Backhoe

When I was a young man, I floated from job to job for a couple of years before I finally settled down and stayed put at one place of employment. I stayed longer at some jobs than others, but generally it would take a few weeks or months to decide that I wanted to do something else. I tried working in a hardware store, but didn’t think much of the pay, or the hours. I tried welding, and was good at it, but didn’t like being trapped under that helmet all day every day. I even tried digging ditches. That’s what this story is about.
I had been welding on a production line, in a local factory for several months. It was hard, hot, dirty work and to top it off I had to do a swing shift. That meant two weeks of days then two weeks of nights. I really hated the night shift, and I didn’t like the day shift much better. After nine months I wanted out of that place, so I started looking for something outside.
I come from a farm background, so I was, and still am, quite versatile when it comes to driving or operating just about any kind of machinery. When I saw a listing at the local manpower office for a backhoe operator, I jumped on it. It turned out that a company from Kitchener Ontario had a contract to install underground phone lines in Ingersoll and they were advertising for heavy equipment operators. I applied and was hired over the phone. I gave my notice at the factory the next day. I couldn’t wait to be out of that place. I spent the next two weeks dreaming about sitting at the controls of a shiny new backhoe, looking down on the world from my lofty perch.
There was never any doubt in my mind that I would excel at this new job. After all I had been driving tractors, combines, backhoes, bulldozers and lots of other equipment ever since I was able to reach the pedals on Dad’s old Ford 8N tractor. Why wouldn’t I be successful at this new endeavor? Boy, was I in for a wake-up call.
I was to start on Monday at seven o’clock in the morning. It was raining, but I showed up at the designated spot, (a parking lot near the high school) at the designated time but nobody else was there. I waited for about two hours, before a van pulled up with five men inside.
The driver rolled down his window and shouted to me. "You Taylor?" he said.
"Yup, that’s me."
"Come back tomorrow," he ordered, "There’s no work today. Too wet."
"Same time tomorrow?" I asked, but it was too late. He had already rolled up his window and was backing away.
Tuesday morning at seven o’clock I was back in the parking lot. Again it was raining and again I waited. Again it was nearly nine, when the same van pulled in, but this time there was just the driver present.
Again he pulled up beside me and rolled down his window. "Might as well go home," he said, "Too wet again today."
I drove home wondering if it was ever going to stop raining. This was a great job though. I figured it didn’t get much better than getting paid for sitting at home every day watching it rain. I did want to get to that backhoe however.
The next day the sun was shining when I pulled into the parking lot at six forty-five. The same van pulled in at seven fifteen and out climbed the crew. They went to the back of the van and started unloading . . . shovels, picks, axes and . . . nothing else. Hmm, I wonder where I pick up my backhoe.
The guy who had driven the van each day motioned for me to come over. When I did, he handed me a shovel. He then explained that I was to dig a trench through the roots of a huge maple tree beside the street. Apparently there was some bylaw in Ingersoll, designed to protect the trees, that said we weren’t allowed to cut any root bigger than your thumb. We had to dig around them.
"I was hired to run a backhoe," I told him, "not to dig ditches by hand."
"Well," he said, "this is the only backhoe you’re gonna see today. That trees’ yours."
I had quit a good paying job in a factory to take this one so I started digging. I had car payments to make, and a baby on the way so I was determined to make the best of the situation. Besides, I was sure that this was only a temporary thing. After all I was hired to run a backhoe . . . Wasn’t I?
It was probably the worst day of work I had ever been subjected to. It was the middle of September, but the sun was beating down like it was July. I dug until my hands bled from the blisters. I hadn’t come prepared for this kind of labor. I didn’t wear a hat or bring gloves. I didn’t even have water with me. Still, I persevered and tried to keep up with the more experienced ditch diggers, but it was no use. Hour by hour I fell further and further behind. By noon the rest of the crew had all moved on to their second tree, but I was barely half way done my first.
I had only been out of school for about two years and as I said earlier we were working right by the local High School. The same High School I had attended for four years. Every time I looked up somebody I recognized was walking by, and they all recognized me too. Some of the kids even spoke to me. I was sure all of them were laughing, as they walked on down the street. I had been an honor’s student in High School and here I was digging a ditch. I wanted to climb right down in and pull the dirt in behind me. The only thing that kept me going was knowing that soon enough I would be sitting in a backhoe and it would be doing the hard work for me.
Somehow I made it through the day. At the end of the shift the foreman took me aside and gave me a little pep talk. "You did all right today," he said, "but tomorrow you’re going to have to work harder. You can’t be taking all day to get past one tree. Oh, and bring some gloves tomorrow man. Your hands are a mess."
No kidding. They hurt too. I didn’t need anybody to tell me that my hands were a mess. I could feel it with every heart beat, but I didn’t bother telling him that. I just stood there listening to his expert advice.
"Same time tomorrow?" I finally asked.
"Only if it’s not rainin’," he told me, "No sense in wastin’ gas comin’ over here and not gettin’ paid."
I nodded as I dragged my sorry, tired butt to my car and got in. I was half way home before it hit me. "Not gettin’ paid!" I shouted to nobody, "I’m not gettin’ paid for rain days."
What a shock that was. I though that everybody who worked on construction got paid for rain days. I made up my mind then and there to ask about that the next morning. So far that week I had only worked one day, and the forecast was calling for rain the rest of the week. If I didn’t get paid for rain days, I was going to have a very thin pay envelope. That night I didn’t sleep much, but it didn’t really matter because it was pouring rain Thursday morning and kept it up all day. At least it gave my hands a chance to heal.
Friday morning I woke up to a beautiful sunrise. By the time I got to the construction site it had become another beautiful late summer day. The rest of the crew was already there, sitting on the grass under the trees sipping coffee and waiting for seven o’clock. One of the first things I had been told was that you never start before seven and you never miss a break or lunch. I went to the van to get a shovel. The foreman was sitting in the drivers seat doing some paper work.
"Good morning," I said, "looks like another nice day."
He looked back and nodded at me. "Do ya think ya can pick up the pace a bit today?" he asked.
"I’ll sure try," I promised.
"Did ya bring some gloves today?"
"Yup."
"Well, I hope it helps. You’ve gotta do better than Wednesday or I can’t keep ya on."
"I will," I assured him, "My hands were rally hurting by the end of the day, but they feel a lot better today."
"I hope so," was all he said.
The other guys were heading for their respective trees and my watch told me it was seven o’clock, so I grabbed a shovel that looked like it had a nice smooth handle and picked a spot to start my first hole of the day.
The gloves helped, but I was stiff and sore from work that I wasn’t used to. It took me an hour or so to loosen up and get going well. Every time I looked up the foreman was watching me. I was sure that he was just waiting for his chance to let me go. I don’t exactly know why, but I had the feeling, and I still do that he didn’t like me and that he was looking for any excuse to fire me.
At about the same time as I started to get in the groove, the High School kids started walking by on their way to class. Once again I recognized way too many of them. I pulled my hat down low on my forehead hoping to keep them from noticing me, but some still spoke to me. I was sure again that they were laughing at me when they walked away.
I stewed all morning, wondering about the rain days and whether I would be paid for them. Finally, at lunch, I decided to approach the foreman about it.
"Excuse me," I said, "can I ask you something?"
He just nodded at me.
"Can we talk in private," I continued? The entire crew was sitting there under the same tree eating lunch.
"C’mon," he growled, "we can sit in the van."
I walked with him to the van. As soon as we were out of ear shot of the others the foreman looked at me and rolled his eyes. "OK," he growled "what’s so important."
"It’s something you said the other day," I told him, "about the rain days. Do I get paid for them or not?"
That was the only time I saw that man laugh. "You have to work two hours before you get paid for the day. That’s why we all get in the van and drive up here every day even if it looks like rain. By the time we drive up and drive back we’ve got our two hours. You don’t."
"So you’re saying I don’t get paid?"
"You are dense aren’t you?" he snapped, "I told you. Only if you work two hours in the day before you get rained out. Anything else?"
"No. Thanks," I muttered, "that’s it."
I wasn’t very happy that afternoon as I dug in the hot sun. My hands were still sore and the gloves only helped so much. By mid afternoon many of the blisters had broken open again and were bleeding inside my gloves. I was afraid to take them off because I didn’t want to see how bad, I was sure, they looked. I hung in until the bell rang dismissing the kids from school. When they started to come past agin on their way home, I had taken about all I could take. The foreman had been riding me ever since lunch and even though I was keeping up with the other workers, he seemed to think I should be going faster.
At about two o’clock I put my shovel down and went looking for the foreman. For the first time that afternoon he wasn’t breathing down my neck. I found him in the van sitting there with the air conditioner on full blast. The thought suddenly struck me that he did an awful lot of paperwork for a guy who was in charge of only six men, but I thought better of mentioning it. Instead I asked about my future with the company.
"I was hired here to run a backhoe," I told him, "When do you think I could reasonably expect that to happen?"
He looked at me as though I had suddenly grown a second head. "You were hired here to dig ditches . . . by hand!" he said.
"No," I insisted, "the posting at manpower clearly said ‘backhoe operator.’"
"They all say that you moron," he sneered, "Nobody would take the job if they knew they were going to be a ditch digger. You really are stupid, Man."
That was it. I had been called stupid by this guy one too many times. I dropped my shovel on the ground beside the van. "I’m done," I said.
"See you Monday if it’s not rainin’," he called after me as I stomped toward my car.
I stopped dead in my tracks, turned on a heel and stomped back. "Oh you won’t see me Monday, or any other day for that matter," I fumed, "I’ve had enough of you and of this job. I quit. Oh and by the way, I don’t think I’m the stupid one here . . . MAN!"
As I drove away, I couldn’t help wondering where my next paycheck was going to come from, but I also knew that I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life with a shovel in my hands every waking minute. I also knew that I didn’t have to put up with being called stupid, or a moron by anybody.
That was the extent of my career as a backhoe operator.