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EARLY TO RISE... AND WATT
DAY LABOR STORIES, PART 6
I f you live in town, maybe getting up at 5:15 a.m. and rolling
out of bed and into your clothes would get you there on time.
But I don't live in town. It's a 15-mile drive. So 4:30 a.m.
is the time to get up. Everything is stone dark, but don't call it
night. My neighbor, who works construction, has not even gotten
his truck fired up. I feel like the earliest bird; but there must be an
even earlier worm, already returned to bed.
My car has more rude noises than a car should be allowed to
have before breaking down. The brakes squeak when you apply
them and squeak differently when you don't. Each phase has its
own squeak. My mechanic says that I must wait until I need brakes
again so that the rotors can be ground smooth. Until then, I drive
around feeling like I'm always waking someone up somewhere. Yet
another sound, inside the driveris-side door, is special. It comes
without warning, a loud, throaty creak as if an old iron door
swung open. Other sounds follow me around. The dash endlessly
scolds me with a beeping to note that my seat belt is unfastened,
whether it is or not. I have tried to stay positive. I fasten my seat
belt though the beep is relentless; I've learned to lower my expec
tations of rewards for good behavior.
Last but not least, there's the croak of a large, uncompromising
electronic cicada when my car idles. I can temper it by applying a
little gas. It brings to mind electrodes and vintage science fiction
flicks. Embarrassing, but who else really cares? All of this sonic ex
crescence helps keep me awake as I plunge out to the labor pool.
5:30 IN THE MOllNING
The labor pool office fills up quickly at 5:30 a.m.; many of the
men filter out from the area shelters at that time. There are some
women, too. The crowd roughly divides between the folks loung
ing in the plastic and steel stackable chairs that line the room
and the group that gathers outside of the building, beyond the
purview of the office staff. This group tends to be younger. It's not
clear whether or not most of what brings this group here is some
peripheral business, not the prospect of a hard day's work for
a pittance.
A very tall, light-skinned young black woman sashays
into the office, calling out loudly to the lady at the
desk, "I need some money today. You got some
work for me?" She is clearly over six feet tall, is
wearing a tank top and shorts. Tattoos busily
spread over her arms, neck and back. She
looks like she could have played ball
once when she was tautly athletic, but //
This time, I observe a short period of waiting and follow her out
the door.
She and three guys are sitting in a row against the wall, talk
ing and smoking. I lean against the wall, trying not to come off as
what I warn, a nosy stranger.
"You hear about that dude, took six niggers, hitchhiking, in his
car? They beat the fuck out of him and took the damn car! Cops
got 'em later on that night," on of the guys says.
The woman responds, "Damn! I can be friendly but I ain't that
friendly! If I take someone in my car, they try something, I'm
ready. I cut 'em with this and with this." She points, nodding, first
to her pocket and then to her boot. (This outdoor congregation is
not about holding their place in queue!)
This inside/ outside split in the groups feels like an important
distinction. It feels like the distinction I see everywhere, express
ing itself in a million ways in places high and low. The people in
the government and the people who are outside (who are supposed
to be the government); the people employed and the ones out of
work; those of us on the street today and the over two million
stuffed in prisons across the country; family members in favor and
the "black sheep;" folks connected from birth with the levers of
power and those whose hands are slapped the moment they near
those levers. And so forth.
THE LOGIC OF POVERTY
The labor pool is a hard gig, but it's not my only work, thank
god. Some of the people I've met working there have been at vari
ous temp labor agencies for years. I don't think that most of them
have drug problems, mental problems (any more than the gen
eral run of humanity),
or serious legal
this is just a guess.
"I called you yesterday. Where
were you?" returns the voice from
behind the open sliding window.
"I couldn't work yesterday.
It was my son's birthday. All
these other times when I am
here, you ain't got nuthin' for
me."
"I can only offer you work
when it's available. Then it's
up to you, babe."
The woman turns contemp
tuously and heads out the door
almost as quickly as she entered. Hei
insolence has registered shock with some of the people
inside. Here we are, trying to play ball, and this woman has an
in-your-face attitude. One guy shakes his head, pointing to it and
making the "loco" gesture, saying "she's qot somethin' wrong up
here." She walks back in almost immediately and sits down; t^e
controversy over her behavior quickly ends.
Soon, the group I'm sitting with gets to talking about one of
the men having his car searched.
"They're not allowed to do that. They need cause—probable
cause."
"But who's to say what 'cause' is? Could be cause for you is not
cause for me."
"Those cops have their own cause, it's 'cause' they want to get
you on something."
The woman chimes in. "They arrest you in this county, you
don't need to bond out. Shit, you get two for one here. 10-day
sentence, out in five if you act right. Ain't gonna waste my money
bonding out when I can get out and not pay." No one in the group
had a response to this thrifty scheme.
The woman seems a bold exception in this crowd. Not long af
ter she shares her money-saving plan with us, she walks out again.
problems—though some form of legal problem trails along behind
a good many of them. Quite a few hav° been in jail, and many
are homeless. In this town that knows itself as a place of liberal
values, higher education and frisky white kids drinking up daddy's
money, a side of life churns on in the shadows, kept judiciously
hidden by social affiliation aru faint red lines of zoning.
What is the logic of such an enterprise as "casual labor?" It's
the logic of poverty, the same that one sees unfold everywhere
and throughout history. Do you need money for food, rent, medical
care, utilities, childcare, transportation... life? Well, step right up
and wait! A person who can't play the waiting game is desperate
and does desperate things. (That's when the "criminal justice" sys
tem comes in.) The people who come down to the labor pool have
all the financial needs that everyone else does. The difference is,
they are commonly without the options. They will not be browsing
web sites to look into colleges for them or their children. They will
not be shopping on-line, and may not be shopping at all. They will
not be attending town hall meetings to advocate for or against
ordinances that will probably weigh against them, or not affect
them, in any case. They will not be doing much of what the noble
reader (generally speaking ) takes for granted as part of the deal of
living in America in this glorious era.
What will they be doing? Getting up at five in the morning to
wait politely for the possibility of digging a ditch for a day's pay.
Playing the lottery with millions of other suckers because the state
thinks it's neat to raise funds for the HOPE Scholarship on the ba
sis of the innumeracy it breeds in the public schools. Calling state
offices on pre-paid cellphones to be put on hold. And so on.
A concern that poor folks at the labor pool can be heard think
ing out loud about: whether to screw the waiting game and just
go out and do a "job" of a different kind, maybe sell a commod
ity more salable than their labor. Just as the legal system has an
answer to their signs of weakness, so does the community mental
health system. People jumping out of their skins from the mad
ness of banging their heads against The Wall can get a diagnosis,
a drug, and maybe a bit of an excuse. Let us not forget that a sub
dued wage-slave is a manageable wage-slave.
AND WHAT OF APPEARANCES?
Ihe eternal theme of appearance versus reality may as well be
trotted out here. Is it only a matter of appearance that the over
whelming majority of the folks waiting at the labor pool on a given
day are black? In that case, appearance is reality, the same reality
one encounters at the Labor Department, where I presently sit typ
ing this. On the other hand, it's easy for appearance to confuse,
when people in Athens (as in the rest of America) are so intent on
conveying the intended impression. Hippies with trust funds dress
down to effect the superstar homeless look, Working-class people
flash SUVs that are a payment away from repo, hoping
to conve\f the carefree affluence drilled
into their psyches by the advertising
world. And on and on.
Nobody wants to talk about what
his or her real socioeconomic situ
ation is, and that nobody begins
with the Feds, from whom whin
ing periodically issues about how
"money can't be thrown" at this or
that problem, while money flies to
the tune of a quarter of a trillion
to subdue you-know-who a half a
planet away. Here on the ground,
it's people trying to look good
enough to pass as they seek foot
ing on the next rung up, or trying
to look shabby enough not to be
taxed for it once they get there.
But it's not just pretense; it's how
reality hangs together. It's like
legendary local musicians plug
ging away on cellphones as though
they're crazed telemarketers,
booking private parties in remote
counties. Or playing the biggest
venues in town and losing money
on set-up. Or being internationally
renowned on the web for great work,
— — -77~ - ' and wondering if Rubberhead Pizza
will take you back when you're done
with your overseas tour. It's like that.
Downtown Athens is full of wonderful—and not so wonder
ful-music, art, and a small but seemingly omnipresent clutch of
"townies" who—myself included—enjoy gabbing at leisure over
a beer or a cup of coffee while the world goes by. In a happy mo
ment, who would guess that there can be a rapid descent from this
life of the mind, this snappy bohemian chic spilling out from the
cafes? From one day to the next, I'm not sure which way the eleva
tor is headed, or whether it always feels better going up or down.
As Mark Twain once remarked, "Heaven for climate; Hell for the
company." Being overeducated, with a student loan debt that a
mafia hit-man would kill for a fraction of, the costs of not getting
with the program keep rising. And not just the monetary costs.
Sisyphus gets tired!
While decked-out, plastered bulldogs (I mean the statues, not
the students) stand sentry at various locales around town, I won
der at this status quo of non-conformity that I am a part of, in the
Classic City, in the Land of the Free.
Edmund J. Smith
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