Arkansas Boys

Arkansas Boys

The 95 degree humid heat was beating down on the Arkansas-Missouri border. It was mid-day without a cloud in the sky. Arkansas native red rock baked on my sweaty skin as I sat under the only shade on the job-site. I was tired and sore, but wouldn’t dare mention it. I ate my lunch savouring every second of rest. I heard the rough sounding engine of Ben’s old beat-up white chevy and knew my time of peace was coming to an end. He’d returned from his quick trip to the gas station for his essentials: cigarettes and blue flavoured powerade. Ben opened his car door and sat there with the engine turned off. He gave his cigarette a couple of last big puffs, got out, and signaled rest time was over. I’m convinced Ben was part grizzly bear; his 290 pound body was covered in hair, and his hands looked strong enough to crack open a coconut. He was strong and good at his craft. He was a carpenter by trade, but worked construction while Covid disrupted his plans. I had only been working for two-weeks and had an end in sight a month later when school started back up again. Ben was 33 and there was no end in sight, he worked longer hours than the boss, putting up 13-14 hour days regularly. The man drove from job-site to job-site, making steady progress at each site. The first time I met Ben was on my second day of work, and the first thing he did was come over to me and insist on me having one of his powerades. He said I’d die if I didn’t find some shade, as he could see I was overworking myself with not enough water intake. He talked rough though, the first sentence I ever heard him say contained a racial slur. It was very offensive language, but I kept my mouth shut not giving him the reaction he was looking for. At first I reacted with passionate hate towards him wondering how he could say those things, and whenever I would see him I wouldn’t talk or look at him. I was forced to work more with him, as it was often just us on the jobsite working. I soon started to realise however that he was a giving man that lived to make his daughter happy. There was no other reason for anything he did. Money didn’t matter to him, as long as he had enough to provide for his daughter he was content. I saw him give and offer more things than anyone else all summer. He was making minimum wage, working harder and longer than everyone else and always remained positive even in the harshest conditions. One morning he broke his toe after dropping a concrete panel sheet on it, and after a 30 second break of cursing and swearing he kept working and didn’t mention it again all day. He was tough, and understood that when a job is at hand, you finish it at all costs. The man took immense pride in finishing his daily tasks, but would often get lit-up by the boss for not working fast enough. Time was money for the boss, and Ben worked weekends and holidays. Some days the boss would pull up to the job-site and he would be angry for no reason. No “good mornings”, no “goodbyes”; just yelling and cursing. On other days the boss would be happier than a kid on christmas, and would tell everyone to take a break and take time to teach me new things on the site. Consistency and patience had no place in the bossman’s life. Whenever the bossman pulled up in his Ford super-duty truck, everyone knew the next couple hours would most likely be hell. Days that we had to pour concrete were the most stressful and intense times. The SAT seemed like a walk in the park, compared to the stress levels of pouring concrete. The boss was a hothead who couldn’t contain the pressure of the pour. The pour is the most important part of the build because if the foundation didn’t pass inspection everything had to be redone: diggings, footings, rebar, plumbing, etc. It would set us back weeks. After the concrete trucks were gone and the concrete smoothed, the stress dried up with the wet concrete, and everything was back to normal. I learned that this was and has always been their way of life. These boys were raised on the job-site, and for many of them it’s the only thing they’re good at. They live in their job-site bubble with little to no diversity, and they’ve lived in the same small towns their whole lives. I realised it’s harder than you think to know who someone is, and right when you make an assumption your perspective can change.