“We got all the hand-me-down trucks from the larger outfits like PG&E and Edison… I guess they didn’t want to fool around with the upkeep of them, so they’d hock ‘em off to us little Mom-N-Pop contractors… some of them were real junk…”
Behind an old 1950’s International Digger swung precariously a fresh chunk of cedar that was oozing creosote, eager
to be… eager to be set
into the rock y , So uther n Cal if or.Nia soil.The crew wait ed
Patient ly. Wa tching, the Mick-
ey-Moused rig strug gle t o stay run. Ning. “Weenie” popped the hood and had made his best attempt to di ag nose the en. Gine. He
he. had it.3 times, and it WouldDieeachtime. his hands.Would.
Would. Find the con trols. The pole still dang. dang.
dangling dang erously over. Head.bya.chain.
“Weenie,” (son of a Librarian,) slammed the hood of the Digger on Strike, and heaved all 250 pounds of his pissed off aboard the hood. There ensued the worst over grown wild-man-shit-fit ever reported by a slack-jawed line crew.
By the time the violent tap dance had lost it’s wind, the truck’s hood looked like a sad tin taco the meat was sure to fall out of.
Satisfied with his repair, he then called the shop. The mechanic—upon arrival, was sure to bring no questions with him.
“Slip” started to laugh with endearment, “It was a wonder we ever got anything done. Some of the trucks were just as stubborn as their operators.”