No True Scotsman

 A long time ago, a particularly brutal murder was committed in Scotland.  The locals all said that the murderer must have been a foreigner because no Scotsman would ever do a thing like that.  When it turned out that the murder was indeed committed by a Scotsmen, the locals qualified their previous statement by saying that the killer obviously wasn't a true Scotsman because no true Scotsman would ever do a thing like that.  

I don't remember where I heard this story, but I got to thinking about it today.  I have maintained since the beginning that Trump was no true Republican.  Indeed, I'm still not convinced that his original intention when he first ran for president wasn't to help Hillary win by giving the Republicans a bad name.  I was surprised when he got the nomination, I was really surprised when he he won the election, I was really really surprised when he seemed to be trying to fulfill his campaign promises, and now I'm really really really surprised that he is able to exert so much influence even after losing his reelection bid.  I figured that, after the January 6 capitol riot, his followers would start drifting away, looking up at the ceiling and pretending that they didn't know him, but it has not come to pass, at least not yet.

I read on my news app the other day that Liz Cheney "has not ruled out" a presidential bid of her own in 2024.  It's not much, but it's the only hope my ilk has at the moment.  You go girl!  

catfish 23

"When I think back on all the crap I learned in high school," Paul Simon used to sing, and one of the things they used to learn us was how great democracy was.  The people, in their wisdom, because they are very wise, (don't the pols tell us when they are running for something, say how wise The American People are?), always choose the best man. 

Well in high school you have only known like four presidents, so what do you have to judge from?  As you get older and become a dem or a rep, you realize that the people do not always choose the right man, in fact looking back it comes out to like half the time, like the score you get on a true/false test on some subject you know nothing about.  

Also as you get older you read about what goes on in other countries, especially those tin pot countries.  Revolutions, counter revolutions, manning the barricades, busting down the barricades, deaths on both sides.  

And that never happens here.  There's a lot of folding your arms across your chest and smiling smugly if your side wins. a lot of pissing and moaning if your side loses.  But you are never of a mind to man or bust a barricade because there are no barricades, because there will be a fair and clean election in four years.  Well not entirely, there is usually some kind of skullduggery in a close election, but even so, fair and clean enough.

But not anymore.  Here was an election that was not close and there is no evidence that there was any skullduggery involved.  Let me say again NO evidence.  And yet the losing prez called on the mob to storm the capitol and they did, and many of our leaders barely escaped with their lives.  .

You would think that those in the party that weren't with the mob would be standing up and condemning the actions, and trying to rid the party of those lawbreakers. 

But far from it.  Liz Cheney, whose politics I can't say often enough I despise with every fiber of my being, but who actually believes in something, and is willing to take the risk to save her party. now stands at the chopping block.  Two weeks ago it looked like this would be a close fight for the soul of the party, but now it appears that it will not be close at all, and that the party has no soul.

A couple major developments taking place in Catfish's land of milk and honey, and hey, what exactly does ironic mean?

 

Budweiser didn’t smile much, but he had a big grin on his face when he picked me out of the lineup, “Hey Hula Girl, let’s get a move on, a lot of action for you out in Ditch City.”  Ditch City, he’d probably spent the whole weekend thinking that one up.  It was bad enough digging those ditches, but to put up with him too.

 “Fuck you,” I said, shouldn’t have, there were a few snickers still floating around over his Ditch City crack, those guys would laugh at anything, but they all dried up once I said fuck you, and there was dead silence.    

 Budweeser’s face was beet red, and then he was walking right at me.  I was truly fucked.

 “Hey wait a minute!”

 Where did that come from? I was watching Budwieser like you look at a semi coming over the hill in your lane, and then he suddenly veered a little, looking over past me.

 I turned around.  It was Ron.  “I want this guy,” he said, pointing at me.

 “Fuck you Asshole,” came back Budwieser, coming past me towards Ron, passing me, he took a swing.  I dodged it, but I lost my balance and went ass over teakettle.

 “No, fuck you old man,” Ron came back, and that was the deciding factor when they were standing chin to chin.  Budwieser was a burly guy, but he was kind of old, and Ron was a burly guy too, and he was young.

 Still Budweeser took a swing, well he had to I guess, but Ron flipped it away easily and looked like he was going to come home with a good one, but Budwieser stepped away.  “Fine,” he said, “You want him, you can have him, you can have that piece of shit, that fucking hula faggot.”

 He said that backing away, backing past me, where I had not gotten off the ground through this whole thing, and as he passed me I grabbed ahold of his boot and gave it a twist and down he went. 

 Not a lot of guys liked Budweiser, and there was a lot of laughter, but he was up like a snake, and he had grabbed a shovel from somewhere and I closed my eyes ready to meet my maker, but Ron was on him, and it looked like a couple teeth hit the ground right in front of me, maybe it was just spit, I don’t know.

 Anyway that’s how I became a marker.  Pretty sweet job, I have to tell you, carried a clipboard, walked all over the Big Job, guys digging, guys pouring cement, guys putting up steel.  “Hey guys, got the numbers,” I’d ask, and some guy would give them to me, and I’d write them down on the clipboard, and then go on to the next area, and at the end of the day I’d turn it in at the big office.  I guess that’s how they kept track of the work that was going on.

 At the end of my first day as a marker I was out in the parking lot, looking for Ted and the guys for a ride home, and there was a screech behind me, and there was Ron, “Hey hop in,” he said. 

 “Well thanks,” I said, “But I usually ride home with Ted.”

 “I’ll get you back faster,” he said.

 “Well I ought to tell them.”

 “Okay, we’ll just cruise the lot, and then you can tell him.”

 So I hopped in, only instead of cruising the lot he just headed out to the highway.  “What about Ted?” I asked.

 “He’ll figure it out,” he said, and what could I say, the man had saved my life just eight hours ago.

 “Grab us a couple brews,” he said once we were speeding down the highway, motioning to the back seat where there were Budwiesers floating in melted ice in a cooler.

 “Budweiser,” I said, popping a top, “That’s kind of ironic isn’t it?”

 “Say what?”

 “Well Budweiser, that’s what I always called Big Red, and after, you know, this morning, it just seems kind of ironic, that we would be drinking the same kind of beer.”

 “Ironic, huh, what does that mean?”

 And I wasn’t sure, just a word I’d heard a lot. Seems like it kind of meant like a kind of a funny coincidence.  Itch used it a lot, damn that’s where I’d heard it, but I didn’t want to get into that, talking about Itch, so I just said, “Shit, I don’t know,” and he laughed and then so did I.

 He had a fast car and he drove like a maniac, scared me a little, but it was kind of fun too.  He dropped me off at the bunkhouse about half an hour before Ted had ever gotten back there.

 “What are you doing living in a dump like this?” he wanted to know.

 “Well it’s cheap, and, you know, there’s my buddies.”

 “Some buddies,” he said, “leaving you to dig ditches for Big Red.”

 Kind of a slam on Ted who had gotten me out to the Big Job in the first place.  I felt like I ought to defend him a little, “Well, it’s not like any of them are big shots.”

 “You got that right,” he said.  “How about if I pick you up here tomorrow at seven?”

 Shit, Ted and the guys left at 6:30, that would give me another half hour of sleep.  “Sure,” I answered.

 Ted and the guys wouldn’t be back for another half hour, the couches all yawned at me, especially the sweet red one, ready to embrace me.  But you know, I wasn’t tired at all.  Hell I hadn’t lifted a shovel all day, and you know I didn’t want to face Ted and the guys, they’d probably be pissed because they would have been waiting for me and I never showed.  The best thing to do was head out to the Great Wall.  I hadn’t been there on a weekday night since I’d started out on the Big Job, probably be interesting to see what was going on there on a Monday night.

 Not that interesting it turned out.  I have to say I half expected that the crowd would be a little revved up to see Catfish show up on a weekday night, but the place was half empty. Nobody much to talk to.  Itch was there behind the bar.  “How were those mussels?” he wanted to know, sliding my beer across the bar to me.

 “What mussels?” I asked.

 “Why at La Trattoria,” he answered, “You mean you went there with the lovely Gina, and didn’t have the mussels?”

 And you know he was just so Itch saying that that I just had to ask, “Would that be ironic   ?”

 “Huh?” and he drew back a little which drew me forward a little.

 “Well you know me and Gina out for a fancy dinner, fancy place. Big bucks menu, waiters in suits,  chandeliers hanging from the ceiling like icebergs, and I smelled the cork just right, and didn’t drink out of the finger bowl, and rounded third at Gina’s and almost scored, and yet didn’t have the mussels, would that be ironic?”

 “You didn’t score?”

 “Would that be ironic?”

 “Not scoring?”

 “No, not having the mussels.”

 “I don’t know, I suppose so.  You didn’t score?”

 Damn, I should have left that last part out.  “Almost did,” I said.

 “Almost?  You’ve been hanging out with her for, more than a month.  I have to say I’m shocked.  Doesn’t sound like the Catfish we used to know.”

 Have to say it didn’t.  “Well she’s a challenge,” I said.

 “A challenge, huh?  Well that sounds a little more like the old Catfish.  Hey we’re all rooting for you.”

 “All of you?” I wanted to know, “Are you all rooting for me?”

 “But of course we are.  You’re our champion, why wouldn’t we be?”

 “It was the all part I was wondering about.”

 “What do you mean by that?  Do you think somebody isn’t rooting?”

 “Never figured you for an opera fan, Itch.”

 “Can’t say that I am.”

 “Well you sure knew a lot about that El Bohemia last Friday.”

  “Well it’s a famous opera, everybody knows about La Boheme.”

 La Boheme, damn.  “I don’t.”

 “Well Catfish, you know, you’re more of a…” and he kind of trailed off.

 “A hillbilly?” I supplied.

 “No, no, not at all.  It’s just that you don’t go in for that, you know, fancy ass crap.”

 True enough I didn’t, but the way he said it, like he was trying to come up with a dumbass comment that he thought I would appreciate pissed me off, and I just popped off with the first thing that popped into my mind.  “You know she talks about you.”

 “Gina?” he asked, so I knew then that we both knew what we were talking about.

 “She feels sorry for you.”

 “Really?” he asked like how about that, but also like it didn’t mean anything to him, but I could tell it did.

 “Oh she thinks you’re a clever guy,” and I said this in kind of a mean way, but I could see that he perked up a little at this, he liked to think of himself as a smart guy, liked to think that others saw him as a smart guy.  “But she thinks you’re cold, man, and then I added, “cold as ice.”

 He looked a little shocked at that, surprising because he never showed much emotion, I almost felt bad about it, but hey, a guy has to defend his interests.  He faded away to get some beers at the other end of the bar and never drifted back.  Still I felt like I had fucked up a little because now he knew that Gina was thinking about him.

 Not much going on at the bar after that, hung around for a couple quick ones after that, just to get a good buzz to take me back to the bunkhouse to share those late beer call beers with my buddies.

 “So where the fuck were you?” Ted wanted to know before I’d even reached into the crumbled twelve pack on the frontroom rug. 

 “Huh?” I answered closing in on one of the last beers hiding in the cardboard.

 “Where the fuck were you?  We waited like half an hour on you.”

 “Oh, I got a ride.”

 “Well why didn’t you tell us you were getting a ride?”

 “I wanted to tell you.  I was going to tell you, but Ron just drove out of the lot,” and I said Ron kind of soft, kind of mumbled it.

 “Who?”

 “Ron?”

 They were no fans of Ron, I knew, because of that Tammy black eye thing, and okay he was kind of a bully at the big job, if you were somebody lower than him he kind of treated you like shit, I knew that.

 “Well he got me this new job,” I said by way of explanation, “I’m a markup guy now.”

 “Well ain’t you something.”

 “Shit, that Big Red guy was killing me, you guys know that.”

 Ted didn’t say anything, didn’t like the way he was looking at me, and the other guys either.

 “It’s not like any of you guys did anything to get me out of that Goddamn ditch.”

 And they hadn’t and they knew it.  I popped the top.

 As I was lifting it up to my mouth, Ted raised his beer too.  “To Ron,” he said, “and his new asshole buddy.”

 “Fuck you,” I answered, and took a big long drink.

 Not much conversation after that.

catfish 22

 Every now and then there will be some little item, usually as filler at the end of the local news about a hobo convention whose aim is to elect a King of the Hobos.  

The name Arizona Slim seemed vaguely familiar so I googled his name to see if maybe he had once been king, but all I came up with was a movie about which there was not to be said, and what appeared to be a rap group, and most of the posts were about a jean manufacturer.

Amarillo Slim that was who I must've been thinking of.

Anyway speaking of culture heroes, here is Catfish.  There is foreshadowing of what will be a dark turn in the story and then we will have a lovely dinner with the lovely Gina, and then Catfish will stop short at third. Happy Friday and a good weekend for you guys, and all the best to Groot.

- This just in, they are making an omelette on the radio and the student was asking about eggs which she usually does not refrigerate because she likes to keep them warm for making pasta, and the chef said you can do that in Europe where they don't wash their eggs like they do in the USA which removes some protective covering allowing bacteria in so you have to keep them in the fridge-

 

Still I made it out to practice that Friday.  Ron had established himself in centerfield by then.  I didn’t care.  I was out in right field where almost no balls came my way, which was just fine too.  Trotting in from the outfield Ron sidled up to me.  “Man what’s wrong with you?” he wanted to know. 

Well I told him.  I guess I forgot that I was supposed to be pissed at him, he was just an ear and I was beat.

 “Big Red,” I said.

 “Crazy fucker.” He answered.  If Ron, a crazy fucker himself thought he was a crazy fucker, where did that put Big Red?”

 “Look,” he said, “I could do something for you.”

 “What do you mean?”

 He shrugged, “Accidents happen.”

 What did that mean, though I have to tell you I had an idea, a slip of a crane full of steel beams came immediately to mind, terrible shame and all, felt good thinking about it, but no, that was not the kind of guy I was.

 Ron looked a little disappointed that I wasn’t with that program, but he was my friend, he wanted to help me out.  He was a foreman, he could get me switched to his team, he could make me a marker.  You just walked around with a clipboard, copied numbers from here and there, and that was basically it.  Well he was a bullshitter, I knew that, but if he could do that for me I was all for that.

 He trotted right down to the 12 pack by home plate with me, and as I was pulling one out he asked, “How’s it going with that Gina?”

 This was a little closer to my business than I wanted him to be, but I answered “Okay.”

 He leaned into me to pull out the next beer and said kind of quietly, “I’d look out for that Itch.”

 “Itch is a friend of mine, and anyway he’s not interested –“, and then I cut it short, I wasn’t going to get into that whole thing with him.

 “Okay then,” he said and then he was walking off to where the bats were stacked up.

 I could see what he was doing, trying to put me on his side against Itch, stupid thing because Itch wasn’t interested at all in Gina.  Still I went out and bought a new cowboy shirt, a little fancier than the one I’d worn the week before, more of those little flowers stitched in up and down the sleeves.  Cost a bit more than last week’s shirt.

 “How come it costs so much?” I asked the clerk.

 “Well, you know those are pearl buttons,” he answered.

 “Really, real pearls?”

 He didn’t say anything for a second, and then he said, “Yes.”

 Ah that pause kind of gave it away, but they were probably close to pearls, some kind of artificial thing, but probably pretty close, almost the same thing really, otherwise it wouldn’t have cost so much, but what the hell I was making good money. 

 Got a few catcalls from the bunkhouse as I was buttoning it up.  “Damn,” said Ted, “you look pretty enough to eat.”

 Pissed me off a little, “You think?” I asked.

 “Not what I think, what Gina thinks,” and he made kind of a winking face.

 Damn, everybody was in my business, and you know I used to be into this kind of kidding, used to do it all the time about some girl I was working on, but now I didn’t like it, still I puffed out my chest a little, struck a little muscle pose, “We’ll just see what she thinks,” and then I was embarrassed again and went out the door.

 There she was, my little sweetheart. My little Gina, dark hair hanging loose, her little sweet butt on the barstool, her white bloused breasts, where not too long ago my fingers had roamed, hanging low just over the edge of the bar.

 And there was Itch, hanging casually just across the bar from her, his elbow to my mind a little too close to what I had so recently fondled. 

 And that shirt, which I had paid a pretty penny for and had just put on from the package so I knew it was ironed just right, and like I said, had those flowers all up and down the sleeves, didn’t seem to have any impact at all.  She smiled at me, and then turned back to Itch and continued talking about some girl called Mimi.

 Mimi?  Didn’t ring a bell at all.  “Who’s Mimi?” I asked, sliding my arm around her shoulders.

 “From La Boheme,” she answered.

 “Where’s La Boheme?” I asked.

 It turned out that it was an opera, a big famous opera, tragic story, this Mimi dies of TB or something, I imagine belting out like tortured cats as she fades out to meet her maker.

 But the thing was how did Itch know anything about this?  Oh I suppose he was some kind of cultured guy, certainly acted like one sometimes, but opera?

 “You know,” I said, “how about if I take you out to dinner, some fancy place?”

 “That would be nice,” she answered leaning back into my arm, “Where were you thinking of?”

 Damn, now that I thought of it, I didn’t know any fancy places, some hotel I was thinking, don’t they always have fancy places?  “How about the Ramada?” I ventured.

 She kind of stiffened under my arm, “That would be nice I suppose,” she said but I didn’t get the impression that she supposed any such thing.

 “Or we could go somewhere else, is there somewhere else you might want to go?”

 “Could we go to,” and she took a little breath, “to La Trattoria?”

 I didn’t know La Trattoria from La Boheme, but that little catch in her voice told me that this would be a big deal, would power me right around third, “Sure,” I said.

 I made a point as we were gathering up our things of mentioning to Itch that we were going off to La Trattoria. “Be sure to try the mussels,” he said, that fuck.

 She was right under my arm and I swear that she was tingling.  I stepped out into Sixth Street and pointed my finger in the air and a cab pulled right up, just like in New York City, ushered her into the seat and told the cabbie, “La Boheme.”

 “La Trattoria,” she corrected me, and we had a little giggle in the backseat.

 I knew a couple things.  There would be a little glass of water put in front of us, but you don’t drink that, it’s something called the finger bowl, and you just twitter your fingers in it.  And when you get your bottle of wine the waiter will hand you the cork, and the best thing to do is give it a quick sniff and nod your head.

 I didn’t expect that when we got to that little altar thing with the little light, that the guy would say, “We don’t allow blue jeans here.”

 Well shit, I wanted to point out that those buttons on my shirt were genuine pearl, or pretty close to it anyway, but Gina ran a little interference for me, took the guy off to the side, bent low showing that magnificent cleavage or hers, did a little of that cat-killing singing of hers, but soft so it was like a purr, and then we were walking into the dining room.

 It was nice.  That finger bowl thing never happened, and I did that cork smelling thing just fine, pretended that I was thinking about it and then nodded.  Food was okay, maybe I drank too much of the wine.  You know you pay for the bottle, you might as well drink it all up.

 Rounded third base that night, got inside the door, got onto her bed.  You know maybe I could have scored.  Maybe I should’ve made a dash, but the left fielder had a good arm, it would’ve been a close play.  The closer I got the more she started drawing away, and I could feel her arm about to tap me on the shoulder, and I just stopped. 

 I could feel things setting up for the discussion. 

 “You know Catfish I really like you but-“

 “Ah but Baby, you know we really have something

 “I really like you Catfish I do, it’s just that-“

 Oh fill in anything there.  And then there would be us sitting on the edge of the bed, me getting my arm around her reaching for her tender parts, and her squirming away, “You’re not listening to me.”  Of course I wouldn’t be listening to her, I’d just make some little joke to lighten up the situation, to distract her, to ease her into a more reclining position.

 Ah hell.  “You know what, I love you babe.” And I gave her a quick kiss and let her go.  “I guess I’ll see you next week,” and then I was straightening up my clothes.

 And you know, she looked a little disappointed, I think she was looking forward to the tussle, but the catcher already had the ball and I was trotting back to third.

The Road Not Taken

 Tom was one of the first people I met after I moved to Cheboygan.  We shared a common interest in the three basics: beer, women, and song.  Most of my knowledge about construction jobs comes from him.  His father was a medical doctor who was good friends with the owner of a local large construction company, so Tom definitely knew somebody.  He had been away to college for awhile, but soon decided that he would rather be a carpenter when he grew up.  

Shortly after I started working at the paper mill, Tom offered to set me up as an apprentice carpenter on the big union job where he had been working.  It was the opportunity of a lifetime for me, but I decided to stay at the paper mill because it was a more steady job.  Construction jobs are temporary by nature and, when the job is finished, there is no guarantee that your employer will hire you on his next job.  Even if he does, there is no guarantee where that job will be, you might have to travel and camp out near the jobsite for the duration.  After my army hitch, I was tired of traveling and camping and wanted to stay put for awhile.  There is no way of knowing but, if I had taken Tom's offer, I might have ended up like Arizona Slim.

Slim was a self described hobo who I met in a Cheboygan bar decades later.  At first I didn't believe he was a hobo, so he showed me his membership card.  It seems there is this big hobo association that holds a convention somewhere out west once a year.  I saw Slim on TV a year or two later when he was being interviewed on the news at one of these conventions.  He explained to the reporter, as he had explained to me, the difference between a hobo and a bum.  Briefly summarized, a hobo is a worker who lives on the road traveling from job to job, while a bum just lives on the road and "no way will he  work". Since Slim was about twice my age, I asked him what I had to look forward to when I got really old.  He said, "When you get too old to fuck, and too smart to fight, that's when you've finally got time to do some serious drinking."  

catfish 21

 I was indeed holding back not so much for feedback on Catfish but for feedback on anything.  Like I've said before, it's not much fun writing if you don't know if anybody is reading, and I feel like if I do all the writing then I am doing all the digging and the dawgs are just standing around leaning on their shovels. 

I wrote Catfish around 1995 about things that took place in 1975.  What I wrote about the union hall is what I remember being told by the guys who went out to the big job.  What they actually did there, I don't remember my asking or their telling.  I don't know if they dug ditches or not, but as Beagles points out it is sort of a metaphor for hard physical labor.  I remember the trope about if you don't study hard you will end up digging ditches, and I remember Mom telling about how when Dad first got out of school it was the depression and the only work he could get was digging ditches.

I will watch movies that maybe aren't all that good if they are set in Chicago, just to see the Chicago scenes.  Stuff I pass by everyday and pay no mind to suddenly becomes exciting when I am seeing it on the silver screen.  (Another odd thing is actors you see all the time on tv or in movies, when you see them in person, it is a big deal.)  When I was watching The Fugitive I spent so much time figuring out where they were shooting that I lost track of the plot.

Another thing they do in movies is mix up all the places to suit the plot.  You often see things like cops driving east on State Street to where it intersects with Western, and you snort derisively because you know better, but if it's a good enough movie you don't tear up your ticket and stomp out.  I ask equal forbearance for Catfish.

That twig looks interesting enough to get up in the morning and see how it is doing.  Can a twig replicate a tree?  There is that grafting thing and different plants reproduce in different ways?  Should you add a little syrup to replicate sap?  I certainly don't know.  This is something for the gentleman scientist.  If Old Dog hadn't noticed where it came from we don't even know what kind of tree it might become.  Another interesting revelation for the gentleman.  I am hoping also that the pasta project will continue.

Nothing on Guiliani?  Well I know you guys don't follow politics like others follow sports.  But of course that is last week's news, eclipsed by Joan of Arc (Liz) on the edge of defeat by the mobsters who currently call themselves republicans.

And now some Catfish,

 

 

Riding out to the big job in the second week, I guess I was looking particularly glum which Ted noticed.  “Having a tough time out there?” he asked. 

“Shit yeah,” I said, “I’ve been digging at the same trench all week, all fucking week.” 

Ted kind of laughed, made me want to smack him if my arm wasn’t so sore. 

“It’ll get better,” he said, “Everybody starts out digging holes, I told you that.  This week they will have picked up a new crew, and they will be digging and not you.” 

“What will I be doing then?” I asked. 

“Not digging,” he said, and that was good enough for me. 

But about six-thirty that morning, just as it was beginning to heat up I was standing in front of that same damned trench.  The good news was that there only like fifty more feet of it to go, the bad news was that there was another future trench twenty feet in front of it and just exactly the same size, and hadn’t yet seen a shovel.  And bad news too was the way Budweiser had pointed it out, “When you get done here” he had said, “you can start over there.” 

Didn’t like the sound of that, not at all. But then I remembered what Ted had said earlier and I remembered how on that first day after getting picked and sorted and all I hadn’t gotten to the trench until eight so that’s probably what was going on, they were waiting for the new guys to show up and then somebody else would be digging my ditch.  So I started in with pretty good spirits, and with having that weekend rest, and knowing that this would probably be my last couple hours on the job, I was going at a pretty good clip.  Even made a race out of it, see if I could get to the end of the ditch before Budwieser brought the new guy over. 

Well I won that race, won it damn easily.  Didn’t have a watch or anything like that, but it seemed like I was done just before the new guy would be brought over.  So I took a rest.  First rest I ever took on the Big Job.  Oh early the week before I had spent some time leaning on my shovel, but that was because I just plain couldn’t move until I rested a bit.  Once I got some strength in my arms I shoved that shovel back into the dirt.  

Felt like I’d earned it.  Hadn’t I dug this whole damn thing?  I walked the whole length of it, from where I’d started so long ago to the end.  It was a thing of beauty. 

No it wasn’t it was a hole in the fucking ground for Chrissake, what was I thinking?  Still I walked up and down it a couple times more, and still no Budweiser and no new guy.    

Damn I really didn’t want to start on that second trench, but finally I did.  Budwieser came around about noon.  “One down and one to go huh, Island Girl?”  I knew I was going to be Island Girl as long as I was on the Big Job, half suspected that the main reason Budweiser kept picking me. 

“Another one to go?” I asked, but it came out like kind of a whine.  “Shouldn’t a new guy be doing this?” 

“What new guy?” Budweiser wanted to know. 

 “Well from the new bunch, you know, I just heard that…” and I kind of trailed off, this wasn’t going well.

 “You heard what?”

 “Look, I’m sorry.  It’s just that I was riding out here this morning and Ted said-“

 “Who the fuck is Ted?”

 “Just a friend of mine.”

 “Oh a friend?  You have a friend out here, a hula buddy maybe, and I guess he runs this job, some kind of big shot I guess.  I guess that makes you some kind of big shot yourself, is that right?”

 “No, no, not at all.”

 “So you’re not a big shot?” 

 “No.”

 “You sure?”

 “Yes.”

 “See I kind of thought you were, the way you standing around there leaning on your shovel when I came by a couple hours ago and saw you leaning on your shovel at the end of that first trench.  Didn’t want to come and disturb your daydreaming, afraid you’d have my job for that, but I guess I don’t have to worry about that now, do I?”

 I didn’t say anything.

 “Tell you what Hula Girl, I think these trenches need to be a foot deeper, so why don’t you get started on that right now.” 

Riding back I told the story.  Budwieser didn’t mean anything to Ted or the guys in the backseat, “What does he look like?” Ted wanted to know.

 “Big guy, pretty bald.”

 “Shit that could be anybody.”

 “Red hair, what’s left of it, around the edges.”

 “Big mole right by his nose?”

 “Yeah.”

 “Shit,” Ted said, “That’s Big Red.”

 “He’s crazy,” someone in the backseat said.

 “You’re fucked,” said someone else in the backseat. 

And I was.  He came by like every half hour and there was always something wrong, the trench , not deep enough, not straight enough, the dirt piled up on either side was not neat enough.  I’d flop into whatever couch was closest and my dreams were always about Big Red. 

  

Digging Ditches

 

https://www.bing.com/th?id=OIP.Gg9mY34N0nyKxAla-1pX7wHaD-&w=330&h=160&c=8&rs=1&qlt=90&o=6&dpr=1.25&pid=3.1&rm=2

One of my early elementary school teachers frequently admonished us that, if we didn't pay attention and learn our lessons, we would end up digging ditches for a living.  One day I saw a huge machine that looked something like this parked by the side of the street.  One of the workers proudly volunteered that this was his machine and asked me how I liked it.  I said that I was impressed and asked him what he did with with his machine, to which he replied that he dug ditches.  Next day I told my teacher that, if it was all the same to her, I would like to skip the rest of my schooling and go right into digging ditches for a living.  When I told her about the machine she told me that you have to know somebody to get job like that and and, since I didn't, I'd better pay attention and learn my lessons anyway.

I found out years later what my teacher meant by having to know somebody.  I was looking for work in Anchorage, Alaska and heard that a certain construction job was hiring.  I went to the site and asked about it and was told that you have to be in the union to work on that particular job, so I went to the union hall to see about joining the union.  There I was told that you have to be employed before you can join the union.  It was few yeas later before I found out how the system works.  It seems that many big construction outfits have two crews, a union crew and a non-union crew.  New hires are generally assigned to the non-union crew.  If the boss likes your work, he might recommend you to the union crew someday.  Once you're on the union crew, you join the union and can no longer work on non-union jobs.  The process might be expedited if you know somebody, but there are no guarantees.  It may not be the same all over, so I decided to give Catfish the benefit of the doubt on this one. 

There is still a place for shovel workers on most big excavating jobs.  After the big rig gets done, somebody might have to follow up with a shovel to even up the edges and clean out any dirt that has fallen back into the hole.  It is often said that construction workers spend a lot of time leaning on their shovels.  That might be because they are waiting for the big machine to finish its work so they can do theirs.  

Cinco de Mayo

I was tempted to forego my usual Wednesday post but since Uncle Ken has been silent since last Friday I fear he is cutting us off from the Catfish because of lack of feedback.  Okay, let me bring up something that's been bugging me a little.

Let me get this straight, the Catfish finally lands a job at the site of a new nuclear plant where his initial task is to dig a trench.  The pay is good, and he's working alongside some of his buddies, and it's a union job to boot.  But this does not ring true to me.  Unless there is massive corruption there is no way that a construction company would pay good salaries for a bunch of guys to dig a trench.  This is not the 19th Century; one guy with a backhoe could easily do the work of a dozen men.  This is just a trench we're talking about, not exactly something that requires skilled labor.  Unless there is a compelling reason to not use construction equipment I can't buy this part of the tale.

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None of the "huge projects" that Uncle Ken mentioned are still in play, for a variety of reasons.  Mostly, it's "been there, done that."  I learned what I wanted to learn, made the things I wanted to make, and ran into the bottleneck of trying to work effectively in a studio apartment.  Noise and dust are not something I like to deal with, especially late at night.  The makerspace would have worked out better if I had a reliable vehicle to haul crap back and forth and I just wasn't getting my money's worth with the monthly fees.

Nothing going on with the pasta, either.  I just posed a question to you guys asking if you had any experience with making it.  It's not a dead idea yet but I think I need a different flour for best results.  I also have to practice my rolling pin skills.

There is a new project, though, if you want to call it that.  Last Friday as I was walking to the supermarket I saw a big tree branch laying in the parkway between the sidewalk and the street.  I noticed little buds on some of the twigs so I snapped off a twig, took it home, stuck it in a glass of water, thinking that growing a tree would be a good thing to do.  My niece brought me some potting soil last night so now I have a little (very little!) greenery in the apartment.  I am cautiously optimistic.  The little guy's name is Groot.