I Could've Been a Job Foreman

You gotta love the perspective of an old man, able to see things so clearly what you shoulda coulda woulda done if you could do it again. Because if you choose wrong, you're sunk, all is lost.

I’ve definitely seen the career opportunities I've missed! With every passing day that drags by on getting Grandma's house fixed, I now see the golden opportunities of being a job foreman. What’s he do everyday but look for more complications, more things wrong, more ways to drag his feet? I could've done that.

It’d be easy to be a job foreman. Always get up on the wrong side. Nurture your mean streak. Limp from one task to another. Take the insurmountable as your default view.

Of course I'm seeing the renovation work on the house as hopeless. Plus, I'm in "The Big City," barely able to communicate with the job foreman in a useful way. Which means I'm screwed as they attempt to begin, then someday possibly finish their hopeless mission. They're like old war heroes, "Boys, I’m going in and I may not be back. I’ll be hip deep in big muddy and pressing on." So before you choose any job, pick your retirement plan; it could be a long hard slog.

The house is a mess. I'm hearing about mold, fungi, a thick cadre of pests and pestilence, all of it thick and messy from the roof beams to the foundation. Making me wonder, How can so many things go wrong? What'd I miss? I get good counsel from my pastor occasionally; they had a charity fund drive for me. I really appreciate his comfort and counsel, saying, "The morning's always darker just before dawn, or just after the job foreman shows up."

It's the job foreman, really, that inspired me to vacate the premises, the town, and even the state, to go to the Big City while they work ... Anything to be away from his bad attitude. His original sin — or virtue, if you look at it from the point of view of every task being a cash cow — is believing "It can’t be done." Whatever the problem, it's a lost cause, it's hopeless, no one can do it, and I may as well be the one to break it to you.. No doubt he secretly revels in it behind my back.

From their point of view, these are all billable hours, you get a job like this, you look ahead to the payout. Knowing there’s nothing I can do. You try to report someone to the authorities, it's a two pronged challenge. One, they're used to disgruntled homeowners and chalk it up to you being disgruntled. And two, they know contractors and job foreman have families and have to eat, so back off, this is the way they do it, by screwing you high and low.

The simple truth of the matter is, No home renovation is hopeless, really, they just make it feel that way. I don't care how big the fungus is, it’s not too big for the mind of man to surmount. If he wants to. But basically it's obscured because we are naturally scared away by fungus, spiders, microscopic hungry house rot. It looks hopeless to the layman, so we put our hand in the hand of the man who promises us hope. "I can do it!" The job foreman beams when he first arrives. It's downhill from there.

I might organize a support group for guys like me, caught in the home renovation trap. The place is too far gone to fix, but I'm too poor to afford something better. Or too stupid to see the possibilities. I don’t like debt. But when you’re an old man without kids, debt should be your friend. You go whole hog, you die, what are they going to do? You have a great house, you die.

I was never devious enough, rotten enough, or talented enough to have been a job foreman. At least with the knowledge I had then. That's the other thing about old age. You can easily see, Most of the helpers you get as you go through life have a million devious schemes up their sleeves. With the first thing being the paperwork. Make the paperwork complicated-looking, thick as your arms, get you to sign your life away. Surely there’s more codicils in the paperwork negating your rights than granting them. You're the little guy, you're screwed from the get go.

But I could've learned that. Imagine how empowering that'd be. I should’ve done it. Set my sights to be a job foreman, with all the personal confidence that comes from screwing the poor homeowner. You've broken him already. What more can he do but shut up and get the hell out of your way, while you and your team move in for the endless road ahead. I wouldn’t doubt if they were making things worse. Vials of poison, test tubes of virulent pests that they've imported from the jungles of Peru.

This is how the plague in the Middle Ages started. A kid wanted to be a job foreman on a castle and set about it. He worked the rest of his life, the apparent work on the castle limping hopelessly along, while the lord who used to live there was in the The Big City, unaware what shenanigans were going on at the manor.

I'm too old for this information to do me much good. I've got arthritis, it hurts merely to lie in bed. The death angel has me on the list. But you're young, your whole life’s ahead of you! Don't be a doctor, a lawyer, any pissant job like that. Be a job foreman! And be set for life, tormenting, terrorizing the populace, but making enough money, what’ll you care?!

Of Fantastic Blimps and Galley Slaves

The billionaire once again was true to his word, always giving 150% effort. I arrived at the construction site, and after just a few hours, everything had proceeded on a scale similar to the work long ago on the Egyptian pyramids. In this case we were building a blimp port and a blimp itself!

How impressive it was, too. This port isn't just a one-off temp thing. The billionaire bought land just north of where my $20 million personal library will be. This is a real facility. And it took them less than an hour to clear the land -- before it was a forest, while being in the city limits. We're in a hurry, with things to do!

As I approached, it took my breath away to see that majestic blimp docked above us, with The Pink Professor's unremitting pink symbol. This was easily the biggest blimp I'd seen all day. Off to the side was an elevator fit for NASA. The blimp itself has luxurious accommodations, with amenities too numerous to list. Including a zero gravity chamber in the center, for relaxing from the pressures of life. After we would load, the galley slaves would load, whose rowing would keep air currents at an optimal stream. Wait! Galley slaves? Sort of, they're a local galley slave reenactors group.

In my opinion, these guys were a little slow on the oars, but their argument is, If you rowed close to 2,000 miles you'd be tired, too. Perhaps. But I think a good old fashioned whipping would have sped them up; but these are the sacrifices we make for living in more modern "civilized" times. (If I seem critical, it's because I did my master's thesis on galley slaves, subtitled, "Those Were the Days." And I never have enough real-life opportunities to critique the practice.)

By afternoon, we were off! Headed for San Francisco, where, according to the billionaire's plausible theory, we would find The Pink Professor. Just like the Tony Bennett song, I told him once, "I left a piece of my soul in the San Francisco area." Obviously that hit him as a search worth making, and he left. He was lost to me, a relationship I never thought would end. Now I must find him.

I kept my seat till we were over Colorado, when the higher altitude started doing things to my head. I needed the refreshing tonic of a zero gravity atmosphere, so I left my seat and went into the chamber. To enhance the experience further, the billionaire had various suits we could wear. I picked one of the heavier suits, an amniotic sac simulator. That and floating in zero gravity gave me the world's best space to chill out. And drift.

Frankly, it was stunning. I witnessed my whole personal development -- phylogeny recapitulating ontogeny -- that whole scene. I remembered things about myself, things that can't be verbalized beyond "Goo goo ga ga." I felt so extremely thankful for my mother, whose body allowed a place for me so long ago and brought me forth. Now she's passed on -- in 2013 -- and I miss her terribly, but on the bright side, I've got this blimp, running a close second.

In the mix, in the stew, in the wash, in this kaleidoscopic array of mental and metaphysical wonderment, I also saw the development of the Pink Professor. His spirit towered over his physical embryo, a foot taller if it was an inch! I swear on a stack of ultrasounds. It could very well be that that's the way he is today as well, a larger spiritual presence hovering over a little literature professor's body. This insight I will carry to my dying day. It certainly explains his success with rowdy bikers. And the impetus of going to San Francisco to look for the missing piece of my soul. Once he got there, then, he simply had to serve. I would have to be careful bringing him out.

I stepped out of the amniotic suit and made my way back to my seat. Billionaire: "Things are going great." Me: "It feels like we're going a little slow. Where's the whip?"

The Interstate Paving Foreman

The job of foreman on any road project is a tough one. Because roadwork only progresses at a snail's pace, he not only manages the workers' day to day tasks, he also must inspire them over the years. After all, any job where they both sign you up for Social Security on your first day and start collecting for your eventual Gold Watch comes with many ups and downs.

In my travels, I've passed many interstate construction sites, and have always felt something of the wistfulness of making friends along the way, then seeing them grow old and gray and retire. They get the job as young, fresh-faced boys. But it doesn't take long and many years have passed. After a while, I'm just giving them a feeble thumbs up and brave face, because they're so much older and, for a few, in failing health.

It's a great thing that they get the best men they can to fill the all-important foreman role. These guys have to wear many hats, not just the standard hardhat. They're like fathers to the men, guiding them every excruciating inch of the way.

Let's say you have a lonely stretch of interstate undergoing roadwork, maybe seven miles. That becomes a community, with its own zip code and culture. There are, however, differences. Since they're working on a road, they can't allow the trees to grow to their full height, meaning they have little shade. So about half the men go blind from the sun, and there's all sorts of other difficulties affecting morale.

The first few years pass, and the foreman sees a need to gather the men for a talk:

"Men, you've braved the troubles and elements for the last seven years. For that, I pay you tribute. This seven mile stretch has demanded a lot out of us, and you have given your all. You have all gone the extra mile, so to speak. If you're down, if you're blue, believe me, I understand. But you must not flag, you must not waver. I assure you, we will -- let me repeat that, we will -- eventually get this sonuvabitch accomplished!

Those are great words. Then it's back to work with renewed vigor. But time and the fatigue of road workers are inexorable, especially when many men have retired, going off to their golden years. The foreman, however, has remained at his post. No one knows this project like he does, and although there's still four miles to go of the original seven, he believes it can be done:

"Men, our community has been enriched by new blood. Which is not to say anything against those who have dropped off. They earned their reward. They paid for their watch with their blood, sweat, and tears. But it is now for you to carry on, as well as the old veterans who remain. I thank you each and every one. And let me assure you, I still believe, men, with every fiber of my being, that eventually we will get this sonuvabitch finished!"

Brave words, to be sure, even as that final four miles stretches out endlessly, looking something like a futile journey to the stars. We'll never reach the stars. The distances are so great. But it's good to have someone who believes we will, for it enriches everyone, certainly at the level of man's imagination.

But time finally yields to reality, and the foreman had to pass from the scene, with the rest of the old timers. It was boom time for the gold watch industry. As the old foreman left, a new foreman came on. A good man, able to read the old blueprints, which were substantially well-preserved, only about half deteriorated. Marks were made showing the passing of time. So many years!

The new foreman, with all new workers, gave the inevitable seven year talk:

"Men, there's only three miles to go. A lifetime for some. But I'm confident, that with advances in medical science, most of you will live to see this stretch completed. For those who do retire, you have my solemn pledge: I will personally see that you are brought back when the road opens. Until then, buck up, and get plenty of water. I need you, we all need you ... and your all.

"In closing, let me repeat the brave words of my great predecessor -- as true now as they were 50 years ago -- You have my pledge, my word of honor, We will see this thing through, and, finally, this sonovabitch will one day be accomplished!"

Iowa -- Land of Roadwork

Traveling in Iowa recently, I couldn't help noticing there's a tad bit of roadwork going on. I'd like to give a thorough description of it, but it's quicker to list the places where there isn't any. I saw a one-mile stretch, I think around Osceola.

The state colors being orange and white, you definitely see their pride in the many barrels, pylons, and fences. This is also true when you consider the state bird, the robin, actually only the robin's breast. Then there's the annual Orange and White Bowl. And the state fruit, wax oranges and marshmallows. Just driving a couple days, my poor eyes had serious orange burn. I've been living in the cellar with the lights off, trying to reset them.

You can't help thinking Iowa is a great client for the various roadwork supply companies. So I did some research on the subject. And that's really an understatement. Iowa is such a great client they're able to make a nuisance of themselves. It's like anything else. When you get too big, you have a lot of sway, so they're able to throw their weight around, and even break out the brass knuckles and break a few kneecaps. Anything they want...

OK, here's the lowdown. There's an industrial orange barrel company, called just that, the Industrial Orange Barrel Company. "For roadwork safety, we go the extra mile" is on their advertising. But their official motto is "Our competition sucks, sucks bad."

IOBC's had a huge portion of the Iowa contract. But like I was saying, Iowa's been breaking out the brass knuckles, clamoring for a better deal.

So the boss had to send a sales rep over, right to the heart of the Iowa government to talk it over. Only no one really wanted to go. The government had them over a barrel, so to speak. So it would be a thankless task, fraught with peril for anyone's career.

The boss told the secretary to get a particular guy on the horn, their best man, Kellerman. Who had the brains and experience to call in sick that day. "Well then get me Adams!" But Adams was sick, too. "How about Bardot?" Same story, sick. The boss ran down the list of sales reps in order of their worth: Lawhead, Rackley, Mahlor, Hargrave, Taylor, Kirby, Beveridge, Zalumas, Edwards, Vann, Smith, Maddox, Stewart, Robison, Gordy, Craig, Harden, Bass, French, Truitt, Barber, Watt, Jerger, Stribling, Herman, Grantham, Russell, McGiohon, Anderson, Aiken, Reese, Head, Vanderbilt, Hazelton, Feinberg, Myers, Tittle, Cheshire, and, lastly, Mays.* All sick.

There was literally no one left, no one at all, zero, zilch, nada, not one living soul remaining, except ... No! not the new guy! ... yep, him ... Jason Klutz. But when you have no one else, what can you do? The boss said, "Klutz, I'm sending you, against my better judgment. Do not screw this up."

Klutz being new, and Iowa being perilous to anyone, it was bound to be a disaster. And Klutz had other issues. He didn't see himself as wet behind the ears; he had all the confidence in the world. So when he got to Iowa, he was unyielding, hardnosed, and stupid. I should explain, he'd just moved to Indiana, IOBC's headquarters, from Texas.

Klutz gets to Iowa, who wanted a nickel off each barrel, pylon, and mile of orange fencing. Doesn't sound like much, but that might've been a million bucks right there. I think I would've jumped at it, even if just to minimize the agony of dealing with them at all, but Klutz held out with iron determination, finally giving Iowa his final offer: IOBC would go down a penny. No more, no less. Take it or leave it!

Just reading the boss' mind, as I'm able to do, without ever having met him, he would have jumped at a nickel. He probably should've given Klutz guidance, but he figured they might want a dime off, but could reasonably be talked down to a nickel. Klutz could handle that, right?

But Klutz had that recent connection to Texas, which naturally spells disaster, and he figured maybe he'd be in line for a big bonus if he held Iowa's demands low. Plus, the annual Go-Getter award was about to be given -- as you probably know -- and every greenhorn covets it.

Well, it's sad what happened. Sad, unless you happen to work for IOBC's biggest competition, Orange Barrels, Pylons, and Fencing, Unltd. Who, being unlimited, cut the price not just a nickel, but six cents, and threw in some premiums that the Iowa government craves: steak dinners and trips out of state.

So that's it: Klutz was totally out, IOBC lost the Iowa contract completely, and the roadwork has kept pace and even intensified, thanks in large part to OBPFU. With the savings, Iowa is now working on roads they didn't even know they had.

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*When I was in Iowa, it was raining cats and dogs. I and about 300 other people took shelter at a reststop. I spent part of the time there writing the rough draft of this post. The non-Iowans in the group were laughing, most of them having struck an orange barrel at least once that day. I solicited the names of a number of people. The list of (fictional) sales reps are them, their last names in the order of getting them. I thought it was especially interesting that we had a Barber and a Head in the group. "Barber, meet Head ... Head, Barber."

Brick By Brick -- Your Criminal Edifice

Now that I'm the new Mr. Big, with Tony's death, I've got a lot more free time, time that I'm using wisely to keep myself focused and centered. I'm looking at it, in part, as time for reflection, with the idea that reflection contributes to my overall success.

Being a criminal, friends, isn't the easiest job in the world, that is, if you do it right. The prisons are full of dumb ass schmucks who thought it'd be easy, but then, and there's no known exception to this, they got sloppy, which is another word for stupid. These days, of course, there's a lot of dumb asses who post their exploits on social media, blogs and the like, which anyone with three weeks experience online can trace in seconds. And so they go to prison. Stupid! The problem is not enough reflection.

I've been reflecting today that establishing and maintaining a good criminal life is kind of like building a building, like building and maintaining a house. There's lots of similarities, and you can almost get lost in the comparisons; it's uncanny how many points of congruence, or overlap, there are. Leading me to think, and it's just a theory, that the first house-builder must have been a very successful criminal. Even to this day, you hear of burglars targeting houses, or criminals apprehended at houses, like a crack house. So there's a real closeness.

Anyway, we reflect, we start thinking, we gather our thoughts, we grant our minds free rein and our thoughts the ability to roam. And they keep returning to this idea that a good criminal life and the building process are very, very -- extremely -- close.

The first thing to our house is the basement and foundation. The basement and foundation may not be the "sexiest" parts of the house. The "sexiest" parts would have to be the shower and bedroom. But the basement and foundation are extremely critical to the house's integrity. It is that which is "foundational" that will stand you in the best stead over the long term. When the winds blow and a tornado or mudslide come through, if the foundation isn't any good ... then good luck! In fact, when vicious storms come, where do we go? but to the basement! Likewise, in the criminal life, you don't start out as Mr. Big. You start out at ground level, but what you first establish there will continue to ground you later.

The house then goes up. You next see its structure, similar to a body's skeleton, 2 x 4s placed horizontally and vertically and nailed, with all the water pipes and electrical conduits where they need to be. Without a basic structure -- let's say you just propped up a bunch of unsupported walls on the foundation -- something less than a doctorate tells you it's going to collapse. Because everything has to be supported. Similarly, in a good criminal life, one in which you're not immediately in prison, you need a structure. This could be a good gang, a network of associates, or looking at it another way, your growth in intelligence and how you let your experience at the foundational base rise up as a supporting structure.

Next, they put in the walls. I've never yet been in a good house that didn't have walls. Walls and windows. I'm serious here, I like good walls. They're useful, like if you have a stoolie and you want to put your arm up against his neck and raise him off the floor. You can't get a guy's eyes bulging out if the wall isn't there for support. Or say you simply don't want your house open to the outside elements 24/7, you need walls. In the criminal life, as we follow our reflections on the good criminal life, the walls represent an enclosure or environment for yourself. In other words, you're not simply exposed. When you're exposed, you're in prison in no time, where they have very good walls.

What comes next? Of course it'd have to be the roof. What good is a roof? Let's think about it a minute. A roof protects the inside of the house from sun, rain, and bird poop. It tops off the house, and helps keep what's inside in good condition, so you can live there comfortably for years to come. In our good criminal life, the "roof" means you've worked yourself up from the ground level and denotes completeness. Also, just as an actual roof makes a great lookout point for cops on the horizon, from your "roof" you can see more clearly the vistas, the opportunities of your criminal future.

I probably should mention all the furnishings, paint, wallpaper, appliances, flooring, alcoves, linoleum, and the like, that make the inside of the house comfy and cozy. You wouldn't want a house that didn't have anything in it! Unless you were just holing up somewhere till the heat died down, or you were doing quick drug deals or something like that. In an actual house to live in, you want nice things, like maybe a fireplace to burn evidence in. Or a toilet with a strong industrial flush. Similarly, in your good criminal life, you're not stealing money and jewels, swindling and cheating just for the hell of it. That'd be pointless. You're doing it so you'll have nice things, bling and other cool things. Because that's what life's all about, enjoying what you have and hoping no one takes it from you.