Tagged: work
The Best Idea Fairy
“So R-, you’re officially a father now, how’s that going?” Pete asked R- as R- walked through the door to the trailer.
R- didn’t waste time setting down his cooler and slipping off his tennis shoes in favor of house shoes. The blue cooler with a white lid and handle was bigger than the lunch pails previous oil men likely brought to work, but, then again, so was the man.
“This place is a mess. Don’t worry, we’ll fix that,” R- noted. Then, ignoring Pete’s initial greeting and question in favor of following a just-launched pinball’s unexpected path, R- asked, “You get a girlfriend over days-off Pete?”
“Na,” said Pete with little effort. “I think I told you I was planning on bowling a lot. Well, one night there was a pretty good looking brunette, but she was with some guys. I couldn’t tell if one was her boyfriend. In any case, I was too much of a chicken to attempt to chat her up.”
“Bowling?” R- said, with no small confusion shaping his face. “You need to go to the clubs. There is nothing like chicks that want dick.”
“Man, that’s what I missed these last two weeks,” Pete began. “Hold that thought, let me get my phone. I need to write this down,” Pete said, smiling as he shuffled sideways past the deep freezer that took up most of the already narrow hallway that led to his room. Returning in a jiff, his movements were a little awkward as he attempted to walk and type on his phone. “Okay, I’m back. So how’d you say it? You said, ‘There’s nothing like chicks that want dick,’ is that right?”
“What? You’re going to blog this?” R- smirked.
“The people need to know. I don’t meet too many people who can surprise me every time they talk. You, my friend, are one of the lucky few,” Pete flattered.
“You know what your blog needs?” asked R-.
Despite his previous positive sentiment, Pete’s disdain for unsolicited advice regarding his blog, in addition to his being tired, caused his mood to take a turn for the worst. “No. What does my blog need?” he asked.
“Pictures,” R- pronounced.
“No. My blog is simply a writing blog. I think pictures are too easy,” Pete retorted.
“Like one of me holding heads–like Taliban style,” R- added, arms extended, hands clenching the imaginary hair of just beheaded infidels.
Shaking his head while attempting to look past R-‘s eyes and into his soul, Pete twisted his tongue between his teeth in a last ditch effort to resist the smile he knew would form no matter what. Fishing his phone out of his pocket once more, he could only say, “You are out of control.”
Life In The Oil Fields Is No Movie
Well, that’s not entirely true. One movie came to mind on about day four as I was beginning to realize that a lot of family, not to mention my one friend, would want to know what exactly it was like to work on a rig. Maybe even you are curious to know. Here’s my best effort to convey understanding and feeling of the job, and why it appeals to me.
It’s a lot like Lord of the Rings. Like the quest to destroy the Precious, in which all participants agree that there is no value in attempting any action that does not assist in accomplishing that invaluable end, the oil fields have one goal. One. Every single activity supports that goal. In other words, the concept ‘efficiency’ has yet to be developed as there is no need to distinguish efficient action from inefficient action.
Also like LOTR, meals are on the go. And every once in a while a Legolas shows up with a food whose calorie content is such that “one small bite will fill the stomach of a grown man.” Naturally, the food is consumed with little regard for this fact. And in similar fashion to Samwise’s indefatigably loving disposition towards food, all conclude that it tastes great.
Moreover, there is a comedic relief at every turn, and something about the nature of being part of such a singular mission attracts people with fully-developed personalities. Put simply, characters abound.
Lastly, just as no one but Frodo can carry the ring to Mount Doom, in the oil fields there is no one else coming to do the work. If something heavy must be lifted, if something stuck must be unstuck, if something dirty must be cleaned, if someone clean must get dirty, that’s what must happen. Nothing stops the mission. Not the clock, not the weather, not the calendar. Not past performance, not best intentions, not relationships, not feelings. Nothing.
The ring must be destroyed.
It’s glorious.
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?”
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.
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.
A View From The Top
“I guess it had to happen sometime. Wait, no it didn’t. I can’t believe it happened at all. Can not,” he said, over-emphasizing the tuh in not. The car slowly pulled away.
“Was she pissed?” G- asked.
“Huh?” he responded, waking from contemplation.
“The old lady you just talked to,” G- clarified.
“Oh, no. Well, not about her car wash. That’s the weird thing. But she called me a pussy,” he said, still working his way back to reality.”
“What?” G- asked.
“Not just me, actually,” he said.
“So what happened?”
“Let me see. I guess the best place to begin is with the fact that it is supposed to snow tomorrow. If we start there, the next step is to divide the residents of this city into two groups, for the purpose of this story. Group one: residents who, today, think, ‘Gee, it’s a great day for a car wash.’ Group two: residents who do not. Now, G-, you and I are clearly in group two, right?” he asked.
“Right,” G- answered.
“That old lady, on the other hand, is in group one, right?” he asked.
“Yep, she sure is,” G- responded, enjoying the banter.
“Good. It’s important that we agree,” he began again. “Anyhow, I’m sure you heard that she had a dog with a pretty ferocious bark. When I saw the guys signal that her car was ready, I trotted towards it, meeting her along the way. I was hoping–as usual–to use engaging small talk and piercing eye-contact to distract her from inspecting their work. So intent on my mission was I, that I forgot my surroundings; forgot them, that is, right up until the dog that was now standing directly at my side let out another very loud bark, unexpectedly. This startled me, as I think you can imagine. I mean, quite literally, I jumped at the sound of it. Then I began laughing at myself and recounting the moment to the old lady. I told her, ‘Man that scared me.’ All I got back was a look that I couldn’t place. I ushered her towards her front door, and that’s when she stopped and said dryly, ‘I think you all are kinda pussies for being scared of my vicious dog.'”
“She actually said ‘pussies’?”
“Yep.”
“What’d you say?”
“Before speaking, I looked at her hard, because, remember,” he paused for effect, “she’s in group one. Then I decided her imbalance wouldn’t likely result in violence, and frankly said, ‘Ma’am, I don’t think I deserve to be called names today.'”
“What did she say back?”
“I could tell that she felt my meaning with her heart, but she didn’t back down much at first. Then she went on to explore, in a dry, lamenting manner, how it surprised her that her dog could cause such fear in so many people. I explained that I didn’t mean that I was scared of her dog, but startled nonetheless. It seemed that maybe I wasn’t the first person to comment on the animal today, and she remained in a state of silent query after my explanation,” he continued. After a breath, he resumed, “I then tried to clarify that, perhaps, unlike the other people she dealt with earlier, I just don’t like dogs anyhow, nothing against hers. Admittedly, I couldn’t help myself and added, ‘I don’t understand you people anyhow. Toting your dogs around in your cars and all that.’ I mean, seriously, G-. Did I tell you I saw a lady with a litter-box, as in a functioning, full of kitty litter litter-box on the floor beneath the passenger seat in the front of her car earlier today? Dubble-yoo tee eff?”
“How’d she take that?”
“Judging by her expression, I’d say she was genuinely shocked to discover that there exists a human being whose conclusions differed from her own.”
Laughing, G- responded, “Sounds like a pretty big moment for her.”
“We can only hope that the depth of the experience compensates for the brevity.”
The Future
I know I don’t want to fly anymore. I try and I try to explain to well-intended people that flying in the Air Force was about serving my country in the best manner I could. And Top Gun. Nothing more. It’s over. I’d like to move on.
The office job was okay, but there wasn’t enough work. In the Air Force–where you can’t get fired–taking it easy every once in a while (or as much as possible in my case) was nice and stress free. In a civilian job, it torturous to not have enough to do. And it kills my soul to pretend to be busy. I can’t do it. And I can’t do work whose value eludes me.
****
There are scores and score of books written about working smarter, not harder. Management guru Peter Drucker says something to the effect of “you can meet or you can work.” People laud the man during meetings. WTF, over?
****
I know I can’t do salaried work. It’s an abuse of the human spirit.
I love this blog, but I can’t see myself doing it for pay. It’s mine right now. Mine. Money would change that.
****
Today, at work, a grown-ass woman said to me, “You guys threw away my chocolate bar. I just went to Whole Foods and paid $6 for an organic chocolate bar.” She expected me to give her $6. I couldn’t stop thinking, “You spent $6 on a candy bar? You could get an entire pizza for $6. What moron would spend $6 on a chocolate bar and then leave it in the door of her car on top of a bunch of shit?” I wouldn’t, and I didn’t give her the money. It’s called an accident. I’d go further and call it a missed life lesson. Lucky for her, the proverb “if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again” is still in effect. The cashiers gave her the money. Anything to please the customer. What is wrong with the world?
****
Most of my friends and family believe that each of us has a passion and that should be our work. My passion is fun. And my definition of work is quite the opposite of fun. Where should I work? Can anyone tell me how a guy like me should acquire money?
So what should I be doing? Where should I work?
Body Language
“Please, please don’t talk to me today. Not today. Can’t it wait?” he thought to himself. The big boss was scheduled to arrive any minute. The day was a slow one, and that meant plenty of random tasks could be accomplished. The problem was he was looking for new work. No, that’s not quite it. The problem was he hated lying. He had tried it a couple times in his life. It never felt good. And he could tell that today was going to be no different. He wanted to know what kind of situation work is that it forced him to lie.
The big boss being there is what bothered him so. In order to keep his job he’d answer the man’s insincere question with, “Good. Things are good. How about you?” Inside, though, he’d be thinking, “Not great. In fact, I can’t think of a single reason why anyone would do this work except to get paid. And that’s just not how I’m going to live.”
The moment came and went without much excitement. He had done it. He had looked a man directly in the eye and lied.
Leaving work as soon as they let him, he went home and laid down. Waking up three hours later, his stomach was still in knots. Like when in the aircraft his hands began maneuvering the machine away from danger before his brain concluded there was danger ahead, he knew that he had to trust his body’s language now. It was saving itself.
The Amazing Temple Of The Holy Spirit
“Man, we knocked this lot out quick!” he thought to himself, looking up after the concluding push of the shovel. Turning towards his co-worker, Pete caught the tail end of his favorite human activity to witness: unexpected sharp pain–albeit temporary–caused by extreme focus on less important things. In other words, he just watched his buddy nearly knock himself out as he hit his head on a post that intense shoveling had hidden from sight.
As if physical touch could heal all wounds, Pete kept a constant hand on the man’s shoulder while laughing and asked, “Oh man. Are you okay? You really hit that thing hard.”
“Stop laughing man,” the third worker on the project admonished, shaking his head.
“It’s okay,” the injured man said, still not himself. “It’s not my head, but my cheek. My mouth was open and I bit my cheek really hard. Ahh!..shit,” he let out, trying to maintain his man card.
His fingertips still in contact with the wounded man, Pete nearly doubled over with a guffaw that revealed itself to be only the engine of a freight train carrying mankind’s most precious cargo–uncontrollable giggling.
“Jesus Pete!” the third man again chimed in, attempting to add some reasonableness to the situation.
“You don’t…giggle…understand,” Pete managed. “Watching that happen was like seeing a double rainbow. I can’t let social graces ruin this moment! Teehee. He almost knocked himself out and bit his cheek. Man…hahaha…I wish I could’ve seen him when his mouth opened. It was probably all the way. BwaHAAhahaha! Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed that when people bite their tongue or cheek their mouths open to the extreme. It’s like upon chomping down the body screams to the mouth, ‘OPEN!! Open, open, open! Disregard any other thoughts; just open to your widest. Now! And whatever you do, don’t bite down again until we can fully assess the damage.'”
After he had finished his defense, as one they asked, “What’s wrong with you?”
Captain’s Log 