Seagull
Posted by Ben Myers
I was 18 with a chronic case of senioritus when the summons to court arrived that prompted my enraged parents to insist I leave the house indefinitely. The following week was spent attending only Intro to Shakespeare (if only to rendezvous with those willing to skip the rest of the day), drinking 64 ounce Growlers of Arrogant Bastard Heavy Ale beside the pond, and captaining lacrosse practice. Aside from my needy-wealthy Jewish girlfriend, having to find shelter at night, and disguising the lingering aroma of Arrogant Bastard Heavy Ale as Coach did his rounds during stretch, life was swell.
Occasionally I’d find myself reluctant to impinge upon the peaceful evening household routines of my friends, and I’d sleep in the sand pit. The sand pit was a hollow square mile of precious watershed land owned by the Conservation Commission, and a refuge for the usual suspects to get sea-whiskered and light fireworks. During one of the lonely school nights in the sand pit, lying fireside digesting a bellyful of Lays potato chips and whole milk, I turned my eyes from the clear sky and into the flames. Painfully focused on the embers, I began to strategize. The romantic plan I conceived that very night, the roadmap of my future, was as salty and spontaneous as my hankering for chips and milk.
I would attend the University of Massachusetts, become a civil engineer, land the sickest job ever, and completely redeem myself in the eyes of my folks – and possibly the girlfriend too, as improbable as it may have been. So very, positively improbable. I’ve done the dimensional analyses, generated the mathematical model, derived the linear equation, solved it (and found several solutions – real, unreal, and radical), and proven that a seagull has a better chance of getting shot by nailgun fire…
Five years passed, and I consummated my ambitious endeavors, with no shortage of imprudent adventure along the way, landing what I believed to be, “the sickest job ever.” I was to oversee the construction of a sixty million [that’s sixty followed by six zeros (60,000,000)] dollar project in the greatest city worldwide, Boston. Shall I illustrate my vast responsibilities and even vaster power? No. Instead, I’ll be modest and put it plainly: my Mom and Dad call me every day and sometimes I don’t answer because I’m too busy.
I transgress.
While consumed in overseeing my construction site this past month, I came to notice a seagull that lacked the ability to fly. The wounded gull would feed on discarded grilled cheese crusts, partially gnawed chicken bones, and assorted refuse from the Roach Coach. Anyone who has worked in construction and the dregs of corporate America should be familiar with the Roach Coach. Basically, It’s a heated truck that boasts an assortment of fine cuisine at a nominal cost (Lays chips and whole milk included.) Our Roach Coach is operated by Ken. Ken is a short fat man in a red Nascar Jacket. Ken knows that I’m the man, and he hooks me up for free.
Weeks expire with the days of excavators moving dirt, carpenters firing nailguns, side-wallers hanging vinyl, roofers installing shingles, plumbers running pipe, electricians pulling wire, tin-knockers knocking tin, etc. The metaphorical "melting pot" does not begin to describe the walks of life meshed together on a construction site. Individuals of all backgrounds choose this business -- the truest EOP, with no discrimination based on: race, age, religion, education, socio-economic status, confirmed illegal alien status, language, training, literacy, fashion sense, criminal standing, genetic mutation, drug addiction and/or musical taste. You can be just about any able-bodied creature, those missing limbs included. All are welcome to labor: Caucasian, African American, Puerto Rican, Asian, Native American, Mexican, Brazilian, Honduran, Ecuadorian, etc – save one, the flamboyantly gay male. Upon taking up a career in the construction trades aside from interior decorating, these individuals would most certainly encounter a world wildly divergent from that described in Dr. King's dream. Apparently wrong as this sounds, “It is what it is.” Or so they say in the greatest city worldwide.
I stagger.
Up until yesterday, in the hubbub of power and responsibility, I had lost track of the scavenging seagull. My moment of cognizance was the anticlimactic arrival of the Animal Police. According to the rather attractive dread-locked policewoman, the seagull was to receive immediate emergency surgery at the animal hospital. Furthermore, she informed me of having been tipped-off by an anonymous caller that the bird had been shot with a nailgun; and that if during the resuscitation of the gull a nail were found, law enforcement would be conducting a complete investigation.
Tomfoolery! Thought I, until considering the implications.
The repercussions of the alleged seagull assault have yet to be determined, but I can feel the heat. I assure you, as you giggle in your seat, this is no laughing matter. The following is a possible list of bona fide consequences:
1. The shooter will undeniably lose his job.
2. The shooter may face criminal charges.
3. Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) may conduct a site visit, resulting in fines up to $100,000
4. Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) may conduct a site visit, resulting in the deportation of the majority of my workers.
5. The seagull may die, resulting in dread-locked policewoman vowing revenge and initiating a sustained vendetta.
6. My company will be forced to donate a large sum of money to help finance the Animal Police.
7. My boss may kick my ass for writing this and I undoubtedly will question the business I have chosen.
… and this, all for a seagull!
I’ll keep you posted.
I was 18 with a chronic case of senioritus when the summons to court arrived that prompted my enraged parents to insist I leave the house indefinitely. The following week was spent attending only Intro to Shakespeare (if only to rendezvous with those willing to skip the rest of the day), drinking 64 ounce Growlers of Arrogant Bastard Heavy Ale beside the pond, and captaining lacrosse practice. Aside from my needy-wealthy Jewish girlfriend, having to find shelter at night, and disguising the lingering aroma of Arrogant Bastard Heavy Ale as Coach did his rounds during stretch, life was swell.
Occasionally I’d find myself reluctant to impinge upon the peaceful evening household routines of my friends, and I’d sleep in the sand pit. The sand pit was a hollow square mile of precious watershed land owned by the Conservation Commission, and a refuge for the usual suspects to get sea-whiskered and light fireworks. During one of the lonely school nights in the sand pit, lying fireside digesting a bellyful of Lays potato chips and whole milk, I turned my eyes from the clear sky and into the flames. Painfully focused on the embers, I began to strategize. The romantic plan I conceived that very night, the roadmap of my future, was as salty and spontaneous as my hankering for chips and milk.
I would attend the University of Massachusetts, become a civil engineer, land the sickest job ever, and completely redeem myself in the eyes of my folks – and possibly the girlfriend too, as improbable as it may have been. So very, positively improbable. I’ve done the dimensional analyses, generated the mathematical model, derived the linear equation, solved it (and found several solutions – real, unreal, and radical), and proven that a seagull has a better chance of getting shot by nailgun fire…
Five years passed, and I consummated my ambitious endeavors, with no shortage of imprudent adventure along the way, landing what I believed to be, “the sickest job ever.” I was to oversee the construction of a sixty million [that’s sixty followed by six zeros (60,000,000)] dollar project in the greatest city worldwide, Boston. Shall I illustrate my vast responsibilities and even vaster power? No. Instead, I’ll be modest and put it plainly: my Mom and Dad call me every day and sometimes I don’t answer because I’m too busy.
I transgress.
While consumed in overseeing my construction site this past month, I came to notice a seagull that lacked the ability to fly. The wounded gull would feed on discarded grilled cheese crusts, partially gnawed chicken bones, and assorted refuse from the Roach Coach. Anyone who has worked in construction and the dregs of corporate America should be familiar with the Roach Coach. Basically, It’s a heated truck that boasts an assortment of fine cuisine at a nominal cost (Lays chips and whole milk included.) Our Roach Coach is operated by Ken. Ken is a short fat man in a red Nascar Jacket. Ken knows that I’m the man, and he hooks me up for free.
Weeks expire with the days of excavators moving dirt, carpenters firing nailguns, side-wallers hanging vinyl, roofers installing shingles, plumbers running pipe, electricians pulling wire, tin-knockers knocking tin, etc. The metaphorical "melting pot" does not begin to describe the walks of life meshed together on a construction site. Individuals of all backgrounds choose this business -- the truest EOP, with no discrimination based on: race, age, religion, education, socio-economic status, confirmed illegal alien status, language, training, literacy, fashion sense, criminal standing, genetic mutation, drug addiction and/or musical taste. You can be just about any able-bodied creature, those missing limbs included. All are welcome to labor: Caucasian, African American, Puerto Rican, Asian, Native American, Mexican, Brazilian, Honduran, Ecuadorian, etc – save one, the flamboyantly gay male. Upon taking up a career in the construction trades aside from interior decorating, these individuals would most certainly encounter a world wildly divergent from that described in Dr. King's dream. Apparently wrong as this sounds, “It is what it is.” Or so they say in the greatest city worldwide.
I stagger.
Up until yesterday, in the hubbub of power and responsibility, I had lost track of the scavenging seagull. My moment of cognizance was the anticlimactic arrival of the Animal Police. According to the rather attractive dread-locked policewoman, the seagull was to receive immediate emergency surgery at the animal hospital. Furthermore, she informed me of having been tipped-off by an anonymous caller that the bird had been shot with a nailgun; and that if during the resuscitation of the gull a nail were found, law enforcement would be conducting a complete investigation.
Tomfoolery! Thought I, until considering the implications.
The repercussions of the alleged seagull assault have yet to be determined, but I can feel the heat. I assure you, as you giggle in your seat, this is no laughing matter. The following is a possible list of bona fide consequences:
1. The shooter will undeniably lose his job.
2. The shooter may face criminal charges.
3. Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) may conduct a site visit, resulting in fines up to $100,000
4. Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) may conduct a site visit, resulting in the deportation of the majority of my workers.
5. The seagull may die, resulting in dread-locked policewoman vowing revenge and initiating a sustained vendetta.
6. My company will be forced to donate a large sum of money to help finance the Animal Police.
7. My boss may kick my ass for writing this and I undoubtedly will question the business I have chosen.
… and this, all for a seagull!
I’ll keep you posted.
This entry was posted by Ben Myers, on
Saturday, March 18, 2006.
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