On
my first day of work at the University of Oregon I met a myriad of people,
ranging from the VP of Administration, to one of the Governor’s Aides; from the
Director of Budget Operations for the entire University—who writes million dollar
checks all day, every day—to the guy who cuts every single key, for every
single door in the entire University (113 buildings across a 295 acre campus).
But the only guy whose name I remembered at the end of the day was Sam’s.
I
met Sam on day one, and he started giving me shit on day two. Like, first thing
in the morning on day two, 7:25AM. So needless to say, we hit it off right
away. He works over in Campus Stores, where we get our electrical breakers,
thumbtacks, and department uniforms, among other things. He drives a forklift.
The
other day as I was walking past their delivery bay door, he called out to me
about the new shoes I was wearing. He was sitting astride his Hyster just
waiting for another cog in the machine to do their part, so he fired off some
quip in my direction, as is his wont. As it happens, that was the very first
day I’d worn the shoes in question, since they’d just arrived in the mail all
the way from Northamptonshire, England. They're Brogue leather Wingtips that
badly need to be broken in, because they are tight and squeaky when I walk.
They're also a rust color that is hard to describe, as it lies at the
intersection of Classic and Mariachi Band. As a surprise to no one at all, they
are Dr. Martens, which makes them inherently awesome.
I
walked over to Sam’s forklift to give him a solid gander at the awesomeness of
my imported kicks. Then I told him the tale of how my Mom sent me a hundred
bucks in the mail recently, and told me to buy a pair of shoes that made it
look like I belonged in the world of carpets and air conditioning, instead of
sawdust and cursing. When Sam heard I’d been in construction for twenty five years
he gave my khakis and polo the once over and shook his head.
“So
she wanted you to look like you been somewhere,” he said.
I
thought that about summed it up. She knew I’d spent a few hundred dollars
trying to look the part of someone that belonged in this ecosystem, but after
that I’d stepped right back into my ancient Docs, broken and worn by hard miles
of living. Didn’t even bother polishing them.
Then
I propped my foot up on the wheelwell of the Hyster and pulled up my pant cuff
to show that the neon-rust colored Wingtip Docs were also a seven eyelet boot.
He
gave an appreciative whistle and said, “Damn, son. You straight pimpin’ it!”
Of
course, some things are easier to give up than others. This transition from
working man to full-time supervisor has been harder than I thought it would be.
And I don’t mean my duties. I still jump at the chance to do actual work with
the guys when I’m supposed to be job-shadowing them. I still take straight-line
solutions instead of entering the labyrinth of University bureaucracy, even
though my position exists exclusively to lead contractors and clients through
that same Byzantine bureaucracy as if I held Ariadne’s Thread.
Someone
recently used the words “newly-minted work persona” to describe my change in
circumstances, and it stopped me in my tracks. I couldn’t have put it better
myself. It perfectly captures the entire ethos of clothes, diction, and affect
I don in the morning like other people put on their pants. The funny thing is,
I distinctly remember doing the same thing when I entered the world of
construction, all those years ago.
But
after twenty five years of wearing a blue collar and affecting that as my identity,
it’s become clear to me that the surface guise has metastasized all the way to
the bone, as evidenced by the fact that I think Sam is the man, and I can't
even remember the name of the Governor’s Aide. It appears that the thing I was
only ever pretending to be, I have become.
Hopefully
it’s not too late to step out of those ratchet workbooks and into some dope-ass
Wingtips, and straight pimp it to some street-cred in this 'hood. Word, homey.
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