MIAMI ROCK

BY

KEITH LAUFENBERG

-1-

BREAKING GROUND

I hold that if the Almighty had ever made a set of men that  should do all the eating and none of the work, He would have made them with mouths and no hands: and if He had ever made another class that He intended should do all the work and no eating, He would have made them with hands and no mouths.—Abraham Lincoln, Mud-sill Theory of Labor.

 

 

      Bobby ‘Slick’ Dupree struggled laboriously with the wheelbarrow in the noonday sun. Weighing just over three-hundred pounds, spread loosely over a six-foot-three-inch frame, the huge black laborer’s work clothes, purple blue-jeans, cut-off at the knees, and a green silk undershirt, were soaked in sweat and clung to his body like cellophane, as he zigzagged his way towards a footing trench with a wheelbarrow full of cement-mix.Another laborer smiled, as Dupree staggered over and, with one mighty lunge, deposited the mortar into a half-filled trench. The other laborer wiped the sweat from his face, with the inside of his filthy tee-shirt, and spat on the ground. “Day-yum Slick, slow down, makin’ me looks bad, man.”

     “Yeah, shee-it, I knows man but uh-oh, here comes dah bossman, let’s go back fo’ mo’ mud.” Both men grabbed their empty wheelbarrows and hurried back towards a large cement truck, that was spewing cement-mix down a long metal chute upon the truck-driver’s command, via a remote control switch he held in his hand.

     The foreman, a tall slender man with thick bushy eyebrows and small beady eyes, that appeared to dart about constantly, glared at the two scrambling laborers and smiled a sickly, carnivorous mask. He scowled at two large speakers Dupree had set on top of a batterered  '72 Ford, having them wired into the car’s battery. A popular radio station, originating in Miami, Miami Rock, blasted so shrilly the foreman could barely hear himself screaming orders, something that he considered a routine part of his job. He patted his cheek, which was so packed with chewing tobacco he resembled a squirrel with a mouthful of nuts; he could barely spit and a mouthful of the chaw, along with spittle and tobacco juice, instead, dribbled out of his mouth, down the front of his shirt and onto the ground. Bobby Boatwittle, a labor and carpenter foreman, although he had seldom, if ever, had a tool in his hands in his twenty-five years on this planet, looked around to see if anyone had seen him. Satisfied no one had, he wiped his mouth, with the back of his hand, and brushed away the moisture on his shirt, while walking towards the cement truck.Boatwittle’s father, James J. Boatwittle, was the president and owner of Boatwittle Construction, the General Contractor on this job, and the reason Bobby Boatwittle wasn’t pushing a wheelbarrow himself. Boatwittle nodded at the cement-truck driver, as he put a foot on the bumper of the truck and spat a globule of tobacco juice into the air. He smiled vociferously, when it landed inside the metal tub of Slick Dupree’s wheelbarrow, caroming off and onto the backside of Dupree’s cut-offs. He winked at the truck-driver, who returned it two-fold. “Youse guys don’t take no lunch until youse finish the pour, youse un’nerstan’, Do’pree?”

     Slick Dupree’s arms became tight ropes of muscle and sinew, as he grabbed the wheelbarrow handles and lifted. He nodded at Boatwittle and smiled forlornly. “Yas-suh, we gets it po’d, suh.” He pushed the mortar-laden wheelbarrow towards the footing, as the other laborer shoved the tub of his wheelbarrow under the chute, and, like a crack of thunder, as the gravel made contact with the metal chute, the mortar rolled into the large tub-shaped bucket of his wheelbarrow.

     Bobby Boatwittle spied a carpenter and motioned for him to come over to the truck, where he stood. The heavyset man quickly obeyed and the tools on his leather apron jangled noisily, as he approached the cement-truck. “What’s up, boss?”

     “Make sure the forms hold,” Boatwittle said, scowling. “And lis’sen Bill, keep your eye on those labe’rahs don’t let ’em dog it.”

     Bill Murphy, born and raised in a small town in Central Florida, smiled. His teeth, what there was left of them, were decayed and stained brown, from years of tobacco use. He spat a line of tobacco juice, a good ten feet.“Sho thang, boss,” he barked, “dem niggah’s gone work long’s I’m in charge, better believe it. "Boatwittle nodded and spat out a line of juice about half as far as Murphy’s, causing a bemused smile to alight on Murphy’s face. He had been chewing since he was twelve and was a champion spitter. He turned his head towards the two laborers, both struggling with their wheelbarrows, about twenty yards away, at the edge of the footing trench, and sent a missile of spit, sputum and Skoal chewing tobacco skyward. It arched slightly before hitting its intended target, the wheelbarrow full of mortar-mix being tilted towards the footing. It landed in the center of the watery mixture and carried just enough force to cause splatters of the muddy mix to take flight, in several directions, one of those being Jackie ‘CoalBlack’ Smith’s pants-leg. Smith frowned and looked around, then brushed at his leg. He heard laughter but quickly went back to work. Bobby Boatwittle chuckled good-naturedly with Bill Murphy and the truck-driver before heading towards the headquarters and meeting place for the job’s supervisors, a battered aluminum trailer. Bill Murphy watched him go and spat on the ground then smiled at the truck-driver.“Shee-it Hank they-yum Yank’s cain’t spee-it ate’tall.”

     Hank Perkins, another home-grown Florida boy smiled and spat a line of tobacco juice himself. "Shoo-ooot no, Be-ill, they sho' cain't," he said, as his stream arced high into the air.