Every day is a test of my patience.  Some days I cope with boredom, hunting for tasks and purpose.  On other days I find myself repeating the same tasks ad nauseum.  Watching your work disintegrate over and over is aggravating, at best.

My supervisor informed me that something I had spent a lot of time on had been wrecked.  The city workers who destroyed it were still there.  I slammed the door against the wall on my way out.  I was a block up when my boss told me, over the phone, don’t say anything to them . . .

I stood there, looking at the mess the guys had made.  Oh well, they said.  I didn’t say anything.  The supervisor wouldn’t have heard me over his chainsaw.

I went back to the shop.  My boss was still stewing about the incident.  One of my co-workers, who was born in Guyana, started laughing when he saw me.

“Awww, sheeeat boy . . . ya talk ta them?”

“No,” I said.  ”Wasn’t worth the bother.”

“Dey naw say nothin’?”

“Nope.”

“Dey must saw you comin’, man.  Dat ‘rude boy’ walk,” he flared his elbows and swaggered a few feet.  ”Dey be thinkin’ Fuck No, Man, sheeeat . . . “

I’m the only one at work that can understand anything he says.

I got the reference.

I didn’t respond.