Thursday, March 26, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Pigeonholed
The end of every workday consists of a mad rush of workers flying out the door. Construction workers don't like to work anything past their eight hours, and come 2:00, our job site looks like a roach-infested apartment when the light's flicked on. Everyone is scurrying, quick as possible, to get the hell out.
And it's also the time of day when foremen will drop bombs on you that they didn't want to bring up during the day. Small stuff like 'hey, I didn't get around to moving that outlet that you asked (demanded) I move. Maybe tomorrow." Or big stuff like "hey, we're not coming to work tomorrow."
So a little before two, when I just happened to be walking by a foreman's office, I got pretty nervous when he popped out and started a sentence with "Uhh."
This can't be good.
"There's a pigeon in that room." He pointed to a door and walked away.
Well, I guess it could be worse.
I walked in the door and saw nothing. I turned a corner and out of nowhere, wings started flapping at my face. I jumped a bit. Okay, a lot. The pigeon flapped around for a moment, a couple feet in the air. It came to a rest and looked at me. I looked back.
I startd some more. He stared right back. We matched wits. I pulled out the one move I thought he couldn't do. I called my boss.
"Hey, there's got a pigeon in a room."
"And I care why?" He hung up. This was going to be tougher than I thought. I opened a window. He flew into a open duct. I banged on the duct. This was Frazier vs. Ali, Kasparov vs. Deep Blue.
I got a ladder and looked into the duct. He was there, bobbing. He'd found a roost, a safe, warm haven to live and procreate. I bet he was already calling more pigeons. "Hey, I've found a home. Come, let's mate. Don't mind the kid. We won't let him watch."
For ten minutes I debated what do to. I opened another window. Maybe he wants to go out this one, I thought. It wasn't. He stayed in the duct, probably yapping on his pigeon cell phone, planinng pigeon parties for when I left. You fucking dick. This is my hotel. Not yours.
Be patient I thought. Maybe I'd scared him. Maybe he was afraid, all that banging and the loud noises. Maybe if I just let him be, he'd eventually come out. So I opened all the windows and locked the door. He'd definitely be gone tomorrow.
Unless that's exactly what he wanted me to do.
And it's also the time of day when foremen will drop bombs on you that they didn't want to bring up during the day. Small stuff like 'hey, I didn't get around to moving that outlet that you asked (demanded) I move. Maybe tomorrow." Or big stuff like "hey, we're not coming to work tomorrow."
So a little before two, when I just happened to be walking by a foreman's office, I got pretty nervous when he popped out and started a sentence with "Uhh."
This can't be good.
"There's a pigeon in that room." He pointed to a door and walked away.
Well, I guess it could be worse.
I walked in the door and saw nothing. I turned a corner and out of nowhere, wings started flapping at my face. I jumped a bit. Okay, a lot. The pigeon flapped around for a moment, a couple feet in the air. It came to a rest and looked at me. I looked back.
I startd some more. He stared right back. We matched wits. I pulled out the one move I thought he couldn't do. I called my boss.
"Hey, there's got a pigeon in a room."
"And I care why?" He hung up. This was going to be tougher than I thought. I opened a window. He flew into a open duct. I banged on the duct. This was Frazier vs. Ali, Kasparov vs. Deep Blue.
I got a ladder and looked into the duct. He was there, bobbing. He'd found a roost, a safe, warm haven to live and procreate. I bet he was already calling more pigeons. "Hey, I've found a home. Come, let's mate. Don't mind the kid. We won't let him watch."
For ten minutes I debated what do to. I opened another window. Maybe he wants to go out this one, I thought. It wasn't. He stayed in the duct, probably yapping on his pigeon cell phone, planinng pigeon parties for when I left. You fucking dick. This is my hotel. Not yours.
Be patient I thought. Maybe I'd scared him. Maybe he was afraid, all that banging and the loud noises. Maybe if I just let him be, he'd eventually come out. So I opened all the windows and locked the door. He'd definitely be gone tomorrow.
Unless that's exactly what he wanted me to do.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Hard Headed
One of the first things I was worried about when I got a job in the construction biz (that's what we call it, the biz) was having to wear a hard hat eight hours a day. I was nineteen with the neck and musculature of an eight-year old. I couldn't imagine having to support that thing all day. I showed up for my first job, hard hat on, with my shoulders already hurting from the walk from my car to the door.
"Oh, you don't need that," was the first thing my new boss said. We were working in an occupied building during the nights, so there was no need. But after six weeks I got transferred to another job, with hats full time, and began my very loving, very despising relationshipwith my hard hat.
We were working on the top of a building in DC and I didn't really see the need to wear a hard hat. Sure there was a giant crane carrying pallets full of bricks and water towers and shit, but if one of those fell, I didn't think my hard hat could prevent me from being dead.
I'd continually leave it lying around, and I'd constantly get yelled. It's sort of the example thing, if workers see someone from the general contractor not wearing a hard hat, it becomes 'well why the hell do we have to.'
So I'd have to retrace my steps, trying to remember where I took it off. And even if I was luck enought to figure that out, it was gone anyway because someone already hid it. So then I'd have to go back to the office and get a new one. And there they'd yell at me for being irresponsible. Then the old one would turn up and I'd get yelled at for having too many hard hats. Being me involves getting yelled at a lot.
A couple summers later, I was interning at another hotel in DC. My first day on the job I was getting a tour from my new boss.
"One of the things we have here is these really tricky access panels in the ceiling," he said. This was literally the first thing he said on the tour. They were huge, five feet by five feet wood panels. "They're a bit tricky, but I'll show you how to get them out."
He started to pull on it, and I was standing directly under it, trying to learn to just how stupid I really am. Of course his finger slipped. It fell, right on my head. It hurt, even with my damn hard hat on. But it probably would have hurt more.
So, with a goddamn panel dropped on my head my first day of work, you'd think I'd become one of those, 'Watch out guys, I've seen first hand what can happen, always wear you hard hat' guys."
No. Those things still suck. Usually I hold it in my hand while I walk around. The only good that does is keep me from getting yelled at when my boss approaches. But he caught on pretty quickly that I don't like to wear it and today, well, he beeped me on the radio. It was after three, everyone had left and it was a Friday. There's no fucking way I'm wearing that thing and he knew it. "Can you meet me down on four?"
I came jumping down the stairs and as soon as set my foot out the door, crash.
"OWW, FUCK!"
He'd been standing back to the wall, waiting for me to come down, and as soon as he saw my hair, he swung his hard hat at my head. He popped me good, but that wasn't the worst of it.
"Guess what?"
"What?"
"You just volunteered for something." He used volunteer the way a dictator uses the word volunteer. "I needed someone to lay out the all the wood base in the guest rooms. And you seem to want to."
"You mean every guest room?"
"Yup, all 300 of them."
So not only do I have a lump on my head, but I'll be on my knees the next two weeks, with only a tape measure and a pencil as my friends, marking where furniture goes, where base needs to be run and not be run. Believe me, it's a pain. And it's all because of a stupid hard hat. Although I guess this time it would have actually helped me out.
Naw, he probably would have made me do it anyway.
"Oh, you don't need that," was the first thing my new boss said. We were working in an occupied building during the nights, so there was no need. But after six weeks I got transferred to another job, with hats full time, and began my very loving, very despising relationshipwith my hard hat.
We were working on the top of a building in DC and I didn't really see the need to wear a hard hat. Sure there was a giant crane carrying pallets full of bricks and water towers and shit, but if one of those fell, I didn't think my hard hat could prevent me from being dead.
I'd continually leave it lying around, and I'd constantly get yelled. It's sort of the example thing, if workers see someone from the general contractor not wearing a hard hat, it becomes 'well why the hell do we have to.'
So I'd have to retrace my steps, trying to remember where I took it off. And even if I was luck enought to figure that out, it was gone anyway because someone already hid it. So then I'd have to go back to the office and get a new one. And there they'd yell at me for being irresponsible. Then the old one would turn up and I'd get yelled at for having too many hard hats. Being me involves getting yelled at a lot.
A couple summers later, I was interning at another hotel in DC. My first day on the job I was getting a tour from my new boss.
"One of the things we have here is these really tricky access panels in the ceiling," he said. This was literally the first thing he said on the tour. They were huge, five feet by five feet wood panels. "They're a bit tricky, but I'll show you how to get them out."
He started to pull on it, and I was standing directly under it, trying to learn to just how stupid I really am. Of course his finger slipped. It fell, right on my head. It hurt, even with my damn hard hat on. But it probably would have hurt more.
So, with a goddamn panel dropped on my head my first day of work, you'd think I'd become one of those, 'Watch out guys, I've seen first hand what can happen, always wear you hard hat' guys."
No. Those things still suck. Usually I hold it in my hand while I walk around. The only good that does is keep me from getting yelled at when my boss approaches. But he caught on pretty quickly that I don't like to wear it and today, well, he beeped me on the radio. It was after three, everyone had left and it was a Friday. There's no fucking way I'm wearing that thing and he knew it. "Can you meet me down on four?"
I came jumping down the stairs and as soon as set my foot out the door, crash.
"OWW, FUCK!"
He'd been standing back to the wall, waiting for me to come down, and as soon as he saw my hair, he swung his hard hat at my head. He popped me good, but that wasn't the worst of it.
"Guess what?"
"What?"
"You just volunteered for something." He used volunteer the way a dictator uses the word volunteer. "I needed someone to lay out the all the wood base in the guest rooms. And you seem to want to."
"You mean every guest room?"
"Yup, all 300 of them."
So not only do I have a lump on my head, but I'll be on my knees the next two weeks, with only a tape measure and a pencil as my friends, marking where furniture goes, where base needs to be run and not be run. Believe me, it's a pain. And it's all because of a stupid hard hat. Although I guess this time it would have actually helped me out.
Naw, he probably would have made me do it anyway.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Ocean's Zero
Theft's actually a big problem in the construction business. When you think about it, it actually makes sense. When I see someone carrying something of importance or value on the job, my first thought isn't 'is he stealing that?' No, my first thought is 'where is he installing that,' followed quickly by why the hell hasn't he installed it earlier.
Usually it's small stuff, door handles or showerheads, things someone can easily slip into a pocket or a tool box without anyone notice. But even those aren't cheap. I was astounding when on my last job, I had to call our project manger to tell him that a couple doors were missing knobs (although we can't use knobs anymore. Apparently they discriminate agianst people with hand disabilities. So now everything must be lever handles. Look anywhere that's not a residential place. You'll quickly notice there are no knobs). But anyway I told him we were a few handles short and could he order up you know, a couple more.
"Do you know how much those handles cost?" He asked, probably rhetorically, because he knows I'm an idiot.
"Nope. Not at all. Fifty bucks?"
"Try $500."
So you see, even small things gone missing are a big deal. Which is why I knew I was in trouble when my boss told me he needed to speak to me about our towel racks.
See for the past month I took up residence in a rooms that was one part my office and twenty parts storage for an array of shit we were putting in the job: door handles, toilets, showerheads, you name it, people were storing it in my office. Well they were storing it in their storage space. But I did have a desk in a corner. Last week, we noticed that we were missing three towel racks. Towel racks that cost $1300 a piece.
We met in an suite on the ninth floor.
"David, you know the towel racks we're missing, I still haven't been able to find them ."
"Okay," I shrugged. "I told you earlier I counted them last week. We had all of them, remember."
"Yea, I know, I counted them two weeks ago and they were there. But it's been a few days and they haven't turned up. Look, this wouldn't be a problem, but those things are so damn expensive."
"I really don't know."
"Well the big boss wanted me to talk to you. You have a key to that room and he thinks you're pretty careless and probably left the door open or let someone in that shouldn't have been in there."
"How many people have a key to that room."
"Ten."
"But he doesn't think anyone else could have been responsible."
"Look, David, we're not saying your responsible, but this is a big fuck up."
Are you sure that's not what you're saying? "I'm serious, I don't know."
"Well he wants to have a talk with you later, so just, be ready."
This normally would have brought about pure fear, he's a scary dude, but as of late he'd been literally ignoring me, due to a series of gaffes he'd deemed unacceptable. Or more accurately, gaffes he told my boss to tell me they were unacceptable. So at least he finally wanted to talk to me. But this talk would peobably consist of him accusing me of theft and firing me.
Three hours passed. What the fuck is going on? I was sweating, fretting, sort of somewhat planning a vacation. I debated Paris. I sweated more. Another hour passed. My phone rang.
"David, can you come down to the office."
It was time. I paced in front of the office door for a minute, took a breath and opened it.
Just my boss was there.
"Where's uhh, I thought he wanted to talk to me."
My boss started laughing. "Look I just wanted to make you sweat. I found those things this morning. Someone moved them to our other lock up. But seriously David, you do need to be more careful. I hope this was a wake up call."
Geee. I appreciate that. Keep checking your mailbox for my thank you card. I'm sure it's on it's way.
Usually it's small stuff, door handles or showerheads, things someone can easily slip into a pocket or a tool box without anyone notice. But even those aren't cheap. I was astounding when on my last job, I had to call our project manger to tell him that a couple doors were missing knobs (although we can't use knobs anymore. Apparently they discriminate agianst people with hand disabilities. So now everything must be lever handles. Look anywhere that's not a residential place. You'll quickly notice there are no knobs). But anyway I told him we were a few handles short and could he order up you know, a couple more.
"Do you know how much those handles cost?" He asked, probably rhetorically, because he knows I'm an idiot.
"Nope. Not at all. Fifty bucks?"
"Try $500."
So you see, even small things gone missing are a big deal. Which is why I knew I was in trouble when my boss told me he needed to speak to me about our towel racks.
See for the past month I took up residence in a rooms that was one part my office and twenty parts storage for an array of shit we were putting in the job: door handles, toilets, showerheads, you name it, people were storing it in my office. Well they were storing it in their storage space. But I did have a desk in a corner. Last week, we noticed that we were missing three towel racks. Towel racks that cost $1300 a piece.
We met in an suite on the ninth floor.
"David, you know the towel racks we're missing, I still haven't been able to find them ."
"Okay," I shrugged. "I told you earlier I counted them last week. We had all of them, remember."
"Yea, I know, I counted them two weeks ago and they were there. But it's been a few days and they haven't turned up. Look, this wouldn't be a problem, but those things are so damn expensive."
"I really don't know."
"Well the big boss wanted me to talk to you. You have a key to that room and he thinks you're pretty careless and probably left the door open or let someone in that shouldn't have been in there."
"How many people have a key to that room."
"Ten."
"But he doesn't think anyone else could have been responsible."
"Look, David, we're not saying your responsible, but this is a big fuck up."
Are you sure that's not what you're saying? "I'm serious, I don't know."
"Well he wants to have a talk with you later, so just, be ready."
This normally would have brought about pure fear, he's a scary dude, but as of late he'd been literally ignoring me, due to a series of gaffes he'd deemed unacceptable. Or more accurately, gaffes he told my boss to tell me they were unacceptable. So at least he finally wanted to talk to me. But this talk would peobably consist of him accusing me of theft and firing me.
Three hours passed. What the fuck is going on? I was sweating, fretting, sort of somewhat planning a vacation. I debated Paris. I sweated more. Another hour passed. My phone rang.
"David, can you come down to the office."
It was time. I paced in front of the office door for a minute, took a breath and opened it.
Just my boss was there.
"Where's uhh, I thought he wanted to talk to me."
My boss started laughing. "Look I just wanted to make you sweat. I found those things this morning. Someone moved them to our other lock up. But seriously David, you do need to be more careful. I hope this was a wake up call."
Geee. I appreciate that. Keep checking your mailbox for my thank you card. I'm sure it's on it's way.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
"You're right Bob. That is disgusting."
I know I spoke yesterday about a rule we have on site, and I'm loathe to do the same thing two days in a row, but I need to talk about another iron-clad law we enforce. And this one's pretty damn simple, even simpler than "Don't eat lunch on the guestroom floors." This one, and I once again I stress how simple it is to abide by is "Please don't pee in things that are not the bathroom."
We have over ten portable toilets on site for around 150 guys, which is plenty. And I'll admit it, I hate using them, they're nasty, but I still do. It's just the rule. But workers on the site, they don't agree with this draconian regulation. You can't count how many times I've walked into a room and standing upright in the middle is a Deerpark water bottle filled with something I'd describe as "not Countrytime Lemonade."
So I'm walking around the fourth floor today, when one of my favorite foremen comes running up.
"You will not believe what I just saw."
"What?"
"I just walked in on a guy pissing in a trash can downstairs."
"Shit, that's gross."
"And you know what? He was facing the doorway. He didn't even turn around and try and hide."
"Wow, that is gross."
"Yea, so I came running for one of you guys. You're the first person I found."
Now detectives in the crime-solving business have something they call "the first 48," wherein if they don't get a good jump in the first 48 hours of a crime, the odds of solving it drops drastically. Now this is where I would fail as a detective.
"You know Bob, this is what I don't get about this business," I said, strolling down the hallway away from the stairs. "I mean, I'm a person, you're a person, but you and I, we don't just walk around peeing whenever we feel the need to. We walk to the bathroom."
"Yea," said Bob.
"It's just, what's wrong with these people? I really don't get it. What's so hard about this? Why are people here like that?"
"I don't know."
"I know Bob. I've seriously had it up to here. I'm really thinking of leaving this business. I just can't work in an industry where people think it's fine to pee in public. I mean do you think this shit happens in offices?"
"So, um, are we gonna go catch this guy?"
"Oh yea."
He headed to the lobby. We took the elevator. I went to track down the lobby superintendent because, well, he's a cannon and I was really hoping to see someone get thrown off the job.
"What the fuck? Where the fuck did this happen? Take me there."
We headed over to the trash can, in a corner of the lobby. All three of us stuck our head in.
"Piss," he said.
The super looked at Bob. "What the fuck did he look like?"
"He was wearing an orange hardhat."
"That's it? Alright you go left," he said to me. "I'll go right."
We split up, scouring the floor. He was anxious to make an example and set a tone of 'this shit doesn't fucking happen on my floor.' Me, I was just excited to not be working for ten minutes . We went back and forth the floor , ducking into rooms throughout the lobby. We checked in with the only two potential witnesses, two guys on a ladder by the trash can.
The super went about his interrogation. "Did you see a guy in an orange hard hat? No? Okay. How about you? No? Alright."
"Don't worry," the super said to me. "I got a feeling we'll be able to find a guy in an orange hardhat.
I left, already bored. Two hours later I went back downstairs and ran into the super.
"Did you find him?"
"No. I'll be you anything he switched hard hats."
So yea, watch out CSI New York. DC's taking over.
We have over ten portable toilets on site for around 150 guys, which is plenty. And I'll admit it, I hate using them, they're nasty, but I still do. It's just the rule. But workers on the site, they don't agree with this draconian regulation. You can't count how many times I've walked into a room and standing upright in the middle is a Deerpark water bottle filled with something I'd describe as "not Countrytime Lemonade."
So I'm walking around the fourth floor today, when one of my favorite foremen comes running up.
"You will not believe what I just saw."
"What?"
"I just walked in on a guy pissing in a trash can downstairs."
"Shit, that's gross."
"And you know what? He was facing the doorway. He didn't even turn around and try and hide."
"Wow, that is gross."
"Yea, so I came running for one of you guys. You're the first person I found."
Now detectives in the crime-solving business have something they call "the first 48," wherein if they don't get a good jump in the first 48 hours of a crime, the odds of solving it drops drastically. Now this is where I would fail as a detective.
"You know Bob, this is what I don't get about this business," I said, strolling down the hallway away from the stairs. "I mean, I'm a person, you're a person, but you and I, we don't just walk around peeing whenever we feel the need to. We walk to the bathroom."
"Yea," said Bob.
"It's just, what's wrong with these people? I really don't get it. What's so hard about this? Why are people here like that?"
"I don't know."
"I know Bob. I've seriously had it up to here. I'm really thinking of leaving this business. I just can't work in an industry where people think it's fine to pee in public. I mean do you think this shit happens in offices?"
"So, um, are we gonna go catch this guy?"
"Oh yea."
He headed to the lobby. We took the elevator. I went to track down the lobby superintendent because, well, he's a cannon and I was really hoping to see someone get thrown off the job.
"What the fuck? Where the fuck did this happen? Take me there."
We headed over to the trash can, in a corner of the lobby. All three of us stuck our head in.
"Piss," he said.
The super looked at Bob. "What the fuck did he look like?"
"He was wearing an orange hardhat."
"That's it? Alright you go left," he said to me. "I'll go right."
We split up, scouring the floor. He was anxious to make an example and set a tone of 'this shit doesn't fucking happen on my floor.' Me, I was just excited to not be working for ten minutes . We went back and forth the floor , ducking into rooms throughout the lobby. We checked in with the only two potential witnesses, two guys on a ladder by the trash can.
The super went about his interrogation. "Did you see a guy in an orange hard hat? No? Okay. How about you? No? Alright."
"Don't worry," the super said to me. "I got a feeling we'll be able to find a guy in an orange hardhat.
I left, already bored. Two hours later I went back downstairs and ran into the super.
"Did you find him?"
"No. I'll be you anything he switched hard hats."
So yea, watch out CSI New York. DC's taking over.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Love in an Elevator
We recently instituted a new policy, banning eating on any of our guest room floors. With all sorts of finishes, we just figured it made sense not to have someone sitting on a bucket in the middle of a room, holding some sort of stew over our carpet so they wouldn't spill it on their shirt. Because they do spill, and when they do, they just walk out and move to a cleaner carpet. And then two weeks later we find some crusty brown spot with flecks of carrot in that's impossible to clean.
We gave all our subcontractors two weeks notice before the policy went in effect, which it did yesterday. So of course, I'm trouncing about today during break time, when I stumble upon a group of worker, huddled together in a suite on the sixth floor, munching away on whatever it is that they munch on. More stew perhaps.
So, I did what I was supposed to, which is tattle. Construction sites bear a striking resemblance to fourth grade.
I went down to our ground floor office and found my boos.
"Hey, I saw a group of guys eating on my floor, can you please call their foreman."
He did, and, since this particular foreman's stubborn and grouchy, got into a bit of a shouting match. We were right, because it's sort of our job site and were allowed to make rules like that.
Ten minutes later I got into the elevator to go up to the tenth floor. Before the doors shut, in walked the foreman my boss was just talking to.
"What floor are you going to?" I asked.
"[Screw] you." (He actually said fuck, but we want kids to be able to read this)
"This can't take you there."
"[Screw] you."
"Do you want me to press a button?"
"[Screw] you and your [Screwing] company." (plus "screwing company" just sound funnier).
He then raised his middle finger and held it six inches from my face for the whole ride. When we hit ten, I got off. He stayed in. He wasn't going ten, no, he just wanted to flick me off for as long as he possibly could.
Just over where he could sit for lunch. Fourth grade indeed.
We gave all our subcontractors two weeks notice before the policy went in effect, which it did yesterday. So of course, I'm trouncing about today during break time, when I stumble upon a group of worker, huddled together in a suite on the sixth floor, munching away on whatever it is that they munch on. More stew perhaps.
So, I did what I was supposed to, which is tattle. Construction sites bear a striking resemblance to fourth grade.
I went down to our ground floor office and found my boos.
"Hey, I saw a group of guys eating on my floor, can you please call their foreman."
He did, and, since this particular foreman's stubborn and grouchy, got into a bit of a shouting match. We were right, because it's sort of our job site and were allowed to make rules like that.
Ten minutes later I got into the elevator to go up to the tenth floor. Before the doors shut, in walked the foreman my boss was just talking to.
"What floor are you going to?" I asked.
"[Screw] you." (He actually said fuck, but we want kids to be able to read this)
"This can't take you there."
"[Screw] you."
"Do you want me to press a button?"
"[Screw] you and your [Screwing] company." (plus "screwing company" just sound funnier).
He then raised his middle finger and held it six inches from my face for the whole ride. When we hit ten, I got off. He stayed in. He wasn't going ten, no, he just wanted to flick me off for as long as he possibly could.
Just over where he could sit for lunch. Fourth grade indeed.
Monday, March 16, 2009
You're only late if you're not on time
I have a punctuality problem. Not anything in a real sense, it's just that in this business, if you're five minutes early, you're still ten minutes late.
The head of this site, a tall and gruff and very freaking intimidating man, tends to arrive for work around 4:30 a.m. Come in after that, and you've essentially shamed God.
The work day for most personnel begins at six in the morning. I, however, don't come in until eight because I supervise a crew that starts work then. I catch flak from everyone when I stroll in then because I wasn't there early. I don't try bother arguing that I work later then everyone else because construction workers don't understand the concept of same.
No matter what my start time is though, I can't ever seem to make it there on time.
Now I don't see anything wrong with behind 15 minutes late when you're working an 11 hour day, but apparently that's not the case. Luckily for me, there's a back door to the site that leads straight to an elevator, so I can usually get in without anyone seeing and thus knowing that heaven forbid, the site was unsupervised today for the first 13 minutes. Unsupervised save for the 20 other guys our company has out here.
My system usually works pretty well, except for well you know, when it doesn't. Running 20 minutes behind today, I made it through the doors and to the elevator unseen. But of course, who do you think was standing in the elevator lobby when the doors opened on the sixth floor. No one but the head of the project himself, fours hours deep into his workday.
And unfortunately, it's pretty hard to convince him you've been here for the past 20 minutes when you're still in your jacket, have a cup of coffee in your hand and your laptop bag still slung over your shoulder.
It might be a long week.
The head of this site, a tall and gruff and very freaking intimidating man, tends to arrive for work around 4:30 a.m. Come in after that, and you've essentially shamed God.
The work day for most personnel begins at six in the morning. I, however, don't come in until eight because I supervise a crew that starts work then. I catch flak from everyone when I stroll in then because I wasn't there early. I don't try bother arguing that I work later then everyone else because construction workers don't understand the concept of same.
No matter what my start time is though, I can't ever seem to make it there on time.
Now I don't see anything wrong with behind 15 minutes late when you're working an 11 hour day, but apparently that's not the case. Luckily for me, there's a back door to the site that leads straight to an elevator, so I can usually get in without anyone seeing and thus knowing that heaven forbid, the site was unsupervised today for the first 13 minutes. Unsupervised save for the 20 other guys our company has out here.
My system usually works pretty well, except for well you know, when it doesn't. Running 20 minutes behind today, I made it through the doors and to the elevator unseen. But of course, who do you think was standing in the elevator lobby when the doors opened on the sixth floor. No one but the head of the project himself, fours hours deep into his workday.
And unfortunately, it's pretty hard to convince him you've been here for the past 20 minutes when you're still in your jacket, have a cup of coffee in your hand and your laptop bag still slung over your shoulder.
It might be a long week.
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