by Chris Ackley
I work in the gas world. It’s a small subcontracting operation, but we do bidding for the big boy, National Grid. In case you missed it, this utility ogre recently bought out New England Gas Company and now controls both gas and electric in the Ocean State. Horrible consolidations of power aside, the gas company is a pretty interesting gig. Every day I arrive sweaty and disheveled at roughly one hundred Rhode Island households and businesses, and request entrance into their basements, crawl spaces and personal lives in order to check their gas pipelines.
Working with the general public is unpredictable, especially while intruding on their personal turf. Each day brings a collection of short vignettes illustrating the fragile beauty of the human condition. Some people are curt and unhappy, while others possess an infectious zest for living. And where one person may be guarded and reserved in such a peculiar situation, another is open and eager to share. No matter the nature of the interaction, you come away knowing both them, and yourself, a little better. This is one such story, reflective of my occupational world.
During this summer’s heat wave, I was walking door to door down scorching city streets. As I returned to my car, tired, sweaty, and dehydrated, one of my customers from earlier in the day popped his head out of the front door. He was a middle aged man with graying hair, thin and frazzled by nature. Like most everybody else that day, he was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. The few minutes I spent checking out his basement had been typical — moderate sized laundry pile, cluttered work bench, and (most importantly) no gas leaks. He had accompanied me through the bulkhead in the backyard and we made polite conversation about my technical instruments, which look like Ghostbuster paraphernalia, and a previous leak he had fixed some years ago. So when this unremarkable figure returned to my life I was a bit surprised.
“How was the afternoon?” he asked.
“Hot,” I said, having nothing more fitting to say.
“Want a cold beer?” At this point, had I been able to step back for just a hot second and employ the small amounts of common sense and D.A.R.E. training left in my head, I probably would have declined. But even though this man was all but a complete stranger, as well as a customer, and I was still on the clock—to decline would be rude, and if a gas man is nothing else, he is courteous.
Next thing I know, I am sitting in this man’s living room, on his Barcalounger, drinking a Genesee Cream Ale, and watching Leave it to Beaver on the USA network’s afternoon matinee. It might have been the funk cast off from the thick mustard brown shag, or the pile of empty Genesee cans next to his own chair, or possibly it was the several times he mentioned that all of his siblings had passed away, but that living room became eerie real fast. Suddenly, I couldn’t get back out into the blistering heat fast enough. The thick air pollution and ozone deficiency warnings became added bonuses (bonii?) to escaping this lair of dank.
I tried to slug back the last few sips of my rapidly warming Genesee, stomaching all but the true swill of the can. I began obviously shifting my weight and checking for personal belongings.
“Want another beer?” he asked.
Already on my feet, I declined. “No thanks, I should really get back to work. Do you want me to take care of those cans for you?”
He took my can, tipping it back and forth quickly. Damn. He had caught me.
“Come on, you’ve got to at least finish your beer.” Begrudgingly, I took the can back and pounded the last drops. Apparently satisfied, he took the can and added it to his growing hill of empties. Truly appreciative of his hospitality I thanked him for the beer and told him to try and keep cool. He told me to do the same and we shook hands by the door. It wasn’t until half my body was out the door and exposed to the oppressive heat that it hit me.
Suddenly it was the third grade, recess, my classmates and I had just learned a new trick, most likely from fourth graders. We bounced off one another like feral rodents, unabashedly excited from the sheer hilarity and grotesque thrill of each encounter until the bell rang, sending us back inside where we probably continued in secretive fashion.
Did that just actually happen? Did this game exist outside of third grade playground circles? Did that man just rub his middle finger against my wrist and palm while we shook hands? The answer was yes on all accounts. Wow. I walked back to my truck, a Ford F150 given to me by my grandfather, and took some time to digest what had just happened.
Now, we are all prone to questioning our sexuality, and I am certainly no different. I took gymnastics long after the age of four when most boys quit and wrestled in high school perfecting a move called the Saturday Night Ride. During one of many years at summer camp (a point in itself), a Marxist Canadian once peed on me in a fit of homoerotic confusion. And deep in the annals of my brain exists a faint memory of performing “The Good Ship Lollipop” in front of my classmates during music class. And make no mistake, there were accompanying hand motions. Despite all of these questionable memories, my gut reaction to this unmistakable pass quells any lingering uncertainties.
True to form, even this unsettling encounter resulted in peace of mind and a refreshing tweak of perspective. In fact, if presented with a similar opportunity in the future, I would probably accept the beer again. I would just know to pass on any mixed drink. Just another example of learning on the job.
—Chris Ackley
