The Man Who Seals Stone
Originally uploaded by tryptaminebutterfly
It was hot today. A few little errands, some lunch, and an unsuccessful nap (apparently can’t sleep in public in a dress because of ridiculous paranoia) into my midday hours, I had nothing left to do, and indoor comfort was a long sweaty walk away. But the shade was just shady enough, and I’d thought to bring my digital camera.
I sat on a bench but couldn’t find anything worth the pixels.
A man sat on the bench next to mine. Visibly sweaty and in clothes that wouldn’t mind it, he was obviously one of the workers occupied with the building directly in front of me. They are a common enough site on my campus, and I could never begrudge a working man a momentary break, so I paid little mind.
Then he spoke to me. Something about menial labor vs. college education.
I will admit here that my first thought was to send in return one of those tight smiles that admits nothing but self-insulation. A swift survey of my surroundings suggested safety in multiple passing students, and I felt steeled enough at that moment to face whatever he might come up with.
So I listened, and spoke, and smiled.
His boss’s son, he told me with a grin, had been convinced to continue college after one day doing this job. I thought it may be more worthwhile than college.
He talked about the work he was doing. This sweat-laden, calloused-hand man spoke eloquently of sealing the grout between the bricks, of the damage that water coupled with weather can do. My words fail to even capture the poetry that he made of his explanation.
I thought about the men I knew who worked with their hands, about an uncle who built scaffolding at an oil refinery for a living and another uncle who farmed. About my grandfather, the bricklayer. Each extraordinary men in their own way, men who knew the materials they molded with their heavy hands as gently and expertly as an artist molds clay. I thought about the knowledge these men acquired through their work, and the sad fact that neither their work nor its attendant knowledge are much valued.
As soon as I saw that he only wished to talk, I felt honored that he had chosen me.
He didn’t know, couldn’t know, that. There were so many things that I wanted to say to him, so much significance that I felt in that moment. But in that moment, we were just two people from different worlds chatting across park bench arms, and my mouth felt filled with all of the things that I could never say even if I could think of the words to say them.
Instead, I asked gently how much he made. It was a relief to hear him say he was union. He chattered on about his $14 an hour, it’s difference from $10 an hour.
“Maybe I shouldn’t be going to school. I should do what you do,” I smiled.
Oh no, he assured me, it’s hard and monotonous work. “Be management,” he said. “Be an accountant. Be an inspector.” He told little stories about the grime encountered and the effort required, without seeming to realize my envy of the simpleness of it.
It occurred to me to ask if I could take a picture of him, but I never asked. He never suggested.
Instead, I took pictures of trees with their own roots wrapped around their base.
