You Go Crazy For One Dollar

Working in a construction company this summer was what I thought I great job. The pay was really good, rough work, but it was worth for what I got. The experience was nice too, now I can actually fix things around the house, nothing huge but still. Yet, the best part of it all was the workers, men I doubt I will ever forget. It's funny because before a construction site to me was something that ruined a scenery. It's still nothing pretty, it does tend to ruin what could essentially be attractive views, but I know the work that's behind the scenes. Seeing scaffolds set up, like appreciating art, has become a weird fascination for me; setting them up, depending on the size of the job, could take anywhere from a full day to a few days. Walking past the scaffolds, for example, I can't help but see working men setting them up. The company I worked for was made up of mostly central american and Indian workers, all illegal of course. The Indians were a majority, 80 percent I want to say. In my team we were 15 and with the exception of me and another man from Honduras, it was all Indians. Their English was very broken for most, inexistent for others. Communicating at times was frustrating but somehow I managed in the end. All of the men had sneaked into the country. The most shocking example to me was that of Jassi, the capataz of the group, a southern Indian of no more than 30 years old. His trip had cost him some 10,000 dollars and two months of traveling. From India to the Ukraine, then to Morocco, Cuba, Mexico, and eventually the United States. I'm sure the stories of the other men were similar, maybe even much more complicated, but he could speak English well so talking about such topics was not a problem. He had been in the country for ten years, and that was ten years without seeing his family. He still has some ten more years of saving up money. His work day, and work week, were the most shocking to me. He wakes up at 5:00 am every day, gets ready, leaves to pick up all the men spread around Queens, and heads to Long Island to drop off everyone at different construction spots. We usually finished around 4:00 pm, and I got to go home. He had to drive back to Queens, drop off everyone, and then back home. The problem is the traffic: going towards the city at that time is hell. So he didn't get in until at least 7:00, 7:30 sometimes. It all started again at 5:00 in the morning the next day. The work week was from Monday to Saturday, but most Sundays he worked too inspecting certain buildings that had not been properly administered during the week. For the rest of the men it was pretty much the same, except for the driving around and the Sundays. You could see it in their faces very easily, the accumulated tiredness, the destruction their bodies went through everyday, the exponential aging. The most shocking part was the fact that none complained about it, but when talking to me in their broken English, they would mention how lucky they were to have such fortunate jobs. Almost all had families back in India, some had a few children. So working and sending money was something that had to get done no matter what: being sick, having a fever and feeling crappy was certainly not a good excuse to skip work. For me, a 20 year old that at the end of the day got to go home to my family and friends, and had school waiting for him after the summer, it was a destructive job. Sometimes working on the scaffolds or roofs with 90 plus heat grinding the cement from in between bricks sniffing that poisonous dust made me want to kill myself. But they went on, and could go on as long as they were told to. Sometimes they would sing, and it was beautiful listening to them. One would start and slowly the others would pick up, like a chorus. Some would smile and laugh, why I don't know, something about the lyrics I'm sure. But there was one song I did recognize because they would always sing it. I remember we were at a site somewhere in western Nassau, patching up a roof, and some of the other guys were working on the side of the building on a scaffold. During a quick break I leaned over and asked Pamme what the song said. He smiled. "Why do you leave me my love, come back to me...for one dollar you go crazy." I felt this pressure in my throat that burned and pushed. A wife writing to her migrant husband telling him not to worry about money, that all she needs is for him to be there next to her. Those words shook me up inside abruptly. For these men, the "American dream"[?] was surely working at its best.

One Dangerous Bunnyhop

no helmet, no elbow pads...nothing but my etnies, a tee shirt, and jeans.
the damage could be disastrous: a rash, a bruise, broken arm, a leg maybe, who knew.
that's how it always is, you land it and you feel like you can take on the world...
or you wipe out with some painful consequences.
its a fact you have to keep in mind; you have to be willing to pay the price.
i didn't care, this parking lot was an arena, and this moment my chance to shine
in this street performance. it was hot, mid july, and i was sweating...a lot.
my friends were standing by as i analyzed the trick:
a manual for a few seconds, bunny hop a foot and half ledge, and drop for about four feet.
nothing complicated, or maybe it was, i don't know honestly.
but that summer was my first time i had begun again in a long time,
so unfortunately my confidence was not at its best.
i rode around for little bit in circles, getting ready, watching in fear what looked
like a gigantic drop: if it had been grass waiting for me down there, it wouldn't have been so bad. but asphalt is another story. whatever. what happens, happens (i think?).
anyways, i lined up. i was really hot, the breeze always made me feel better though,
probably one of the best, and most subtle, parts of riding. i lifted my front wheel: manuals
are much more complicated than they seem; much more difficult than a wheely for sure.
nothing but balance. i kept it up for some five seconds, six maybe. i had to start setting up
for the bunnyhop: a good foot and a half jump. even kissing minimally the ledge
could mean a nasty four foot fall on my side or back (and maybe even the bike on top of me).
i bent my knees, sprung the wheel, shifted my weight forward and up went the bike.
the feeling in my stomach is undescribable; i don't know if it was bliss, maybe
an ultimate feeling of happiness multiplied various times. at the same time sick.
weird to comprehend. anyways, down i went, leveling the bike as i dropped.
(it was actually pretty smooth in the air) wheels touched down simultanously,
a very important part of landing correctly, and....

ouch...denied!

Somewhere Along the Front, 1915(?)

My beautiful and dear Bridget,

I am writing to you from the front because it is unlikely we will be relieved any time soon. We have been in the trenches for almost two weeks now, and the reserves have not arrived yet. The captain says our lines have been cut and we will not see reinforcements for some time. It honestly would not be so bad if at least we had some food; the only thing we had was bread and just about all it has been ruined by the constant rain. A couple of days ago it was somewhat edible, but now we just give it to the rats. The mud is almost knee deep in some parts, most of our casualties lately have been from trench foot and fevers, I don't think anyone has been shot in a while. The truth is the Germans are as bad, if not worst than us, or at least that's what the reports say. But to be honest, being any worst would mean there is no one waiting on the other side: out of the 180 men in the company we came in with, some 50 have been killed and there are at least 80 wounded, so I have a feeling they're lying to us yet again. Fifty of us are holding this part of the line, and we are stretched so thin that there is one of us every ten meters or so. The problem is that since we are so few, we all have to watch the line constantly so sleep has been scarce, a few hours here and there. Not that sleeping would be possible with the constant shelling. Their guns have been going off every minute since before we moved in to the front. A bunch of the men have gone completely insane; yesterday, one of the boys snapped, tried to leave the line but was picked off by a sniper before he could even take his fifth step. That's how it is here, a constant psychological fight. I haven't fired a round since the last time I was here two months ago, and I haven't been shot at either. It's your head you have to watch out for, you either keep yourself under control or suffer the consequences of not knowing what you are going to do, like that boy who, without realizing it, got up, ran off the line and got shot in the back of the head trying to leave this God forsaken ditch. I'm starting to wonder if I have it in me to keep myself going. Here I have hit rock bottom, it does not get any worst than it already is. The only reason I am still going is you, my love. Whenever I close my eyes, your face flashes in my memory, and I can not but help remembering those times we made love in the country side, under the shade of the trees, while the sun shun in the background; the thrill and butterflies I felt afterward when I rested my head on your chest as I listened to your heart beat. Or simply holding and stroking your hand while walking around town. All these simple aspects of our love which I never took for granted and now appreciate even more so than before. My dear bridget, I am writing to you because all these things are making me hold on to life, because I refuse to give in this fight to stay alive and perhaps see your face once again. I promise you that I will do nothing foolish to demonstrate bravery in a place where bravery is rewarded with death; I have seen too many lives been wasted for a cause I have yet still to understand. Our great nation has slaughtered all these young men, whether they are lying lifeless on the battlefield or still breathing in the trenches, because our innocence has been forever lost. It is not normal for anyone to witness what we as soldiers have seen. I live, but my life along with my youthful soul have been taken away from me. I am no longer the boy you waved good bye to at the train station that dreadful afternoon, but a broken down man who will struggle until his last day, whether it be tomorrow or many decades from now, to make peace with himself and the world around him. Oh my Bridget, if you only knew the blood I have seen be spilled, the flesh I have witnessed be torn. The screams of anguish I have heard, the cries for mothers and wives and children I have had to bear. From now until my last day, I will hear every one of them, this is my sentence. I am writing to you to tell you that if you were not on other side waiting for me, there is no reason for me to live on. If you were not there, and a merciful God existed, then he would have me go in peace to heaven right here, right now. But I refuse, as long as you are there waiting for me. Living on with the weight I am carrying is worth it because our love for each other is too strong. My dear Bridget, you have been until now my only true passion and I intend to keep it that way. Tell mom and dad that everything is going just fine here, I know dad will certainly want to hear about our morale being high and I do not want mom getting worried. Tell Charles he may have my rifle, I know his birthday is coming soon and he has wanted it for some time. Write to me please, I do not know if the letter will find me, but if it does it will do me some good to hear about home. Just remember, when you feel sad and lonely, that I carry you in me: you are
now my soul and saviour. With much love and [.....]

[not legible/blood stain]


What he felt was unlike any humanity he had felt in some time. He was so immune to all the death that surrounded him and that it made him sick to his stomach. As a medic at least he did not have to fire a rifle, but he had to bear witness to some unbearable moments. A tear ran down his cheek. Love, he thought, is still existent. The boy could not have been more than 17, his tag was missing so he had no idea of his age or any form of identity. All he had was this letter half covered in blood he had found in the boy's jacket. It had been a wound to the heart. The bullet that finally killed him. He had been lying in a shell hole with his rifle nowhere to be found. The attack had been unsuccessful, the German line was as strong as a fortress; in no less than a single instant, with the firing of machine gun, men had dropped like pigs at a slaughter house. This boy had lost his life and ruined that of his loved ones forever. But in a way he still lived on, the letter was there, and as long as it was there he would live on. All these thoughts ran rampant through the medic's mind, but he found it comforting, it was a daydream that broke him away from the brutish reality he was in. One by one the bodies were loaded into trucks, most were not identifiable, some simply pieces of torn flesh. The medic placed the letter back into the boy's pocket and gave it a small tap...