A less illustrious example of Clark Kent pulls into the Duluth International Airport. I've outdone the newsman, switching venue, job description and outfit in the confines of a bathroom stall; the traditional phone booth switch was not going to be permitted by the TSA. I begin the transformation and laugh aloud as Larry Craig runs through my mind (non-sequitur), making the change from muddy carpenter to coffee shop employee in training. The restroom persona swap is complete when employee #9 checks in.
Digging footings, wallowing in the mud and directing a 24” (diameter) auger powered by the skid steer to speed up the labor. Sloshing in the mud became stocking bottles of soda and listening to Phil Collins over the airport’s PA system.
On site, the rain poured down, framing some sort of American moment: men working, silently, with direction, sure of the task at hand and those immediately forthcoming in the pole barn without need for words. We progressed alongside the restored 1950’s vintage Chevrolet 3100 pickup truck in a space where surely similar wordless vocation had been done before. The physical pain from the soon-to-be blisters on my palms was caused by the grit casing the shovel, a friction spurred by quagmire for awhile there. The emotional cursing at the rock lodged in the muck was forgotten as I found a free moment in the airport to look out the big windows onto the runway. When will the planes go away and become reminiscent of deliberation?
When will they not so much depart, but blend in and become a schedule?
0 comments:
Post a Comment