Some of them are notorious tweakers. Nobody epitomizes the cowboy-outlaw biker more than the ironworkers, who are wired on Black Beauties they sell on breaks.
Bulldozers rumble over loose red soil, kicking up dust and spewing acrid exhaust. Machinery clamors and clanks in pandemonium. Heavy metal blasts from a boom box with such fury that it overpowers the machine gun roar of jackhammers.
The ironworkers sing along at the top of their lungs as they climb the latticework, and Dave leans on his shovel, staring in disbelief at the pink slip in his hand.
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Published in the Santa Fe Literary Review July 2013. Thank you Fiction Editor Meg Tuite!
Captures the "what have you done for me lately" nature of building America.
Love this-
"The ironworkers sing along at the top of their lungs as they climb the latticework, and Dave leans on his shovel, staring in disbelief at the pink slip in his hand."
Great emotional and visual connection for me here!
Nothing wrong with ironworkers that a little speed can't fix. Never saw Black Beauties on the job, since most working boilermakers could afford pure coke, but I get it.
A grunt's job is not a happy one. *
Good writing. *
Oh, yeah....*
Short but deadly.*
Black beauties and pink slips: great capture of the real terms of the working life.
Well done. You paint a good, believable picture here. *
I really love this, the macro to micro structure in particular. It was like a slow zoom in.*
Thanks for taking the time to read and for your comments everyone! Much appreciated!