Work

Sometimes I look down at my feet and it's a beautiful thing to see; them perched on the slope of an inch and a half wide rafter, thin ankles, footy socks, tanned, everything connected just so, balanced in the air on hardly anything. I was built perfectly for what I do. No real fear, just in the air, to work.

I talk to men, grown men, who speak of their fear of heights, of their inability to carry on in the air and later, on the same day, talk of how tough and kick ass they are. A study in bravado, of bullshit it was.

I've seen these tough guys get woozy at the sight of their own blood. I've seen them have to sit in the shade on a hot day. I've seen them whine about blisters. I've seen them drag their feet around a job sight until ten to quitting where the pace doubles as tools are gathered before going home.

Of course, those days were over one rainy day when I flagged down a car with a couple of los gentes.