Originally published 101523

1989

I got up before dawn that Monday and went to work.

The next day, “The boss wants to see you.”

This was going to be interesting.

I walked in with a smile.

“The other guys don’t like it.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Seriously? I reluctantly agreed (and fully expected to comply).

The fairgrounds were so peaceful and beautiful at first light.

By the time everyone else rolled in on Wednesday, the irrigation pipe had been laid (again), and another section of the grounds was being watered while I attended to other duties.

At break, I dropped in to explain.

Before I could speak, the boss shook his head, “Never mind what I said. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

The other guys didn’t like it.

For once, I didn’t care what they thought.

My dad and his buddies helped me find this job. I couldn’t repay their kindness by “fitting in” (doing the job half-assed).

Once I learned the ropes and earned a set of keys, I went all in.

Fun Fact: Time flies when you’re fully engaged.

“Our fair signs suck.”

“Do you know how much new signs would cost?”

Yeah, as a matter of fact, I did.

The boss liked the idea.

I made ’em on site.

With the raise, I was ahead of schedule.

When the clock struck five, I stopped in to tell the boss the next paycheck would tip the scales.

He knew I wanted time to make art, and he’d agreed to let me take six weeks off when I’d saved enough.

Everyone else had stories about the next moment that included the phrase, “You should have seen it!”

I only saw the floor (for what seemed much longer than 15 seconds).

While my boss, um, thunderously expressed surprise, I was under the sturdy table. You know, like we’d been taught in school.

The office was trashed. Outside, jagged cracks marred the exhibition halls.

An industrial heater dangled from the ceiling, pilot light signaling danger.

I ran to the shop for a wrench.

Eventually, we walked over to look at the town.

Smoke rose in scattered columns.

The fairgrounds became a temporary home for displaced families.

Art would have to wait.

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Context: Shortly thereafter, a contractor offered me a job pounding nails (the Loma Prieta Earthquake had damaged thousands of homes). Never did get around to making art. Got hurt, though, and that’s when I decided to head back to college. As a send-off, my dad’s friends gave me a compact pickup they’d bought for $50 and nursed back to life. (That junker lasted five years.)

Featured Image: Another positive-sum game set up for us to play.

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