by Colin McAdam
Summer was starting, we all had more light, so Work was what the smart men did. My surveyor had a lot of other jobs so he came late in the day doing bits at a time and I would meet him, follow him or just stand still and watch, before I started a late shift elsewhere. Sometimes I would meet the men I wanted there on the land, like I did with Johnny, because you can get some builders excited by showing them what they can change.
Tony Antonioni met me out there one evening and I told him more about what I had planned. Tony was the stupidest genius I knew and I continue to respect him.
I said to him, I said, “Tony, what would you like to make of this?” sweeping my hand all grand across that thirty-two-acre world, and he got a shiny look in his eyes like wise people get, and said after silence, “Me?”
I figure Tony was a bit like God: he didn’t really know what he was doing or why but the end result made it seem like he did. He walked around the land and listened to the designs I had in mind (simple), and I doubt he understood much of what I said, but he looked like he was understanding more than I could ever know. He said, “You like me to work here?” pointing to the ground, and I said, “Yes,” and we talked about money and there was a long silence.
It was a warm evening, and there was always something relaxing about Tony even when he wasn’t doing what you wanted. Eventually he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Yes Jerry OK Jerry,” and his smile showed me a vision of perfect wooden frames. I shouted over at the surveyor, who was tying his orange tape here and there, that I had just hired the best chippy around, and the surveyor smiled back like he meant it, which was a happy moment among three strangers.
And that is when building is at its best: when out of nothing and nowhere, unknown bricks and men appear and promise they will one day join. There are parts of the work that I like, a million that I hate, and there is some satisfaction when it all looks finished; but that is the part I love, when it’s not together but might be.
Kathleen met me on the land that night, just as Tony was leaving. She said she had some shopping to do for bread and whatnot, so she could only stay for a few minutes. I told her I had so far got Johnny and Tony and a couple of others to work for me, and she was proud. We might have got into her truck for a minute to see how proud she was, quietly because the surveyor was around and quickly because the shops were closing and sometimes I get too excited.
When Kathleen drove away I walked back to the middle of the land and stood, not far from the surveyor.
I knew what I looked like from above, dustcloud slapped out by my glove on my jeans. It’s a blackening blue sky, isn’t it, and there I am in the middle of the land, yellow truck driving off to the right, and no noise left but unraveling string and the sound of orange tape saying here, here, here.
SO MANY SWEET nights I sat there. Cool dirt, smells of mint and other things that my mind has no name for. Owning land swells out my skin, makes me proud, bigger, real.
That rock is flat, that one tilts so.
It’s mine like my boot, like my heart.
Stretch your arms out an acre and take some. It’s yours like nothing ever can be.
SUMMER NIGHTS are blue in Canada, which might sound meaningless or obvious to you, depending on your nature. The sky never goes black, it just gets sadder and a bit more honest. It never gets too dark to count steps, so I did that sometimes after work, before dawn, around the thirty-two acres.
There was that one white birch stuck at an angle like someone else’s claim. I loved owning that. And the rock so round at one end. I still do own that rock—I moved it to my house when I had one and have moved it with me since (out there in the yard).
I’ll tell you, my friend, when you own your own land, don’t dig in it like some fuckin long-hair to look for sad little memories. Dirt’s the future, not the past. Change it, move it, smell it, use it. That birch is a tree, not a bone. I realized I would have to uproot it: lot eighteen where number twenty-six now stands, firm.
Other decisions were made, pacing.
I’ll have to lose that lot to make the road curve smoother.
Those four lots will have to be cheaper than the rest.
A backhoe can’t lift that boulder.
Pace steady, know your land.
Decide.
And when the man from council comes, tell him your decision. Present the future to him. Or let him help you shape it.
“So, Mr. McGuinty, developing some land, are we? Taking a bit of the soil away?”
“That’s right, Mr. Councillor. Come and walk around with me.”
“Don’t mind if I do, don’t mind if I do that at all, Jerry. It’s a nice piece of land.”
“That it is. That it is, my friend.”
“Yes. And I have seen your surveyor’s plans. Looking good, looking good, if you’ll pardon the repetition.”
“He’s done a good job.”
“Quick.”
“That’s right.”
“He’s done a lot of work around here lately.”
“I bet. It’s coming up. It is all coming up.”
“That it is, Mr. McGuinty. So tell me more about it. I have read your proposal, which is all nice and tight, correct and copacetic, forgive me, but tell me more about it.”
“Well, look around and tell me what you think. I’m not good with words, but I’d say I was meeting a need.”
“I would agree with that.”
“Maybe you have some questions.”
“Maybe. Yes, maybe. Tell me, Mr. McGuinty, what is it you see before you, there, on that land?”
And we both know that what we see is tax, a nice long future of tax, so I say, “I see families, Mr. Councillor. Families with jobs and houses that won’t fall down.”
“Well, I like to hear that, Jerry. I will be honest with you: That I like to hear.”
Tax on their driveways, tax in their streetlights, tax in the water not there.
“I do like to hear that,” he says. “And tell me how you feel about land.”
And I say I’ve learned to love it.
“Because we do have a policy on parks,” he says, which was the first I’d heard.
And I say “So I hear.”
“That’s right,” he says. “We need to keep some green. We’re not a very green council, but there’s no harm in it. You might have to lose a lot or two. Either green or ten percent of the value of the land, is what we say.”
“Ten percent, eh? Ten percent. And I suppose you’ve seen the deed.”
“That’s right. I’m the one who looks at the deed, at the plans as a whole. The buck stops here and basically starts not long before me.”
“So you decide it all.”
“We are a council, Mr. McGuinty, but if there is something you would like to say to me as a man, I can listen discreetly.”
“Thank you, Mr. Councillor.”
“Because there are a few things I myself have learned about land over the years, Jerry. There is nothing certain about it, nothing you can trust. Men, some men, me, you can trust. Land, no sir.”
“I might agree with that.”
“Men can adapt. I can adapt, Mr. McGuinty, and if there was something you wanted to propose to me before your surveyor comes and joins us, you must tell me. Let me show you that I can adapt.”
“All right.”
“You might, for example, want to suggest to me an alternative to the park, maybe an alternative to the ten percent.”
“Indeed I might, Mr. Councillor. I might want to suggest that, for argument’s sake, I overpaid on the land.”
“You didn’t.”
“That’s right. I did not. But let’s say, for the sake of argument, that you, as the man who has seen what I paid, have had a good look at the land yourself, independent of me, and have had a sort of surprising conviction that what I paid was too much. Just like that: Bang, it hit you when you met me on the land—that McGuinty’s paid too much.”
“And how do I come upon such a conviction,
Mr. McGuinty? Do I get it from wandering?”
“You get it from talking.”
“I see. Negotiating. Is it a matter of figures, sir? Mathematics?”
“Well, I never understood mathematics until it became money. Let’s talk money.”
“Let’s say . . . that I came upon the conviction that you overpaid on this land by, say, ten percent. Yes?”
“All right.”
“And this conviction led me to believe that, in order to make you look better for the sake of history, for people looking back at you, I ought to change the record of how much you paid by, say, ten percent.”
“Yes.”
“That way the ten percent you would pay council would be a more just amount.”
“That’s right.”
“And so, talking figures, how much do you think that sort of justice, that surprising conviction, might be worth to the man who offers it?”
“Well, mathematics, who knows? I’d say about three percent of the difference.”
“I would say five.”
“Done.”
“Well, I think it will be a fine development, Mr; McGuinty. Very nice, indeed. And I am sure that council will agree. I have a family, Jerry, a wife and a daughter, and I believe in them. Families are a noble thing to plant in this municipality . . .”
And on the bastard goes. That’s how it might happen to you, and I was smart enough to expect it.
Within the month I got the approval like I’d hoped, and that particular council didn’t bother me for some time. As for that particular man, Schutz was his name, he soon left for Big Government, but it wasn’t the last I saw of him.
AND, YES, IN the blue I looked for her truck, and I could never find it. The last time I had found her truck was that day it was on the wrong side of the road.
When I was on my new land I was gradually realizing that I was doing what I dreamed of, and I didn’t know how to feel about that. Happy that it came; worried it would go; sometimes surprised that it was a flat patch of dirt and I was actually nowhere near my dream. But most of my surprise was provided by Kathleen.
One night, for example, she drove onto my land to tell me about going to the bakery.
“Feck all of them, is what I said. Because she was telling me, Jer, while she was handing me the bread, that the supermarkets were promising them jobs. Feck em, is what I advised her. They were telling her, we’ll buy your shop, knock it down, change your business entirely, but we’ll employ you, if you like, serving bread behind some flippin little counter that is no longer yours.
“I said, what the arse would you want to do that for, give up your own business like that, and she agreed but said she had no choice. Most people were buying from supermarkets she said, and they were offering a good price for her shop, more than she could hope to make from baking for years on flippin years.”
“I heard they were looking for the right land.”
“They’re looking for blood, is what I told her, Jer, or words like that. I felt, I feel truly sad for her, and I was also hoping a little that she might give me some of the bread for free. Have you ever bought bread from her?”
“No.”
“Don’t, Jerry. But she gives me discounts because I buy so late in the day. And she did give me some free bread, which is a good price for advice.”
“It’s a good sign that a supermarket’s moving right there, if that’s all true.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s toward my development. A supermarket there means people will live even farther out.”
“But what about her?”
“If she’s getting a good price it’s even better news. It’s all becoming valuable.”
“I doubt that I’ll be getting free bread from a supermarket. Discounts even.”
“You won’t need to. You won’t need free bread. I’m going to make a fortune. That’s what . . . that’s what that conversation should have told you.”
“What? That has nothing to do with me, Jer, making a fortune. I’ve still got to earn a living, just like she does, except there’s no big market on wheels that wants to take over my van. That’s what that conversation told me, and you’ll forgive me for thinking yiz are a bit insensitive to the struggles of that baker lady. She’s been there for years, Jerry, and she likes owning it.”
“I didn’t mean . . .”
“Well, it’s feckin awful, is all, the idea of that supermarket coming and just buying her like that. Being able to buy her like that just because they’re giving her a good price. Nobody’s ever able to do anything about that, though, about realizing that there’s more to things than a good price. She knows that staying there baking—pour me some more of that, will yiz— that staying there baking on her own is a bloody lot better than working for them and all, but she just can’t . . . you can’t do anything. It’s like a big check is worth more than a gold coin, and you can’t question that even if you know it bloody well isn’t, to look at it there in your hand. That coin’s what you should hold on to. I feel awful for that woman, and yooz are insensitive.”
“I just meant that, I was saying you won’t, you shouldn’t need free bread.”
“Well, I like free bread. I got lots of it last night and it’s around that flippin sandwich in your hand.”
We didn’t see much of each other when I was getting the land ready. We both had a lot of work, and by the time I finished my piece work at night it was too late to meet her before she served the sites at dawn.
“There’s nothing flippin wrong,” she said, “I just don’t like the thought of that baker woman, and yooz have got me thinking about her now more than I want to.”
“Well, let’s talk about something else.”
“You talk. I always talk.”
“OK. The man from the municipality met me and the surveyor.”
“Well that doesn’t help that baker lady, does it?”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. You said I should talk.”
“I’m just making a point.”
“He came last night. I think I have to do a bit of paperwork, but . . .”
“There’s no time. There’s no time for any of it, is there. I’m feckin tired.”
“You’ve worked a long day.”
“Bloody rights.”
“So you should rest.”
“Nothing else to do.”
“That’s right. Just relax.”
“I might go round to see that nice baker lady. I said we should have a chat some more, and I want her to know I meant it.”
“You should relax.”
“And you should feck off, Jerry McGuinty!”
“What did I do?”
“Go on, fuck off! Get out of my van and work on your flippin land. Go on, get out!”
“But I don’t need to.”
“You’ll need to now. Get out before I throw hot oil on yiz!
You vex me.”
“How?”
“Don’t how me. That lady’s got a lovely face, sort of a jaw on her, and now there’s a sad sort of light in her eye just here, sort of wet, and it’s flippin awful to see her not herself. I’ve bought bread from her for a year, and she never had that light before and we said hello to each other like two strong people, and it makes me angry as fuck! Now get out! They’re buying her and it’s put that light in her eyes, so fuck off, Jerry!”
“I’ve got nothing to do with that supermarket.”
“My arse you don’t, and I don’t care if you don’t anyway. What makes you think I care anyway, you standing there looking stupid because you don’t understand. I don’t know what I’m doing here and I don’t know why yiz are in my van standing there like that. There’s not time for anything, and there you are, standing there. Get out or I’ll put this out on your face.”
She had a cigarette.
ON THE FIRST DAY of work five men turned up with tools. Johnny, Tony, Tony, Jerry, and Mario Calzone. Four of them had the look of sleepy so what that everyone ha
s who arrives at a new site that’s just an old site in a different spot. They stood apart from me and spat and smoked and shared some morning farts.
Dirt, arms, dawn-red eyes, backhoe standing ready, rusty, day-old beards that never grow. Every site looks the same on the first day, no matter how you multiply it.
I was scared as a bird. All the joking and smells and silences of those early mornings are part of a crew getting used to each other, testing and poking and settling in. Then there is a final silence when the foreman gets men working, but the foreman this time is me.
No time for nerves because Tony Espolito decides to test me early.
“You’re the boss, big Jerry, where the fuck do we start?”
He was wearing the same plaid shirt as me, which pissed me off.
“Where do you fuckin think, Espolito?” and I tossed him a set of keys.
When an engine fires up, men get to work, because noise takes away choices. That’s something I had learned. One rumbling old backhoe with Espolito at the gears made the rest move straight to what they knew. Johnny to the dozer, Mario guiding Espolito, Antonioni looking thoughtful with a shovel, and Jerry waiting for two dump trucks that were meant to be there, now.
Being the boss is all about posture: hunch like a gorilla when you’re angry, but otherwise stand straight because you’re smarter than the rest of them.
But I couldn’t stand there for long. Dirt had to be shifted. The first long phase is push, push, get your head down, dig and push, shift it and pile it and make some unnatural holes. Basic work and there’s comfort in it. One of the dumps finally arrived, a day before the other, so we had somewhere to put the dirt.
I was ignoring most of what I’d learned and was giving the unions the finger. Proper outfits use the right people for everything, and by rights men like Cooper and the rest should not have been there so early in the project shifting dirt. If you’re a brickie, you come in when the bricks need doing, and if you’re a union type you stand by your wall, build it beyond your reach and you wait for the union to throw food over it until you feel like dying.
We loved and feared the unions like they were big boozy uncles, but it was only the fools who followed everything they taught. As long as I paid these guys a fraction more than their union wage, they would do the work I gave them.
