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10-4 Good Buddy

Michael considered fate at 11:37   |   Permalink   |   Post a Comment

It's hot and sticky in the port city today and the sun is being her usual unwavering self. After almost a full week of fog and rain and drizzle and fog and drizzle I awoke to blue skies and construction work.

There is something about hearing a little construction work to let you know that it's summer and let you know that the sun is shining and the boys in their hardhats are sweating their balls off but at least it's not raining, otherwise you probably wouldn't hear the construction.

When I video-taped sewers for a living we didn't wear hard hats but we sort of had that construction look to us. We'd drive around in an old beat up city-owned GMC pickup and play tag with Mary-Lou on the one-channel CB radio stuck right where the radio should have been in that damn truck. We'd get on there and say some odd things just to get Mary-Lou down at the town garage to come on the line and talk to us in that weird small-town way. We'd run out of things to say but when in doubt we'd always ask for some more road cones, listening to her voice through the crackle.

*scrackle* Mary-Lou *scrackle* You got any cones down there?

*shhhhnizzzzzack* hey fellas, *shnip* lemme see what I can scrounge up back here *eurrrrap* swing by in a few *scrack*

Wilco
Roger
Over
N
Out.

We'd swing down to the shit disturbers at the sewer plant and up into the sludge building, past the conveyor belt of old lunches and snacks and dinners turned into a brown paste by the wonders of the human bowel system - transported here by the wonders of the town's sewer system - and we'd pop our head into the small room up there and say hi to Phil.

Hey Phil.

Yah buddy he'd respond with a lazy smile.

We'd go down to the main office and hang out in the lab with Gaeten the greek.. or was he french.. and watch his wonky eye make circles at the ceailing while he explained the virtues of self-brewed ice tea in the sun (which explained the random soda bottles in the parking lot that looked like they were filled with tepid water).

By 3 or 4 in the afternoon we'd have worked ourselves out going for road cones and checking in on phil and listening to gaeten and generally avoiding our job like the plague due to the drizzle and the generally lazy atmosphere and we'd be down in the lunch room looking at all the big knobs and dials and crazy meters on the control bank. We'd philosophize on what it would take to bring the whole system down and cause a real shit storm.

Everett would come in and complain about changing the oil in one of the shit disturbing machines - 55 gallons to change one machine! he'd scream, and rub his hands together and slick back his sweaty hair and then he'd tell us a story. Sometimes it was about checking sewer holes in the winter in heavy mid-day traffic with ice all about and the sleet coming down. Sometimes it was about responding to a late night call during a thunder-storm and watching the lightening come down over the hill past the stream but getting closer and closer and he was always scared of that lightening. But always stories.

We knew the day was over and done with when Phil would come rolling down the hill from the sludge building in his red pickup and pull up to a stop outside the main office and come strolling in to say his goodbyes.

Have a good one Phil

Yah buddy, he'd say, Yah buddy

And we'd park the truck inside the big doors next to the jet truck and look around like maybe we should put something away or clean something up but we knew there was still gonna be a world of shit when we came strolling in the next day, so why bother?

We'd climb back into our car, swing out past the gates and past the sign loudly proclaiming "Pollution Control Plant" and down the road to the highway. I'd look at my jeans - the same jeans I'd worn every day to the pollution control plant - and I'd see all the stains and splotches and weird discolorations and wonder where they came from. I'd see a nice dark one and figure that was someone's steak nugget - all dark and rich and staining my jeans. Someone out there sat and shat, and out came this little brown package with a story of pastures and bulls and cows and meat packing plant and freezer grocery aisle and paper bag and onto the grill.. mmm the grill.. and maybe a little BBQ sauce and down the hatch and now, out the back door and into my sewer, and onto my jeans.

Then it would occur to us that we forgot to lock the gates and we'd give the P-D a call and ask them to have a cruiser swing by and snap the paddle-lock closed and they'd say sure thing, and thanks for coming by to clear out that block in our toilet line, and we'd say no problem, 10-4 good buddy.