Chikungunya, a virus. Landing in North America. And having nothing to do with ‘Chickamunga’, the Uncle Tupelo song. Which is what I read when first seeing the word.
The likelihood of never hearing ‘Chickamunga’ on the radio—or anywhere else for that matter, unless I put it on.
We did however hear a few other gems in the truck today:
- ‘Twilight Zone’ — Golden Earring
- ‘(Don’t Fear) the Reaper’ — BÖC
- ‘Cracklin’ Rosie’ — Neil Diamond
We’ve a newbie on board. Amber. Started last week. A bit of a dulcet thing. Quiet and reserved, for most part. But beginning to loosen up. Daz, of course, has taken a shine to her. His usually judgemental manner has undergone an agreeable change. He slips up now and again, lets his true colors paint long-winded opinions. But in general the temper in the cab is refreshingly jovial.
I’m not certain Daz is aware Amber plays on her own team.
Nevertheless, being witness to his smittenhood is entertaining. His tall lankiness ever-bending and contorting to her much shorter stockiness.
And Leddy’s radically toned down his outbursts. He’s had nothing to say on Malaysian Airlines 17. Or the latest in Gaza. Content to scan the dailies and consider his bets in relative silence. I think the only words he spoke today were, ‘Two a clock.’ In reference to a car ahead of us in the right lane. A lichen-colored Smart Car. Licence plate 003.
Pecadilloes are not in any way related to armadillos, or even anteaters.
Had monthly crew talk yesterday. Quite the scene — 40+ trucks descending on a small yard, releasing their payload of 3–4 bodies. Organizational shitshow. Tend to forget what a large company I work for. The talk itself was same old same old. Only afterwards I’m asked into Laura’s office for a quick chat. She asked me to have a seat. A round of smalltalk. If I was happy in my position etc. Then she asked if knew about the Johnson job.
This would be the hundred million dollar house rumoured to start being built in the fall.
The company landed install and two years maintenance. I said this was great. Which is when things got formal. She said the company wants me on the project. And not just as a heavy lifter. She handed me some paperwork. Asked me to take it home and look it over.
Proposal is that I start with my own truck and crew for the rest of the summer. Doing high end jobs. To get me up to speed etc. All very exciting, I suppose. Save that my gut reaction is to decline.
Diocletian didn’t wear underwear. Nor do dalmatians.
The meeting took more than half an hour. By the time I got out the congregation had dispersed—and all the donuts were gone. I walked the two blocks to the truck.
Leddy and Amber were standing by the hood with their arms crossed. I didn’t see Daz and asked where he was. Leddy nodded to the wall I’d parked beside. Which was a large woodplank receiving door on tracks. It had an inset door that was half open. Above the smaller door a painted No Parking Anytime sign, over which ran a band of grimy windows. A cool composition, to my eye. So much so I moved the truck to take pictures.
For dad, who loves relics of any kind; for Liz, who’d see something inspiring in the composition; and for Wendy, just because.
Unexpected bonus: seeing Daz run out in a panic, waving his gangly arms over his head, yelling for us not to forget him.
Not to mention the thought of armadillos singing ‘Chickamunga’ to dalmatians.