I took a job in Craftsbury yesterday. Got a call from a guy who got a call from another guy who said I was an okay guy. Translation: I’m taking every fucking job I can find.
I got word that we lost a contract job with the state earlier this week. The paper shufflers at Buildings & Grounds tried to pull a fast one on us by including a whole bunch of non-painting ninniness to our work report. Nice try. But adios.
They knew they had a lower-charging crew waiting in the wings. That’s the game. It’s what the suits call their “win-win.”
And then they’ll chuckle. Pretty soon, the chuckle turns into a cackle. Then, the cackle turns into a giant fucking fart that lands upon the poor schmuck who’s dusting their desk and counting the minutes.
Checkmate.
Or so it seems.
Maybe I’m bitter. Can’t tell anymore. It just feels like me.
But I spent yesterday driving a tractor with a brush hog on back going around and around and around in a field of mostly Golden Rod.
Or, as the boss-man from Newport said, “It’s nearly Fall…goddamnit…and the shit needs to be cut.”
So the shit was cut. By me. And some other folks who clearly needed the work as much as I did.
And today looks like more of the same, with a little hurricane preparation thrown in I’ll assume.
Other than that, I got nothin’.