The large scoop carried small hills stone from the gigantic pile and laid down rows about sixty feet way. The machine rocked on its struts, rolling over the uneven stone between. The scoop loudly dug into the stone piled fifteen feet high. There was a heavy sigh as hydraulics in the scoop’s arm brought the filled bucket up and turned it vertical. The machine backed from the pile and the motor yelled. The engine slowed, the arm whirred and the bucket poured its contents. The stone dropped, thundering against the stone floor, breaking into smaller stones and finally settled in the rows. The process repeated itself.
The constant bombarding noise morphed into a dull hum by mid-morning. Still, among the three of us, we sometimes had to yell to be heard. The effort was often too much and conversation reduced to short comments or odd questions without context. I had just graduated high school with one of them. He was more apt to toss his conversation in my direction, but I was sometimes too far off to hear. The noise reflected off the walls, sound waves crashing into themselves, all day but for our two fifteen minute breaks and half hour lunch. He took to talking to himself.
The three of us had started on the same day. We walked into the office, watched a safety presentation, signed our names and were officially employed. We were given a tour of the multiple quarries and shops. We were shown where we’d be working for the summer. The next day, we stamped our time cards at the office and met at the quarry. We received a brief tutorial before the operator of the earth-mover got into his cab and the banging and crashing began. That morning in the office was about two weeks ago.
My arms and back are already accustomed to the strain. I can feel the increased strength in my hands and legs. I’m starting to slim. I enjoy the tediousness of stacking the stone on pallets. One pallet for stones over four inches thick without color. One pallet for stones four inches thick with color. One pallet for stones under three inches thick. I sledge stones too large to carry. I walk to the row, select a stone, lift it to the pallet and try to stack the pallet square, without too many gaps. I repeat this hundreds of times each day. I can stack about eight pallets in my eight hour shift.
I’m used to the dust. It clings to me as soon as I start to sweat. It not only sticks in my hair and cakes on my skin, but makes its way into my clothes until, by the end of the day, I’m completely covered in it. I routinely cough it up or spit it out. Today, though, the dust isn’t a problem.
The clouds grew dark about an hour into the work. Soon after, they gave way to light showers. Now it’s raining large cool drops continuously. My t-shirt and khakis cling to me. I feel thirty pounds heavier. My gloves are soaked through, sliding off my hands and slipping on slicker rocks. My boots are soaked through and my feet are starting to feel cold. Typically, I complain, but now it’s the other two trading grievances. They want the operator, who is our on-site boss while we’re out here, to permit us the rest of the day off. Instead, he sounds his horn twice, notifying us that our fifteen minute morning break has started.
On the way to our cars, about a hundred feet, the boy from my school makes his case against being forced to move the stones out in the rain. I don’t know why he’s here. He was awarded, in a ceremony I attended, a scholarship which pays his tuition, room and board and part of his books for four years. It was the only one given out and ensures he’ll only need living expenses for the years to come. Why did he choose working here?
I climb into the back of my car, sprawl across the seat and cover my face for my usual micro-nap. The rain pelting my shins forces me to curl up slightly so I can shut the door. Ten minutes later, I wake to the sound of the earth-mover starting up again. I climb out of the car, stretch quickly and make my way back to the rows. The break has strengthened Scholarship’s resolve in leaving early.
He walks around the piles, lifts a few stones and places them back, but only brings the smallest to the nearby pallets. He wanders with his sledgehammer dragging behind him while he spouts complaints ranging from how cold he is, to how wet he is, and back to how ridiculous it is that we are still there.
I enjoy the rain. It’s refreshing. Instead of the dust-filled, dry, suffocating air that usually filled the giant hole we worked in, it’s fresh and crisp. My clothes are caked in mud where the stone rubbed against them, but otherwise they’re clean. I’m stacking a bit slower, but keeping a good pace. I’m not discouraged by the dampness, but his complaints are starting to annoy me. The breaks in conversation, loud, constant noise and tedium usually let me slip into introversion easily. His shouting and pouting is making that impossible.
I suggest we flag down the operator and ask about leaving early. The others agree. The third boy had started to chime in with Scholarship’s complaints and looked all too ready to be dry. We wait until the machine is closer, wave at the operator and walk up to the machine just as he is cutting the engine. “Is there any way we could duck out of here early because of the weather?” I ask. I don’t expect the acquiescing nod. “I’m surprised you lasted this long.”
Scholarship’s face lights up like a child opening presents on Christmas morning. He’s almost jittery. The third worker’s face washes with relief. I don’t know what my face looks like just then, but, responding to our combined reaction, Operator says, “You can head out now or whenever you want, ’far as I’m concerned.” That, like the final bell of the day, immediately marks our hasty exit.
I take a long, warm shower as soon as I’m home. There isn’t much on television, but I set it to something while I take time to cook a couple boxes of macaroni and cheese. I spend the afternoon switching between channels, spread across the love seat, relaxing. It’s lethargic.
Two days later, the third boy quit. He was replaced by a talkative kid, who never really said anything, the next week. He stayed for just over a month. Scholarship didn’t show up for work about a week after Talkative started. I haven’t seen him since. Half-way through the summer, the company’s safety manager informed me of my twenty-five cent raise and that I’d be the only one working this quarry for a few weeks. He said I could start wearing shorts. After that, I spent my days with the constant hum of the earth-mover and almost nothing else.
Sometimes I hummed a song as it came to mind and sometimes I talked to myself or the stones, but mostly I thought about where I was, what I wanted to do, and why things were as they were. Things had been going on around me at too fast a pace, but now I was able to slow down and participate. I learned more about myself than I had, purely out of boredom. I adjusted to who I was—or who I thought I was—while mindlessly stacking rocks and wrapping them in plastic wrap. I cleared my mind of the unnecessary and thought more of the substantial. Like the cool rain that dreary day, I used the solitude to rinse away the social cliques, unimportant nonsense and unrealistic expectations. Aspirations, quasi-confidence and a much stronger sense of self were exposed under the trivial dust.