inside the doghouse.  The doghouse was a climate-controlled reasonably clean enclosure on the rig where the men who performed the drilling accomplished their work.  They had a full view of the rig floor and the derrick, and were responsible for every aspect of the operation, including everyone’s safety.  This meant that they scrutinized the floorhands as they, in turn, handled the lethally heavy pipe and machinery.

It was during this scrutiny that they noticed Pete’s lips doing their thing.

“Fart!” muttered Pete.  He looked up smiling.  He knew exactly what they just saw and while slightly embarrassed, was proud to be among men who were so direct.

Pete himself only became aware of his unconscious lip movements during a night of intense foosball competition in highschool.  But little by little, anyone who had a chance to watch him focus on a task was rewarded with an uncommon sight.  One only has to picture Mr. Ed (the talking horse) as he cleaned the peanut butter from his gums to get an idea of what they saw.  As for Pete, his bottom lip attracted and held the attention, what with its size and agility.  But just when it seemed like the performance would be a solo, his top lip took over.  Then his bottom lip would jump in on the action once again.

Then, upon discovery–like any unsanctioned contest–the fleshy duel between these kissers inevitably ended.  Distancing themselves from each other, the two fighters revealed a set of great teeth that crowned a widening smile.  No victor was ever declared.  None was ever called for.  Everyone knew the money was in the rematch anyhow.

 

Waking Up

“What are you doing here?” Jim asked, immediately realizing there was only one reason the director would be there to greet him at his bedside. Tara was dead.

“Jim, Tara’s dead. I’m sorry for that,” Frank said. “Your hands were your fault, however.”

“Jesus Frank! Don’t you have any compassion. The man is barely awake and you’re nearly attacking him,” said Jason.

“I don’t care how long he’s been awake for. I’m not attacking him, he attacked me, remember?” Turning back towards Jim, he continued, “You broke my nose asshole.” Frank had a bandage over his nose. Jim also noticed that Frank was self-conscious of his inability to speak clearly. Looking more closely, Jim could see the cause of the difficulty. Frank had to be careful when he spoke or else parts of his lips would unnaturally flap out into view. Jim’s capacity to fly into a rage would not be soon forgotten.

“What about my hands?” asked Jim, confused by both the gulf between Frank and Jason’s attitudes and the medication that was still in his system. He had been so distracted by the implications of Frank’s presence that he totally forgot what caused him to be in the hospital in the first place. Looking down, he saw, in place of his hands, two stumps that were wrapped in white gauze. He was amazed at how sharply the perpendicular lines that gave texture to the gauze stood out, and not surprised to see the classically blood-stained red ends. Then he threw up. Then he passed out.

Jason glared at Frank as two attractive nurses quickly cleaned up Jim’s mess and re-positioned his body. All the many medical monitors indicated Jim was fine, just fast asleep.

Over the year’s Jason had seen a resigned person or two. But he had never seen anything like the look on Frank’s face. Frank looked Jason in the eye one last time, as if to demonstrate he believed words were not useful or necessary, then he turned and walked away. Frank and Jim were never seen in the same room again. And all Jason could do was wait. So he waited.

Excited to Become

I officially have a new job.  That’s right.  The days of washing, and managing the washing of, the cars of the most disrespectful people I have ever encountered are over.  Lesson learned:  I do not excel at customer service.  Oh well.

So what’s next?  Bluntly, it’s time to punch another hole in my man card.  For some reason I have an internal contradiction that I have so far been unable to shake.  It goes something like this: I hate the idea of defining myself by my job (I’m sooo much more), but how I spend my waking hours during this life matters to me.  Taken together with the notion that work should be work, I’m headed to the oil fields.  For the remaining 400 words of this post, I’d like to discuss what the interwebs forecasts about my new life.

To begin, unlike my first three jobs as a civilian puke, this one is an outside job.  I think that means it will take place in the same realm that flying did.  I’ve always liked the outside, so that’s good news.

Next, a slave to fashion, I also can’t help but notice that I get to resume wearing a pair of flame resistant coveralls and a safety helmet.  Hell, I never really thought of it before, but assuming I like this job, I will definitely fall into the “men-who-are-drawn-to-work-that-might-catch-them-on-fire” category.  When forced, I’d say it’s not really that.  I just like getting to wear free onesies.  They contain so much nostalgia.  Regarding helmets, I have a sneaking suspicion that people who wear helmets for safety understand they have something under it worth protecting.  After a few drinks, you might even compel me to confess that, as a group, helmet-wearers understand cause-and-effect better than non-helmet-wearers.  And yes, I’m happy to be part of that group again.

Finally, a word to women.  I get it.  I really do.  As a “roughneck” I will have enough money to support you and my ex.  You should know, though, that your peer’s blogs lead me to believe you really won’t be happy.  I don’t want to believe it, but apparently as early as my first “hitch”, I will start hiding my phone, FB friending female co-workers, having my checks mailed to my mom, drinking more, using swears, and soliciting prostitutes.  Truthfully, with minor tweaking–I don’t use FB, I have direct deposit, and I would only ever use high-end prostitutes like in “The Bucket List”–I’m fine with most of those changes.  But I doubt you are.  If I’m wrong, we should chat.  Despite the evidence on all those blogs, I promise that what I will never do, no matter what, is stop talking.  Never gonna happen.  Sorry.  So even if you manage to wrap those legs of yours around me and whisper enough sweet nothings into my ear to ensnare me, you need to be ready to listen.

And you’ll probably make an appearance here, too.  You’ve been warned.

Okay.  I think that covers it.  Oh, one more thing.  After tomorrow’s post, I believe there is going to be a 2+ week break.  I have no idea how this job will affect my energy to blog, but I will let you know as soon as I do.  I have recently added a new email account to the blog though: pete@mugwumpmen.com.  Use it if you want.  I may even answer.  Have a good one.

 

As the Credit’s Roll–What It’s Like to Watch Fast and Furious Six with George

Bad guys fight for many things.  They fight for fame, money, reputation–sometimes they fight just because they can.  Good guys, on the other hand, fight for one thing:  family.  Because good guys fight for their family–because family is the only thing worth dying for–they do really cool things to win.  And because we want good guys to win, most of us movie watchers give filmmakers a tremendous amount of liberty with little things such as physics.  Of course, however, each of us has our own internal sliding scale when it comes to these liberties.

For instance, I found Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s 2-story, 30 foot leap from his moving (and ridiculously bad-ass) Humvee down onto an Indy-car-turned-wedge-with-possibly-magnetic-suspension believable.  He’s a big guy.  Surely those muscles are good for jumping and cushioning.  My friend George agreed.

And when Vin Diesel leapt 50 feet to catch his woman mid-air (she’s also leaping) and has enough situational awareness and foresight to twist to his back so that when they land on an innocent bystander’s car’s windshield she is unharmed, I found myself lowering my just-raised-in-celebration arms and wiping a tear from my eye.  Then, as that now dry eye checked in on George, it discovered he was wearing a large grin and nodding a hushed “Yes!”.

And when I hit STOP on my timer as the giant bad-guy-filled Russian Antonov cargo plane finally comes to a halt on the runway, along with the smiling good guys and their many cars, I discover the car/plane chase that just happened on a runway that can’t be longer than three miles at speeds somewhere near 120 mph lasted all of thirteen minutes.  And that’s impossible.  Then, I quickly remember that my limitation of the runway’s length to three miles is because that’s about how long the longest runway in America is.  I have no idea how long runways are anywhere else on the planet, and the scene did not happen here in the States.  And in that moment, the scene became believable.  Seemingly we both decided the point was not worth debating, so George and I silently waited for the anti-climax scenes.

Did I mention that good guys have great barbecues and hold hands while praying?  They do.  And sometimes, part of the table spread is an enormous bowl of baked beans.

“Did you see that bowl of baked beans?!” George exclaimed.  “No way those seven people can eat all of those beans!  Back it up.  Tell me I’m wrong.”

So we backed it up.  And the bowl was rather large and rather full.  Not noticing it the first time, now that I saw it I just figured someone liked left-over beans.

George did not agree.

And now you know what it’s like to watch Fast and the Furious 6 with George.

 

 

Another Break

I’m standing on the precipice of glorious life changes.  I need this week’s spare time to prepare for them and to complete commitments which are causing them.  See you next week.

Tara

He noticed the mask that was over his mouth and nose didn’t seal perfectly.  Upon pointing this out to the bedside nurses, he was told, “Just breathe normally.”

He inhaled deeply before realizing that that wasn’t a normal breath.  Then he exhaled and tried to think of something besides breathing.  He thought about Tara.  He wondered if she was dead or alive.  He tried to remember first meeting her.  It was one of his favorite days.

“Can you believe those guys?” he remembered her saying on the day they met as she stormed into the room after a shift in the containment pod.  Her head fully forward, her finger pointing back to the door, a look of disgust covered her face.  “They’re acting like this is a joke.  One of these days they’re going to get us all killed.”

“What is that little bit of hair called that falls on a woman’s face again?” he tried to remember, the sleeping gas beginning to work.  “A tendril.  That’s it.”

A tendril had unintentionally dropped from her pony tail as she took off her helmet and oxygen mask that day.  He was a sucker for tendrils.  When he noticed that she had some fire in her to boot, he became weak in the knees.  He would never forget her first words to him.

“And what the fuck are you staring at asshole?”

She asked him that question, she later told him, because he failed to heed her nonverbal social cues that told everyone that while she was used to being ogled, she was not in the mood at the moment.

Jim laid there, waiting for sleep and thought about women.  For him, a woman needed to be so much more than a pretty face or a fit body.  Like any man, he knew his preferences for exterior qualities, but unlike any man, he could also list all the internal qualities a woman should aspire to have.  At the top of his list was a backbone.  Tara clearly had one.  Number two was a passion for living.  He needed a woman to love all the nuances of life as much as he did.  He needed her to fight for life.  The gas taking effect, he chuckled at his word choice.  “Fight for life.  Yeah, that’s my girl,” he mumbled.  “You better be fighting now woman.  You can’t fly yet,” he said, only noticing the slip-up as it entered his ears.  “Of course you can’t fly.  No one can fly,” he said, laughing at his own joke.  Then with a forced seriousness, he said, “People can die though.  But not you.  You can’t die yet,” he ordered, the last “t” not quite being enunciated.  Finally succumbing to the anesthetic, his body was ready for the amputations.