Straight Pimpin' It

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.

My love affair with the good Doctor began in 1989 when the coolest Bohemian Punk Rock Girl I’d ever met showed up with pair, giant pilgrim buckles and all. I spent a long time envious of their ineffable cachet before I  bought my first pair in 1991, when I’d finally scraped together $120 of disposable income for the first time in my life. In that twenty-five year span I’ve worn out only one pair, but all the way through, so that the soles of my feet touched the pavement. I’m on my second pair, which I’ve worn daily for fifteen years, and they look every bit of every mile they’ve covered.

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!”

At this point I should mention that Sam is black and in his fifties, so he totally pulled that off. I’m white and in my forties, so I laughed uproariously, but attempted no street-cred response. Partly because this is the University, and PC is not just the law, but the religion of the land as well, and cultural appropriation is a capital offense. But mostly because I still say things like “street-cred” along with other dated urban references that clearly mark me as hopelessly uncool. To which I can only say that I have the virtue of being aware of it and the wisdom to not pretend otherwise. I swear, it's purely ironic. I’m a fan of graciously letting go the things of my youth—like superhero T-shirts, swinging hammers and, you know… street-cred—and stepping gently into the Autumn. 

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. 

Although my skill-sets, both professionally and personally, lend themselves to this position, I still feel like I’m only pretending to belong here. Putting on a costume of polos and khakis and feigning polished adulthood. Leading meetings, setting agendas, writing memos, requisitioning this and that, authorizing expenditures, assigning work orders. Like Dianne Fossey amongst the gorillas, I’m attempting to assimilate myself into this ecosystem. Except she kept company with noble beasts while I am walk among the Professionally Politically Correct. Here every syllable is carefully measured, every word weighed, and the audience —including those that might be in earshot— assessed, before anything is carefully doled out in the most geometrically inoffensive way possible. We’re on day twenty-two, and so far no one suspects anything. They appear to have accepted me as one of their own. 

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.

The first time I ever told someone on a construction site  that the 3-4-5 triangle they were using to square up a wall was actually called the Pythagorean Theorem, I instantly discovered that erudition would be met with disdain. So l eschewed my polysyllabic vocabulary in favor of an Everyman patois, scratched myself inappropriately a lot, and said “Da Bears” as much as possible to avoid displaying an intellectual pedigree, lest I be "accidentally" thrown from a roof one fine day. 

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.