Rain Delay: II of IV

421 is a van but is not known as a van. No one refers to their vehicles as vans. To the crew, they are referenced specifically by their tax-exempt three digit license plates and generally by the misnomer 'truck'. Only the carpenters and lone roofer drive actual trucks with beds, tailgates, and the hoods that jut out instead of slump down. The rest drive what looked like the sort of vans parents tell their children to steer clear of at all costs. Long, white, and predominately windowless rides in desperate need of washing. David is amused by this linguistic convention and how the emasculating yet singularly denoting term ‘van’ was replaced by the name of the macho ride par excellence. John hasn't given it much thought.

The cab of the work van is remarkably filthy. Bloated cigarette fragments float in the inky backwash of 20 oz. soda bottles. Oily rags are shoved inside Taco Bell cups, which are themselves shoved inside the glove box or between the seats. The navy interior is smeared with the blacks and browns of grease and mud. Innumerable yellow wrappers from prior meals are jammed into driver’s door compartments. Bolts and copper scraps are strewn about the floor. A tangle of wires, frayed and exposed at the ends, is jammed into the cup holder. Abandoned drill bits are scattered over the floor mats. A screw had been driven into a handle on the dashboard in front of the passenger seat for no discernible reason. The head is cobalt blue and has a triangle stamped in the center. David flicks it with his index finger. It remains fixed. John looks up.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Mmhm.”

“We’re supposed to be working.”

“Oh yeah,” John deadpans. “Go back to sleep.” He returns to his reading.

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

John grunts skeptically, his eyes fixed page 16.

The environment is stale. In its approximate year of service, 421 has smoked hundreds of cigarettes along with John. The cabin air recirculates through the tar-clogged air filter and returns cold but hazy. It occurs to David he's being shrouded in traditional second- and the much rarer third-hand smoke. He can see six burn holes in the vinyl seat covers from his position.  

A Grainger catalogue is splayed open with edges curled and puckered from moisture. A Honeywell binder functions as a footrest in the passenger compartment and is stamped with unknown boot prints. John wears white tennis shoes. He pronates badly. The foam along the exterior of his soles is wrinkled and worn. A thermometer rests at the bottom of an A/C vent and reads 66°.

A small, generic action figure straddles the rear view mirror. John found it in a parking lot. He doesn't know what exactly the figure says about him, but he likes it all the same. He thinks it’s ironic, a grown man with a child’s toy. The plastic is homogenously teal. He’s equipped with goggles and scuba gear, flippers on his feet, and a dagger in his mouth. It’s odd, David observes, how the figure was posed. The commando stands erect with his arms out at the sides. It appears he’s primed to hug someone and put the knife between his teeth to disarm the situation.

***

Monday through Friday mornings, John clipped the keys to a late model Chevy Express onto the hammer loop of his overalls. His ploy for getting those keys was honestly one of his finest achievements in the past fifteen years, right up there with his Certificate of Proficiency in Heating, Ventilation, and Air Conditioning from EJC. In the summer of 2010, the District was all out promoting Proposition N. Supportive radio spots for the bond issue ended by asking Aren’t your kids worth it? The maintenance crew planted hundreds of white signs along their schools’ driveways imploring Vote Y for Prop N. John, who kept the superintendent’s secretary as comfortable as possible, heh, heh, heh, found out some of the bond’s funds would be allocated for replacement of maintenance vehicles. That tidbit got John thinking. Well aware he didn’t have as much time in as the gray beards to land one by seniority, he had this idea to be the neediest. With his unsuspecting supervisor’s blessing, John swapped his 1990 Chevy Astro for Jim Hoffbauer’s undersized 1986 E-150. John claimed the 150’s shorter frame more suited his needs. (John explained how Kimble Woods Elementary, one of his assigned schools, had a narrow service road that could be a real pain in the rear backing out of. Remember the bumper he finally had to get replaced after not a few fender-benders?) Jim, knowing a good deal when he saw one, took the bait.

At the time, the others techs snickered on Nextells about how John had been hosed. But John had the last laugh. He drove the E-150 into the ground and had himself a good time doing it. He floored the six banger at all green lights and slammed on the breaks at all reds. He hopped curbs, off-roaded it constantly, and let the sucker idle away a quarter tank or more. Carbon deposits ruin unleaded engines, you know. Bottles of chemicals were left to freely tumble and spill their corrosive contents up and down the bed. But ruining the van wasn’t going to get him a new truck if the old timers had their way. So, for the finishing touch, John stuffed the break room Suggestion Box with anonymous proposals that condition of vehicle rather than employee's years of service would be the best use of District resources. The gamble paid off. Terry Oerschlager, the famously insecure Maintenance Manager and veteran of the laziness game, raided the usually empty Suggestion Box for initiatives he could pitch as his own. He sold the conservative Board on the condition argument, who were thrilled at the prospect of passively slighting the union that held them over a barrel every biannual contract negotiation. When the time came, John's van was deemed the one most deserving of replacement. And so, the keys.

John’s truck was all his own, a thing fully at his disposal, a mobile office. He did with it what he pleased. Nobody could nag him to clean the place up because what was it to them? He took care of his business so mind your own. All in all, it was a good set-up. Thanks to the boys over at the bus garage and a few pounds of R134a, the A/C could get so cold beads of sweat would freeze right on your forehead. He’s not kidding. The truck’s passenger seat was a shelf for his reading material and a coat tree for a yellow poncho he had used once in 1997. The center console was stuffed with single-serving bags of chips—name brand kinds—the nice gals at Southwest Middle’s kitchen let him take on the sly whenever he wanted. Technically, tobacco use was not permitted anywhere on school grounds. Ever since ’02, the same went for trucks, too. But no matter. He’d light up anyway and blow smoke on the No Smoking decal above the visor. No one squealed. If they did, John would take his sweet time fixing any unit of theirs.

For all as long as he could, though, John went without fixing anything. He took it easy. He paced himself what with his heart and all; his doctor told him to. John knew better than anyone he wasn’t in the best shape. Hefting his toolbox around more than twenty feet was enough to set his lungs on fire. John could feel his heart thumping to keep up. His knees ached so badly all the time. The thing about rain is true. He called this morning’s storm on the way to work, no weatherman necessary. Stairs were bad but the ladder was god-awful. He’d have to tie a rope to his toolbox and hoist it up separately because his legs couldn’t handle it all. And the ladder caused him more than just pain in his knees. Climbing it was frankly a sad production. The ladder creaked as he ascended and flexed like a diving board. Its bright yellow color was a stigma. Because of his weight, he required a Plexiglas ladder. The standard aluminum ladders were only rated to 250 pounds. Although it was another one of his victories convincing the stingy purchasing officer to spring for the equipment, John was teased to no end about his Special Needs. He laughed these (and the rest of the) comments off, even beat some to the punch with jabs at his own expense, but they never stopped. He was always going to be fat and the guys were always going to want to point it out. David had tried to console John once on the topic of insults, saying it was a sign of lowness to need to bring others down lower. But John didn’t think David knew what he was talking about.

Getting up on the roof was only the start of the problems. It goes without saying John was a major sweater. Little streams of accumulated perspiration messed with his grip or stung his eyes. The air was so dense with humidity he wheezed like an asthmatic in a marathon just standing in it. Even sitting to swap a part presented problems. The rest of the crew snagged one of those plastic yellow or orange chairs from classrooms. But, as with the ladders, John's girth ruled-out ordinary equipment. John sat on empty five gallon paint buckets whose weight-bearing properties were more consistent. The site of the portly man, his undercarriage cupped by the bucket’s mouth like an enormous hard-boiled egg, earned him the handle HD (Humpty Dumpty). So, yeah, John avoided wherever possible exposing himself to the cruel roof top elements that conspired to embarrass and exhaust him. He preferred tinkering with an indoor ventilator or passing the day in the truck, idling on the District’s gas, listening to advertisements for Oreck vacuum cleaners or Rush.

To deflect suspicion, John was always welcome to take shelter in a boiler room. Entering these rooms was like stepping through the looking glass. On the other side of doors marked STAFF ONLY were metal stairs, concrete floors, open drains, exposed plumbing, the hum of transformers, and the intermittent knocking of air compressors. Incandescent bulbs sprouted from lines of conduit. At Southeast Junior High, an entire wall was covered with diodes and switches, toggles and breakers, with indecipherable red labels with raised white text like a set straight out of Dr. No. The massive electrical board was a relic circa 1959, thrice replaced, was deemed too costly to extract. And so it stood, a monument to obsolescence.

These subterranean hideouts promised all the comforts of a storm shelter. For starters, the manmade caves were in the 60s year round. No one else ever went down there, not even the janitors. John could take a worry-free catnap or read by lamp light in padded chairs one could find in most storage closets. These chairs could discretely be drug down the steps in the summer when schools are ghost towns. His favorite boiler room had a steel door which opened upon knee-high grass and a damed-up creek bed. John propped the door open with a free weight and smoked without a care in the world. Nearby the doorway, he put a trashcan he borrowed from a classroom. One of his professional goals was to fill that trashcan entirely with discarded cigarettes. In less than ten years, he was more than halfway there. Best of all, boiler rooms sported six-inch thick cement walls that were impervious to GPS or cell phone signals. Whenever Glen would call him try and bust John’s balls, Glen’s display read User Not Available. From John’s perspective this was a much better message when compared to User Not Found. User Not Found shows whenever the Nextel you’re trying to buzz is turned off or has run out of juice. Not having your phone on is a big No No and there’ll be a Discipline Report with your name on it. Let’s not forget, too, John had legitimate reasons to be in boiler rooms. They housed some of the most expensive, crucial equipment under his stewardship. A properly sized air handler could service half a high school. So, they needed special care and attention.

To keep the powers that be off his back, John sabotaged the machines in tiny, untrackable ways. He broke cheap parts that were easily replaced in order to be assigned more often to his hideouts. Soapy water will make bearings squeak so loud a teacher will complain. A nail file across contacts blew all the 13A fuses a guy could want. Small, lateral incisions with a pocket knife sped up the wear and tear of fan belts. Once they snapped, getting the motor back up and running took ten minutes tops but it would have to be done ASAP. After applying oil, popping a new fuse in, or wrapping a new belt around its hub, John would log-in to the Facilities’ network, pad the numbers a bit, and complete a Work Order. Then, the long-hanging fruit plucked, he could retire to his private club.

He knows what you’re thinking and you’re way off. The tricks were all cheap and harmless. Anyway, he was just accelerating the inevitable. The District buys crappy parts from China so no one asks any questions when they crap out ahead of schedule. They don’t even keep track of tiny fuses. You can scoop them out like peanuts at Texas Roadhouse. Nobody’s going to notice.

When all else failed and John was forced to take to the roof, he could always take shelter inside his mind. He’d soak a rag in cold water, put it under his hat, and make the ascent. He’d set up his bucket in front of the culprit, hunch over, and stare for a spell. John was a gifted starer. He could empty his mind looking into the gritty tableau of granular shingles between his feet. Sometimes to relax, he'd pull the access panel off a rooftop unit and gaze into the mess of wires and circuit boards. He liked this the most since it looked like he was working should somebody come creeping up on him. Ten or fifteen minutes of head-clearing and John was ready to fix whatever.

***

David worked full-time during college breaks. His neighbor, Mr.-or-Principal Holt depending on the venue, informed him of temporary positions the District created for the tax incentives. David, needing the money and desirous of a modicum of financial independence, stopped by the Administration building. The half sheet of paper a congenial woman in HR provided him seemed better suited for entry in a raffle than application for a job. Within a week, he passed the five minute phone interview with flying colors. His tolerance of heights and working knowledge of his name, address, and telephone number sufficed as qualifications. He'd have to wear steel-toed boots, not sneakers. We start at 7:00 a.m. sharp was what Lead HVAC Technician Glen Weintraub had said to David instead of you're hired.

Being an HVAC assistant was David’s initiation into the proverbial and much-bemoaned ‘real world’. The reality of that world was touted to be its relentlessness, its austerity, its oppressive responsibilities and decision making—its complete lack of fun. Adults, drawing from their personal recollections or televised/movie-projected depictions of frats, keggers, and class-cutting, presumed all college students were spared from the stresses of the daily grind. Kids only had a few structured blocks of time a day for nine months out of the year, after all. But for students like David, the ability to literally punch out, to be off the clock and therefore 100% free of obligation, was a consolation. Unlike his education, in which David perpetually felt the pressing duties of study, papers, or tests, work had defined borders. When wearing a certain uniform on certain property, you were obliged. At any and all other times and places, you were not.

More than the rigor of the real world, what distinguished David’s blue collar life most was its unglamorousness. The world of building maintenance was bleak. Ironically, climate control was not standard in the workplace. All but two of the work vans were cooled by harnessed outdoor air and noisy ceiling-mounted fans, which only converted the cab from conventional to convection oven. The indoors was no better. The custodians toiled without the dehumidification of air conditioning. Cooling largely vacant buildings was not in keeping with the District's green policies and was a needless expense. So, the carpet-cleaned rooms and hallways became stagnant. Bands of fog rose with the heat of the day. Add to the workday mix a cornucopia of dirt. Although he didn’t work with soot, David always ended the day looking like a chimney sweep. Rust, grease, pollen, dead skin, and dust coated the tools and equipment David came in contact with. Air filters were the worst. Plumes of molding detritus were inevitably disturbed in the replacement process and hung in the air, suspended at nose level. (David’s discarded Kleenexes were ashy.) Then, there were the requisite minor injuries. The techs didn’t trifle with Band-Aids. Knuckles were banged, fingertips were sliced, forearms were burned—all in a day’s work. The condenser coils David cleaned and flushed with degreaser for most of the summer were as thin as knives. Brushing up against them the wrong way was like brushing against a razor lengthwise, but instead of a Mach 3, it was more like a Mach 1,000. These new stripes were never deep but were perfect crevices for the ambient dirt to settle.

The work had its redeeming qualities, though. Labor was physical yin to David’s mental yang. His forearms grew to be taut, defined, and because of intentionally ambidextrous screwing/unscrewing, equally proportioned. He had a killer farmer’s tan. The straightforwardness of his job was a perk as well. Simple principles regulated the workplace. Left-loosey, righty tighty. Water runs down hill. Every other Friday is payday. Big red switch down = off; big red switch up = on.  This was a far cry from the murky waters of the academy with its rule by argumentation, rhetoric, cajoling, and the guise of expertise. Although the surroundings were primarily artificial, David’s job allowed him to reconnecting with nature-surrogates, with objects impervious to persuasion.

David had never given occupational roles much thought. In high school, the viable distinction was between employment and unemployment. One was either in or out. His father worked; his mother didn’t. His friend Pete didn’t work; as of this summer, David did. From within the sphere of employment, David learned hierarchies intricately separated employees. The stratification within the District’s fiefdom was formed not simply by wages, but rather by an abstruse prestige calculation (with location, cleanliness, and required skills multiplied by a coefficient of wages). David's informal study found the pecking order to be as follows: the plumbers were higher than custodians, who had to clean the plumbers' messes; HVAC techs were higher than the plumbers, who spent most their days “chasing turds,” and electricians ruled the blue collar roost (much to HVAC's chagrin, who insisted to anyone who would listen that HVAC required proficiency in plumbing, electricity, and refrigeration). A contentious issue was the position of painters vis a vis groundskeepers. Groundskeepers operated the loudest, most masculine of machines but were always exposed to the elements and reeked of two-stroke fuel. Dried grass clippings stuck to their jeans and stained their Wolverines. Painters, on the other hand, mostly worked indoors and, thus, had the prestige. However, they had little in the way of appreciable skills. And, toiling as they did with varnish, primers, mineral spirits, and latex, painters were always exposed to noxious fumes whose murderous tendencies toward brain cells were well-documented. (Painters were by far the most giggly bunch of grown men with whom David ever came in contact. They were permanently stoned, either from the fumes, history of drug use, or both. David imagined shaking a painter's head would produce the same sound as shaking a spray paint can.) Regardless, both groups were clearly above custodians who, again, could be made to vacuum or mop up the waste of either. Any white-collar worker, even the lowly secretary, was higher than the electricians. A secretary could ask a tech to move a heavy box for her and expect it to be moved. A tech could not ask a secretary to make him copies or place a call. The master-and-slave dialectic was alive somewhere in here. To have your name sewn onto your chest was ignoble, but to have initials on your cuffs was distinguished.

The pecking order was discernable by the way a representative of one class would look (or not look) at another, whether one could rely upon greetings being reciprocated by another, who was disparaged in the exclusive company of one class, and especially what was said of a class when one of its members left a space occupied by two or more of a different class. To make the most fundamental division obvious for newcomers, employees were color-coded. Maintenance employees wore light blue tops and navy pants (except for the painters, who wore spattered white shirts and white jeans). Everyone else wore, obviously, whatever they wanted. At first, David was pleased to be enfolded into the group with his own District-issued clothing. A sense of belonging, of Being A Man came with lacing up boots and donning pit-stained Ts. But he soon grew to be ambivalent about the branding. David paid no mind to the way people viewed him until it became clear they viewed him unfavorably. It grieved him to be categorized beneath his real status as a budding scholar, a PhD to be. He was only temporary, after all. David was sure to inject his student status and, where possible, GPA into conversation with the teachers who simultaneously hushed when he entered the staff lounge.

For the men who lived the role rather than played it, these slights were added to the lengthy list of grievances against life. In the early part of his first summer, David quickly discovered nearly all of his co-workers were disgruntled. Daily, David rode around with a different technician under the auspices of offering assistance. As David knew nothing about the principles of refrigeration and couldn’t tote a motor, assistance consisted of handing requested tools and lending an ear. Without pleasantries or much in the way of introductions, the techs would gripe about their wives’ spending habits, how much of a flaming asshole Glen was and how he (Glen) had it out for him (the tech) for no reason whatsoever, the shortcomings of their children, or their sacrificed dreams of wild-oats-sewing. Most men had theories on where their lives took a bad turn and most these turns involved matrimony. Currently, they were tethered to women they didn’t even like and who didn’t like them but who the men nevertheless prayed to God in Heaven the women'd never have the gumption to call a lawyer because everybody knows it’s the attorneys who win in divorces. In interim between nuptials and off-the-books separation, the techs found happiness making small talk with the cute elementary school teachers or teacher’s assistants who never could decline offered attention.