I Am Most Disappointed At The Polite Construction Workers Outside My Apartment

I’m from rural Arkansas. It was a five-minute drive to the nearest gas station. I live in St. Louis now, which is a bigger city, but I don’t work downtown or anything like that. I’d love to work down there or live in a bigger city like New York, but haven’t had such opportunities. One of the things I’d love to see everyday would be these big, surly, colorful construction workers, with their loud, voracious tones and distinct language of cat-calling and leg slapping.

It may never come to be, despite my proximity to any large city.

I woke up a couple of mornings ago to some construction workers rattling scaffolds and unfurling long ladders to do some work on the bricks of the apartment directly adjacent to mine. It’s not everyday you walk into the kitchen in your upstairs apartment to the see the back of the head of a man in the window. I was instantly ENTHRALLED. I work from home sometimes, and on these days, I COULD NOT HAVE BEEN MORE EXCITED TO DO SO. I went immediately to the restroom and q-tipped my ears for maximum audio reception, opened the windows (despite the Midwestern chill [guh]), and was ready to roll on the floor due to the ribald hilarity delivered by these salty veterans of the high seas of air.

You wouldn’t believe how polite, warm, and plain jane delightful these construction workers are. It’s unbearably nice.

I live pretty close to an adorable park that is nearly an exact mile in circumference, perfect for jogging or taking in the aesthetic of a lovely autumn. That being said, you get plenty of lovely ladies jogging by my apartment and subsequently, by these construction workers. NOT. ONE. CAT. CALL. I’d like to think I could hire a lady of the night to just do squat thrusters in front of that building, and maybe HOPEFULLY invite one howdoyado, but these guys seem resilient.

And the language? The language has been neither colorful nor even that offensive. Construction workers are supposed to be the last anthropomorphized pillar against political correctness, which many people decry and hate for its obvious obliviousness and fakery (not me! I love everyone a sane and not creepy amount!). I’m looking for curse words and epithets I’ve never even heard of, like the first time I saw Gran Torino. “GET OFF MY DRILL, YOU LIPPELDINKELED PUMPKIN DEGGDER!” Whaaaaaa? I’m not hearing any of that.

I heard “Oh, crap!” a little while ago. Didn’t sound serious. I also heard the following, harrowing exchange:

“Whoa, I’m sorry man.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it.”

YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. There was more surliness to be had in the diamond mines of the Seven Dwarves. You don’t think they were cracking wise about that fine, pale, tall lady who they had cooking and cleaning their digs? Yeah, right.

If anybody’s got any tips about how I can maybe rile up the inner construction worker in these potters and carpenters who are hanging outside my windows right now, let me know. Because this is getting to be a plain ole vanilla snooze fest, and fast.

Published by Zack Stovall

Writer living in New York, NY.

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