RECORDED DIALOGUE FROM TODAY TO BE USED IN FUTURE WRITING
Posted by Ben Myers
I wake up at 5 am, chanting a string of expletives, and reach for my phone. I notice a 1:10 AM missed phone call from a presumably drunk ex-girlfriend. My last memorable conversation with her ended with my asking why she only calls at 1:30 AM. I return her call, wanting to share my 5 AM pain. She answers with a grumpy, raspy voice.
Me: 1:10 am? You called 20 minutes early!
The ex: It was a mistake. Don’t flatter yourself.
Me: You’re a mistake.
The ex: You’re an asshole.
Me: Girls like you create assholes.
The ex: Boys like you create girls like me.
Me: In that case, I’m ashamed.
Our conversation ends.
I leave for work, a construction site on the South Shore at 6:05 and drive down Rt. 3 (see Morning Commute by Ben Myers). At the site, a group of laborers have gathered to share the morning’s gossip. They are worse than a sewing circle after the last episode of American Idol. Reluctantly, I pull up in my Ford Taurus to share in the reverie.
Joe the dump truck driver: What’s with all the dents in your car?
Me: These here my sister made, these two I made while trying to fix this one, and that one there is from backing over my neighbors fence after witnessing my roommate engaged in a threesome last weekend.
Chuck the excavator: Were the girls hot?
Me: One looked like a poster child for methamphetamine abuse, and the other a riverbank dwelling troll from a Brothers Grim tale.
(Chuckles all around, except for Joe the dump truck driver)
Joe the dump truck driver: Doesn’t matter! As long as when you reach down there it’s warm and wet!”
(This makes sense at 6:30 am)
Me: I guess you’re right.
Joe the dump truck driver: Fuck yeah. Imagine reaching down there and finding a baby’s arm holding a couple grapes?
Me: You have a story to share?
(Chuckles all around – except for Joe the dump truck driver, he’s furious.)
I go about my daily tasks putting out social fires as a construction superintendent. It’s “business as usual” at the adult daycare for tradesmen and illegal immigrants. An alcoholic plumber, we’ll call Stevie, because that’s his name and there’s no reason to protect him, calls in a panic at 11:00 AM. This does not surprise me, because he calls panicked at this time everyday as the whiskey from the night before has vacated his bloodstream, leaving him shaking and sucking down Pall Malls like he invented smoking.
For these gentlemen, I’m an acting manager, mediator, and therapist.
Stevie the (Panicked) Plumber: Where’s this fucking guy that’s installing these fireplaces? I’ve been busting my ass getting these gas lines pulled.
Me: Calm (the fuck) down. I’ll make a phone call.
(I dial Superior Jean, the fireplace guy and put him on speakerphone)
Superior Jean: YO!
Me: Jean, where are you?
Superior Jean: Who’s this?
Me: You know who this is. You’re supposed to be on site putting in these fireplaces. You were here this morning and disappeared. Where are you?
Superior Jean: I’m down the street eating a sandwich.
Stevie the Plumber: Bullshit he’s eating a sandwich. He’s at the Ninety-Nine drinking beers.
Me (To Stevie, with one hand over the receiver): You’re not helping.
Me: Jean, I needed you to finish these fireplaces yesterday.
Superior Jean: Sorry Dude. (lets out a muffled burp) I’ll be right there.
Stevie the Plumber: Dude?!?! This is not good business.
Me: We’re building fucking 40B affordable housing, and you want to talk about good business?
Stevie the Plumber: I’m sick of this shit.
Me: I’m sick of this shit.
After recording these interactions, I know now why I struggle to include dialogue in my creative writing pieces. The vocabulary of the jobsite is the shrill screams of skill saws and thunder cracks of a hammers. I prefer these sounds to most casual conversational activity in which I occasionally engage while on the job. Until my field experience draws to a close, and I reflect on my time spent “in the shit,” when I’m asked why I don’t write about construction, I’ll reply, “I’d prefer not to.”
I wake up at 5 am, chanting a string of expletives, and reach for my phone. I notice a 1:10 AM missed phone call from a presumably drunk ex-girlfriend. My last memorable conversation with her ended with my asking why she only calls at 1:30 AM. I return her call, wanting to share my 5 AM pain. She answers with a grumpy, raspy voice.
Me: 1:10 am? You called 20 minutes early!
The ex: It was a mistake. Don’t flatter yourself.
Me: You’re a mistake.
The ex: You’re an asshole.
Me: Girls like you create assholes.
The ex: Boys like you create girls like me.
Me: In that case, I’m ashamed.
Our conversation ends.
I leave for work, a construction site on the South Shore at 6:05 and drive down Rt. 3 (see Morning Commute by Ben Myers). At the site, a group of laborers have gathered to share the morning’s gossip. They are worse than a sewing circle after the last episode of American Idol. Reluctantly, I pull up in my Ford Taurus to share in the reverie.
Joe the dump truck driver: What’s with all the dents in your car?
Me: These here my sister made, these two I made while trying to fix this one, and that one there is from backing over my neighbors fence after witnessing my roommate engaged in a threesome last weekend.
Chuck the excavator: Were the girls hot?
Me: One looked like a poster child for methamphetamine abuse, and the other a riverbank dwelling troll from a Brothers Grim tale.
(Chuckles all around, except for Joe the dump truck driver)
Joe the dump truck driver: Doesn’t matter! As long as when you reach down there it’s warm and wet!”
(This makes sense at 6:30 am)
Me: I guess you’re right.
Joe the dump truck driver: Fuck yeah. Imagine reaching down there and finding a baby’s arm holding a couple grapes?
Me: You have a story to share?
(Chuckles all around – except for Joe the dump truck driver, he’s furious.)
I go about my daily tasks putting out social fires as a construction superintendent. It’s “business as usual” at the adult daycare for tradesmen and illegal immigrants. An alcoholic plumber, we’ll call Stevie, because that’s his name and there’s no reason to protect him, calls in a panic at 11:00 AM. This does not surprise me, because he calls panicked at this time everyday as the whiskey from the night before has vacated his bloodstream, leaving him shaking and sucking down Pall Malls like he invented smoking.
For these gentlemen, I’m an acting manager, mediator, and therapist.
Stevie the (Panicked) Plumber: Where’s this fucking guy that’s installing these fireplaces? I’ve been busting my ass getting these gas lines pulled.
Me: Calm (the fuck) down. I’ll make a phone call.
(I dial Superior Jean, the fireplace guy and put him on speakerphone)
Superior Jean: YO!
Me: Jean, where are you?
Superior Jean: Who’s this?
Me: You know who this is. You’re supposed to be on site putting in these fireplaces. You were here this morning and disappeared. Where are you?
Superior Jean: I’m down the street eating a sandwich.
Stevie the Plumber: Bullshit he’s eating a sandwich. He’s at the Ninety-Nine drinking beers.
Me (To Stevie, with one hand over the receiver): You’re not helping.
Me: Jean, I needed you to finish these fireplaces yesterday.
Superior Jean: Sorry Dude. (lets out a muffled burp) I’ll be right there.
Stevie the Plumber: Dude?!?! This is not good business.
Me: We’re building fucking 40B affordable housing, and you want to talk about good business?
Stevie the Plumber: I’m sick of this shit.
Me: I’m sick of this shit.
After recording these interactions, I know now why I struggle to include dialogue in my creative writing pieces. The vocabulary of the jobsite is the shrill screams of skill saws and thunder cracks of a hammers. I prefer these sounds to most casual conversational activity in which I occasionally engage while on the job. Until my field experience draws to a close, and I reflect on my time spent “in the shit,” when I’m asked why I don’t write about construction, I’ll reply, “I’d prefer not to.”
This entry was posted by Ben Myers, on
Monday, June 19, 2006.
You can leave your response.
8:26 AM
I think I need to have a beer with this plumber
11:25 AM
i guess we're all dump truck drivers deep down
2:32 PM
Shawn romance said: wow sounds like the dump truck driver needs a hug or a blowjob.
I gave him Bob's phone number and email.