Drifting

“TJ, get your ass down from that crane,” came over the radio.

It was my foreman. See, I ain’t supposed to operate heavy machinery when I’m on my meds and he always knows when on on them on account of my . . . drowsiness, slowness, I guess, going through the day like a piece of driftwood. But, hell, I also ain’t supposed to drive when I’m drifting, so, I figured since I drove and arrived alive I’m good enough to get my ass up in a crane. Foreman didn’t give a fuck what I figured. I came down and he told me to take a fifteen. By the time I got to the locker room, remembered the combination to my lock, opened my locker, got the book I’m reading, found a place to sit and read the fifteen minutes was up. Well, shit.

Since it was about lunch time anyway I went to clock out, enjoy my sandwich, read some, but at the clock, just about to swipe my card, I feel . . . really? . . . yes . . . a butt slap. Someone just slapped my ass, you know, the kind that teammates give each other after a good play. A quick, split-second, fingers together tap on my right cheek. Looked over my shoulder and there she was: the lesbian. Man, she’s got some balls, ain’t she? Slapping someone’s ass at the workplace can easily be condemned as sexual harassment. But it ain’t bothered me. Surprised me, no doubt. “Hey, we still friends?” she said. “Yeah,” was all I managed to say. She turned. An invitation to slap her back? And walked away, “Let’s get a beer when you have the time.” I managed more in reply, “Yeah, alright.”

Ate my tomato sandwich, read a few pages, gulped ice water, felt the freeze in my chest. For the rest of my shift I kept my ass out of any cranes. Toward the end I was docking equipment and heard, “Hey, need me to drive your ass home?” Foreman again. “Huh?” I c’ain’t talk a lot when I’m drifting. “You shouldn’t drive in your condition.” Condition? What’s wrong with my condition? I keep up with my PT: push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups – just ain’t supposed to have my ass up in a crane when I gotta drift from the pain of headaches. “B______ will follow us in your car. His wife dropped him off this morning.”

B________ parked my car in my driveway, foreman pulled up along the curb, “Now get your ass inside and rest. Don’t drive tomorrow if you’re in the same condition or I’ll send your ass home.” He even escorted me to my front door. I unlocked it. He gave me a butt slap, “Get in there, see you in the morning if you’re able.” He turned. I slapped him back, “Yeah,” and opened the door and there he was: Buddha. Always right at the door. Gotta step over around aside him to get inside. Gave him a cookie. Checked on the snakes, lizards, tarantula. Sat my ass down. Reminisced about the work day. Wondered: what’s with all the butt slapping and ass talking? Wouldn’t have wondered about it if I ain’t been drifting. Just a cultural thing. Inclusive. Good intentioned. Heaven knows that I’ve slapped my fair share, but, thing is, and here’s another wonder, ain’t never known nor witnessed females slapping. Hmmm. Maybe it’s a male cultural thing, an American male cultural thing. An athletic American male cultural thing. Gotta stop. This could go on forever. Gonna go off my meds now. Don’t wanna drift forever.