Sweating ever so slightly, he, like a broken record, repeatedly mumbles,” Ahm…hmm….” His tongue at the ready, he licks the sweat trickling down the groove on the top of his mouth. His face goes sour from the saltiness of the tear-drop shaped bulb of sweat. With boots kicking into the dirt, the sand, grit, and dirt go twirling around in a merry-go-round type whirlwind skittering across the foundation filled gravel. Letting out a cough, he cautiously grips some plywood and nails, as if feeling if they were the perfect set. Looking at the blue-print, accidentally losing grip of the plywood sends it twirling through the crisp, foggy air and shattering on contact with his boot. Flinching for a mere millisecond, he screams in agonizing pain and frustration, making all employees look at this adult, acting like a 3-year old during a temper-tantrum. He throws his hard-hat down onto the ground whilst kicking it flying under his workbench. Knocking over his toolbox, with hammers, wrenches, screws and screwdrivers soaring through the air, his face violently switches from a soft, pasty peach to a burning red tomato colored patch of skin.
Hard Day's Work
October 7, 2009