They Call Me the Working Man

We are getting our cars washed at work today, so I started thinking about the jobs that I would never want to do. Washing cars, moving other people’s shit and basically anything involving manual labor is totally out for me. I would be the worst Mexican of all time! Day laborer? Nope. How about a day loiterer? You can pay me to just hang out. Ever since I was knee high to a grasshopper, I would always turn manual labor into a game. If this were Scrubs or Family Guy this is where they would insert a cutaway of me working in a field with other Mexicans. “Hey essay, you seen Rico? We really need to get these apples harvested.” “I think I saw him in that tree over there throwing rotten grannysmiths at the birds on the fence”. El trabajador peor nunca!

In my youth I had a grand total of two manual labor jobs. The first was working construction when I was in high school. We stayed at this pay-by-the-hour motel, four guys to a room, and we got up at 6:00 AM to work in and on an over-sized storage shed all day. I was so tired by the third day of the week that I almost put a nail through my foot. I was on the roof putting up shingles, when I fell into a sleep-deprived trance and set the nail gun on my foot and pulled the trigger. Luckily, I pulled back at the last second preventing a full puncture.

If only the Romans had nail guns back in the day, they could have made the crucifixion business much more efficient. (Insert cutaway to an ancient Roman courtroom) “You are hereby convicted of adultery and sentenced to crucifixion. Ch-chunk, ch-chunk, ch-chunk, ch-chunk…Next!”

Later that week, the boss caught me grabbing a quick nap in a big pile of insulation. Who knew that sleeping on the job was frowned upon in the construction industry? Finally, on the last day, I got food poisoning, because like an idiot I ordered shrimp scampi from a shitty dive bar in bum fuck Pennsylvania. It was definitely, one of the longer weeks of my life.

Lessons learned:
1. Pay by the hour motels are sticky
2. Nail guns fucking hurt
3. If the bar you are eating in considers Coors Light an imported beer, you might want to steer clear of the seafood.

My second manual labor job was during the summer after my freshman year of college. I worked from 7:00 pm – 2:30 am in a bulk mail facility loading huge trucks with shit like catalogs, and QVC merchandise. Keep in mind this was the height of the BMG and Columbia House CD clubs, so I spent a good six of my eight hours throwing boxes of CD’s around. It was hot, sweaty and a good workout, but it was also monotonous and mind-numbingly boring. When it’s 2:00 am on a Tuesday and you are up to your ankles in George Michael and Janet Jackson CD’s, you get a little attitude going.

The old-timers were all union, so they sat around and read the paper, while the young turks, like myself, did all of the work. (Insert cutaway to a bulk mail warehouse) “Hey young turk get this truck to L.A. filled by midnight, and pass me the sports page. Man, that Barry bonds would be great for the Pirates if he could just hit a home run once in awhile.”

The only job I liked at the facility was working in the pit. It was a round area surrounded by conveyer belts and you would sit there and sort packages by zip code, 46219 – Indiana, 25568 – West Virginia, 80129 – Colorado. I was a mail sorting maniac on the floor, and I was sorting like I’ve never sorted before.

Lessons learned:
1. Working nights sucks balls
2. CD’s make good Frisbees
3. Knowing the zip code for Fargo, ND does not impress the ladies

There you have my impressive manual labor resume. If I ever get my dream job of scraping road kill off the highway I’ll add it to this list. For now I’ll just celebrate being a card carrying member of the Rhythm Nation. It’s Erik, Mr. Crawford if you’re nasty!