“Hey, College! You joining us for happy hour, or what?” Zach shouted over the slowly fading din of summer construction.

My whole body ached. Parts of me that I never felt before were shooting poison soaked arrows through my veins. Even my goddamn fingernails hurt. I was hot, dirty, dehydrated, and tired, but I’d be damned if I was going to pussy out and go home instead of getting a couple of rounds with the guys.

Believe it or not, spending my summer working construction for Smith & Co. was my first choice. I thought it would be nice to be outside all day, but I never factored in that I’d be working in the sweltering direct sunlight for eight, nine, even sometimes ten hours a day. I thought it would be nice to work with my hands, but I never took into account that the kinds of guys who do this for a living have rough, calloused hands, a far cry from my smooth, soft, almost feminine hands. I thought that building houses for my neighbors would give me a sense of community and that the experience would help me grow as a man, but I didn’t realize that my days would be so profanity-laden, with constant talk of pussies and cocks. Honestly, I forgot how hardened these types of guys are. I thought that working on a job site would give me valuable insights that I could take back to school with me in the fall, insights that I could put toward my architecture degree, but I’m at the bottom of the bottom of the ladder and there’s no way in hell that the boss would let me anywhere near the plans because of my academic interests. Trust me, I’ve tried. Most of all, I knew that construction workers make good money, and money’s what I needed for tuition and ongoing education costs throughout the academic year, but I never fully understood just how hard these guys work for their paychecks. I mean they really earn those dollars, you know?

So here I am. A college boy spending his summer on the job. It wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t such a baby in those first weeks. I was forever asking about safety regulations and guidelines, jumping out of my pants at any and every loud bang on the site, begging to see the plans, begging to drive the bulldozer, wincing whenever I picked something up that was just a little too heavy, lifting wrong and tweaking something in my lower back, even hitting my own thumb with a hammer like I’m Homer Fucking Simpson or something. I brought nutritious lunches that would energize and hydrate me throughout out the day while they ate burgers from the diner or sandwiches from the corner deli. They started teasing me, calling me College like it’s some sort of insult to get an education. I haven’t been able to live any of it down. More than once, I’ve contemplated turning in my hard hat and picking up some shifts at my father’s store, but the act seems so cowardly when I really think about it. I resolved to stick it out and do my best despite my otherness reaching extremities I never before thought existed.

“What’s with this guy?” Dan asked Zach when I hadn’t replied.

To tell the truth, I was so shocked by the invitation that all I could do was stare at them blankly with my orange vest in hand.

Zach said, “Uh…hello? Earth to College? Come in, College! You in or what? We ain’t got all day.”

I snapped out of it and they could see the recognition stamping out the cloudiness in my eyes. I said, “Hey, sorry, lost in thought! Yeah, count me in fellas!”

Fellas?

Zach smiled, pulled a Parliament Light out of his t-shirt pocket, and stuck it between his lips, “Well, come on then, let’s go.”

“Fuckin’ College,” said Dan kind of spitefully.

We walked to the dive bar down the street, Ma’s Bucket, in relative silence. I got a chance to really look at the guys. I could see that they were young guys. They were my age, all here for the long-haul instead of my summer stint. I could understand why they felt the way they did about me. I was working there by choice. They were working there out of necessity.

We were all haggard from our grueling week, walking like rotting Zekes in the dwindling daylight and I felt a quiet sense of compainionship.

We got to the bar and I held the door open for the guys, with Zach taking up the rear, languidly taking the last drags of his cigarette before disappearing into the cool, dark bar. He clapped me on the shoulder, looked me in the eye, and said, “Thanks, Brian, you’re a good dude.”