2004-07-18
Last week, I walked into a muggy South County flooring warehouse with Rob and saw lots of rolled up carpet, a makeshift basketball court, and possibility. It was to be the future sight of the set of my senior overview film.That very morning, I did something that I do about as frequently as Lou Bega has a top ten hit: manual labor. Rob's dad, a Habitat For Humanity construction chief who with his hiked-up shorts and spectacles tightly anchored behind his ears appeared to be the type of guy who really enjoys his puns and knock-knock jokes, had made the trip from Cincinatti to help us construct an 18X22 bedroom from scratch. That very morning, I worked up a sweat instead of just sitting around and letting one break on it's own, as is so apt to happen on days when it's a cool ninety in the shade.
THE FOLLOWING IS AN EXCERPT FROM "THE PEN IS MIGHTY AS THE SKOAL," AN ESSAY OF MINE ON SCOUTING THAT RIPPLE WAS SUPPOSED TO PUBLISH, BUT CHUMPED OUT ON. DESPITE BOY SCOUT CAMP BEING THE SUBJECT MATTER, IT ARTICULATES MY VIEWS ON HEAVY MANUAL LABOR PRETTY APPROPRIATELY.
The day's toils were demanding, but being presented with the opportunity to actually break a labor-induced sweat was overly thrilling to me. Me, of the word processor and copies of National Review and Entertainment Weekly, leaping into action no sooner than an ominous task presents itself, looming tempestuously on the horizon. Something... needs to be lifted... and put... somewhere else. Leave everything to me! [trumpets, fireworks, an eagle screams]
I was experiencing something that I had seldom dealt with in the last few years: MALE BONDING, the hallowed stereotype. At its most gloriously formulaic, it includes the following elements:
* Sweat
* Tools
* Objectifying women
* A lot of looking around and saying "Yep" or any variation thereof
* Physical contact (Generally high-fives and pats on the back. BUT WAIT: Even the most homoerotic of physical contact can be rendered sexually neutral if the environment allows it. A primo example would be football players exchanging congratulatory slaps on the behind. Such behavior would also be appropriate for a bunch of dudes carrying some heavy stuff, setting big stuff up, moving stuff, and other stuff like that.)
* Flatulence (and thanks to Joy's chili for lunch, I was head of that class for the day. As the temperature rose, I could have put myself in the running for All-State.)
It is essential to note that comradery among men is a phenomenon that spreads like a post-bearhug poison parsnip rash, and in the camp environment it fell upon me like the plague. An intimate and immediate bond rising among all parties being the only logical result, I felt as though I was returning to long lost childhood friendships instead of building new ones. I was just "one uh thuh guys," I thought as I unambiguously adjusted myself.
I doubt that anyone shared my philosophy, of course. After all, I was in a unique position. Given that the majority of my college friends are people that are still working on that "lefty-loosey righty-tighty" thing, part of my badass, testosterone-driven oats were rising up inside of me, voicing their urge to be sown. But the roots of most everyone else on camp staff had been long sown. A real hard day’s work was routine and mundane to these old pros. Greenhorns they were not, so I was a little out of my element.
Nevertheless, I remained hopeful. In the back of my mind, I envisioned the rapt excitement and companionship of the summer's coming weeks - scenes that replayed over and over in my head.
This essay, by the way, was inspired by my friendship with Ranger Neal Jefferson, my rugged polar opposite who became my unlikely buddy over cigarettes and gripes. A few weeks ago upon my return to Scout camp, Ranger Neal - whom I hadn't seen in two years - greeted me by approaching my car, reaching through the window, snapping my head back, holding a saws-all blade to my throat and whispering to me, "You still owe me your virginity." It's a little joke we have.
As I still don't work with my hands much, I haven't gotten much more skilled since my camp days. But I still relished the chance to roll up my sleeves and play with power tools. And after a few mishaps with my nail-driving, I was in the full swing of things.
And the pendulum rocks still. The set is all but finished. It's painted, nearly carpeted, doors are in, window frame is finished. All we have to do is furnish and decorate it. The funny thing is, when it's finished it'll be nice than any room in my apartment. Except for the carpet, which required several shampoo treatments after finding a dead bird rolled up inside of it. Tomorrow, we take a day off. Tuesday, we hit the ground running, finetuning our set until we shoot 82 shots in two days this weekend.
It's daunting, but as long as I have my FIERCE MELON GATORADE, everything will be as it should.
-Andy