Concrete Dreamer

Damn I had a lot of bad dreams involving concrete all last week. The week also involved a doctor's diagnosis of the flu for my system. Like...me. I had the flu. Yeah. It was great. I spent half of a day in the front of a work truck trying to get warm, with the heat blasting and a bad case of the shivers. 'Seemed like going to work was a good idea at 5 a.m...but as the day pressed on, I felt shittier, rather than better; which was my gamble at first rumble. "I'll feel better"
Yeah, spending hours on end in the front of a truck while all the other crew members are dying trying to get the day's task done with a man short was more than a bummer. I tried to get up several times, but couldn't really breathe either. Plus, I had already had two bad dreams about concrete to start the week off. Shit, broken form work and early arriving concrete trucks were keeping me up at night. I was now sore from head to toe, and didn't know if it was from the sickness or me trying to make due in physical struggles of my concrete nightmares. Yes, my wife offered to pick me up, but my crew was an hour and a half away from home and I didn't really want to run her out of her way...she is busy too; landing a lead role in the drama known as 'The Rock Hill Tavern'. The part has been secured for years, and involves anything from waitress duties to late night emotional support for the cohorts.
It takes alot to get me to the doctor, and my day's misery was more than enough to get me on the phone, demanding to be seen...as soon as I could make it out of this truck hole and toward Mountville.
Upon check in, I was weighed and was instantly depressed of my findings...I had climbed above my 'never to get to' number of pounds and now was a bummed out sick man, with a need of a shower. One look in the mirror of my waiting room led me to the fact that: I don't think I've ever been to the doctor's office in clean clothing. Wow. Yup, a sick dirty fat fuck with pneumonia symptoms and shitty health care. My carcass couldn't wait to go home and sleep for two days.
The doctor's diagnosis was quick and smug. He asked more about my lingering smoking habit than the current death that was becoming me through "the flu". He was annoying me quickly and; if I had the strength or carelessness that it would take, I could see him deserving of a punch in the dick.
I slept for about twenty hours and don't remember any good dreams about concrete. All dreams or visions were of panic. Supplies were forgotten, men fell short on responsibilities, forms broke and hot loads of concrete arrived.
The next day, (the day after my twenty hour nap...ok...that would make it Thursday if Tuesday was my day in the truck) I was ordered to take a crew to the north western end of Harrisburg to form and pour a foundation footing. The ground was rocky and the pin pounding went badly. Many pins had to be drilled. The pins I speak of are to hold forming lumber to height and line.
Into the late afternoon and evening the men and I struggled. We passed a formerly failed inspection and concrete was released. The first concrete truck arrived and was unloaded fairly easy. He was a jolly driver with a cigar habit that turned into a chewing tobacco habit when the end became to wet to pull smoke. When the end got too wet to 'smoke', he'd just stick it in his cheek and suck the juice and spit it out. He did it like he had done it his whole life. He wore it well. He was eager to please with his driving/dispensing service and he saved my life.
The second concrete truck driver was mad as hell and hated everyone on the crew for living. He glared at me with disgust as I plead with him on unloading possibilities. He got mad and did a burn out in the driveway with his concrete truck. The back wheels spun with rage and tossed rocks across the road. The driveway rocks were the base load...that is, they are a rather large aggregate, two to four inches big. This stone is used as the base in driveway preparation. He unloaded his truck with little regard to the men; sometimes piling the concrete so high in a wheel barrow, that Hulk Hogan would no doubt have a hard time pushing the loads. Hulk, sadly was not on the crew and I spent the late afternoon hours screaming at novices on the barrows.
The pour was complete and at the day's end, I marked up sixteen hours on my timesheet. Ahh...not bad for the day after the flu. The bad dreams ceased; as most of the hell of concrete work came to life on that day.