Fuck-Ups Wanted

(Or, How I Became a Public Works Laborer)

Over beers, Jerry says, “Fuckin’ Tons-of-Fun. The guy’s a train wreck. Did I tell you what he did last week? Jesus. So Tons-of-Fun’s hauling spoils, right? It’s late in the day, so he’s flustered—because God forbid the guy works past three. He’s dumping over at the garage, truck bed raised all the way up, and he starts looking at his phone. Forgets the bed is up and drives off. Just guns it. Mind you, there are utility poles everywhere. Right? As I said, the guy’s a mess. So down come the poles. All the cables snap. Sparks fly. Fuckin’ shitshow. And Tons-of-Fun’s sitting in the cab, sees all this, and loses it. Punches the steering wheel, punches the dash, throws his phone—he’s yelling, total meltdown. And so—wait, wait, I’ll tell you how I know—the towing company next door catches the whole thing on their security cameras. No joke. They’re like, ‘How does this fuckin’ moron work for the city?’ and they post the video on Facebook. Look at this. Look at this shit. Look at all the comments—there are dozens. And they’re fuckin’ hilarious too, just saying what a dipshit Tons-of-Fun is. Jesus. I mean, fuckin’ Tons-of-Fun, man.”

I ask if Tons-of-Fun is fired.

“Nah,” Jerry says. “He’s a recovery guy. The fucker’s protected from on high.”

*          *          *

Jerry drags a French fry through ketchup, folds it into his mouth, and, chewing, says, “Fuckin’ Yuck. What a trainwreck this guy is. Haven’t I told you about him? The Yuckasaur? Ol’ Yuckasaurus Wrecks? Good God. The guy’s got no teeth, and he’s fat as fuck. I don’t know how he’s alive, to be honest with you. He’s got like this mass or tumor of some kind on his belly that sticks out through his shirt, and he smokes like a coal refinery. I mean, seriously, he’s an untied shoe away from blowin’ out his heart. But he’s an OG, right? A nepo-hire from way back. And he’s an operator. So how often is he out of the machine? He just sits on his ass all day, pullin’ levers. So anyway, a month ago, he’s pullin’ squares of sidewalk and, whatever, everything’s goin’ smoothly. But Yuck’s notorious for overloadin’ trucks, so the bed’s overflowing, right? Well, he keeps loadin’ more in there, and, at one point, a huge slab of concrete falls out onto the road and explodes just as a car drives past. Chunks fly everywhere and dent the fuck out of the car. I’m not talking small dents either. There’s a couple of big ol’ softball-sized ones on the side panel and shit. The car’s fucked. The owner’s pissed. And you got Yuck just standin’ there smokin’ cigarettes sayin’ nothing. I mean, this is a big deal, right? But Yuck’s like, ‘Whatever.’ A week later, the shitbird’s fired. After twenty-five years at the City, the Yuckasaur is gone. But get this: This past Monday, he comes back like nothin’ ever happened. The bosses give him his daily sheet. He takes a crew, jumps into the machine, and goes straight to diggin’.   

I ask how that’s possible.

“Daddy,” Jerry says.

*          *          *

Over winter, Jerry says, “Fuckin’ Rob Urd. Jesus. What a trainwreck. He’s always upstairs running his mouth, rattin’ guys out. The fuckwad sucks on cough drops all day in case he’s ever popped for a rand-o. But whatever. The bosses love him. I can’t fuckin’ stand him, though. And the guys are always messin’ with him, which is hilarious. One day, Oz finds this crusty-ass dildo by the curb and puts it in Rob Urd’s lunch. Rob Urd goes bonkers, runs upstairs on Oz, and Oz gets dragged into the office.”

I ask if Oz is fired.

Jerry shoots a look like I’m stupid. “For what?”

Then Jerry says, “Anyway, we’re out plowing, right? And afterward, everyone turns in meal receipts for reimbursement. Well, one of the receipts is for a thirty-rack of Busch, and it has Rob Urd’s initials on it. No joke. I’m tellin’ you, dumb shit like this goes on all the time. So the bosses are like, ‘What the fuck?’ Mind you, Rob Urd’s worked for the City for twenty years. He knows better. So the bosses ask Rob Urd about it, and Rob Urd goes ballistic. He takes a copy of the receipt back to the store and demands that they pull tape on the registers. Turns out, Bulbous bought the beer and forged Rob Urd’s initials on the receipt, trying to get him shitcanned. The next day, Bulbous is upstairs getting his ass chewed.”

I don’t ask if Bulbous is fired.

“It’s ruthless,” says Jerry, “the shit guys do to one another.”

*          *          *

Sometimes Jerry says, “So-and-so’s retiring,” or “So-and-so quit,” or “So-and-so switched departments.” One day, he says, “They made me an operator.” Another day, he says, “I’m a goddamn Crew Leader.” Months later, he says, “These assholes just made me Division Manager.” Then, after all that, he says, “Look, dingleberry, do you want to work for the City or not?”