I’m looking out my hotel suite window, laying here on my newly-claimed-by-chance executive thrown. Unsure of everything yet feeling optimistic...some how I’ve tumbled into an alternate reality.
I’m looking out the window at a little group of men gathered around a big white truck. They are grey-haired, white-bearded and wearing fleurocent overhauls, with their favorite Canadian beer in hand. These men are fellow workers that my new employer has brought in from all over the East-Coast. This hotel is 90% fellow employees , doing a variation of jobs on one giant project. While I hold the operational management position , these vibrant men are the big , strong bones of this operation. The hard-working construction crews, and electricians. These men are how this company gets its money, how it stays afloat. These men are the ones deserving of the respect most management receive- management who’ve done no work the likes of what these men have seen.
The three currently sharing stories of homesickness over bouts of strong laughter drew me to say hello earlier, as I passed them. During the brief skip from my car, to the hotel door - I shared a moment with them. I juggled my Italian-takeout-dinner in my arms and giggled out a “You boy’s have the right idea!, while motioning down at the different six-packs of beer between all of their feet. I ask where they are from ,although their thick accents have already told me. These men call a varying spectrum of Atlantic areas home. Bathurst, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, and Cape Breton . These are real, small-town, down-to-earth men.
I could think of nothing else on the elevator ride up to my room but grabbing my camera and stealing a shot of these men through the window. I clicked a few memories, and jumped onto the huge kingsize bed where I’m currently typing away feverishly. Photographs weren’t enough. I had to write. Even now I can hear their laughter floating up through the window…their parking-lot camaraderie is touching and brings a smile to my face.
My dinner has long since gone cold sitting on the table. Reheated spaghetti while listening to the three far-from-home-friends laugh and tell stories? This night is wonderful. I want to remember this , always. This is what I needed this very moment to feel truly alive.
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I stepped away to have dinner before I actually posted this entry. I have also turned on the amazingly beautiful movie Dr. Zhivago, only to be sidetracked. I hear more laughter …louder still…I peak down to see the 3-man group has since grown.
I can’t help but sit here and watch the scenes unfold out the window. Now they are playing old Cape-Breton folk music out of one of their trucks. I feel like I’m watching the single most beautiful thing that the majority of the world lacks…..but I can’t quite put into words just what that is.
