It was cold this morning; only
forty degrees, but with thick fog driving the cold through my gloves, biting my
hands. The fog dissipated, suddenly,
just before eleven o’clock. I drilled
holes into the concrete ceiling of the third floor, then hammered anchors into
the holes. At the same time, I watched
the sun break out and pour down on the concrete below me. Soon there will be walls to keep the sun out,
windows to let it in. It will be colder
then.
Against the bright blue sky, I
watched two bathrooms sail slowly past, lit up by the new sunlight. I wondered; how many women have to search for
the bathroom at their workplace not once, on their first day of work, but again and again as it moves about
from one place to another? I always
smile at the sight of portable toilets, suspended from a 15-storey tower-crane,
swooping through the air at the end of their rigging. It makes me happy. There is something silly about the whole
thing.
We call them Bucky’s, whether or
not they were manufactured by Bucky’s Portable Toilets. It’s a nicer name than portajohn, or portable
toilet, or toilet; not as ridiculous
as “bathroom”—it's a four-by-four plastic enclosure overtop a sewage holding tank.
Here are my protocols. I open the door and check for
toilet-paper—the men often don’t use any, so the fact that a man just stepped
out of it doesn’t mean that it’s okay to use.
I step in, close the door behind me, open the lid to check the seat,
then close it again. There are often
little things in my pockets that I’ve forgotten about, and I don’t want to be
one of the many construction workers who have lost tools into the tank as they
sat down. Or worse; one of the few
construction workers who’ve lost and then found their tools. All I can say is, it would have to be very,
very expensive before I’d even dream of going fishing for it.
I try not to look at the floor; men
miss. I lower my pants below the level
of the toilet seat, then open the lid. As
I sit down, I’m struck by the irrational fear that the Bucky is hooked up to a
crane at this very moment, and at any moment I’ll go flying through the air
with a bucket of humin waste swishing beneath my naked hind end. I finish up, stand up, close the lid behind
me, and only then pull up my pants, and possibly pick up whatever random tool
decided to jump out of my pockets despite my precautions.
It’s more complicated in winter,
especially when I’m in overalls and have to take my coat off. Soon, drifts of snow will creep in through
the seams of the door and the plastic roof, and out muddy boots will turn it
into a brown slush. Occasionally the
blue-juice septic fluid will freeze, and the men’s urinal will be filled with
rock-salt to keep it from closing up entirely.
It’s not intimidating to use the Bucky in the cold, if you’re wondering;
cold is omnipresent and for some reason I feel colder if I have to pee.
There is alcohol spray mounted on
the wall, which they may or may not have refilled. I squirt three times into my hands, then step
out and slather it around until it dries or freezes to my skin. Better still are the wet-wipes in my lunch-box. I also keep a spare shoelace, the small
women’s earplugs I have to buy special, knuckle-bandaids, and antibiotic ointment. There’s always something after my hands; nails imbedded in
the ceiling that make sneak-attacks, slices from
sheet-metal, and an occasional smashed finger as I pound in a drop-in bolt-anchor. Each injury
will find some way to get infected unless I treat immediately, then cover with
duct-tape to keep the bandaids on through the rest of the workday.
I finish the day with concrete dust
in my hair, in my nostrils, and sprinkled liberally across my shoulders, shins, and
boot-tops. There’s a black, steely
grease on my gloves, or my hands if I’ve been unwise enough to take the gloves
off—ground into the cuts and calluses, lined deep beneath my fingernails,
impossible to get out. My doctor keeps a cautious eye on my tetanus shots; germs from the Bucky seem the least of the grime. The only remedy is the hot shower at home.
I see a brand-new Bucky sailing by,
dark green, no dirt on the outside. They
drop it close by; just past the mobile crane, around the stack of rebar and
the short C-can, facing the dirt road.
It’s the little things in life; when I turn the corner and reach to open
the door, I see the placard on the front that says “Women.” Hurrah!
It’s my very own Bucky.
