The Fine Art of Idiocy
Author’s Note: This post isn’t intended to be how-to. Rather, it’s intended to be a why-not. The stunts we can pull — and the trouble we can get into — are limited only by our imaginations. And if you’d known Grandpa O’Brien, none of what you’re about to read would surprise you.
To the south of us, between our home and the next one down the street, there are two empty building lots. Across the field behind our home, running east, and on the hill that rises up from the field, there’s a street that runs parallel to ours. Two new houses have been built on that street. The sewer lines from those houses are going to run west, through the building lots to our south, and connect to the main sewer line on our street.
When the excavators came to start digging the trench for the west-running sewer line, they encountered the shale that comprises so much of the ground where we live. (We encountered that when the foundation was dug for our sunroom 18 months ago and when we make any attempts to plant anything in the yard.) As a result, I imagine there was a conversation that might have gone something like this one between all the contractors involved. (Fast forward to 10:25 for the conversation.) And, so, the decision was made to blast.
For days afterward, there was a bulldozer out on the empty lot, dozing away the earth to expose the shale. The bulldozer was followed by an enormous rig that drilled holes in the shale, west to east, in which the explosive charges were to be placed. During the morning of the day the charges were to be detonated, someone called Anne to say they’d be blasting that afternoon, and she’d get another call 15 minutes before they were to be detonated. When she let me know she’d received that call, I went outside and walked up to a member of the explosives crew.
“Hi,” I said. “Can I help?”
“Help?”
“You know. Help. Lend a hand, be of assistance, hold up my end, pitch in.”
“What the hell are you doing here?!” he asked incredulously. “We’re about to set off a series of explosive charges!”
“Yeah. I know,” I said. “I already have my earplugs in. But don’t you need somebody to yell, ‘Fire in the hole!?’ I want to do that.”
What?!” he asked again.
“Dude,” I said. “Don’t you watch TV? There’s always a guy on TV who yells, ‘Fire in the hole!’ when somebody’s about to blast. I just want to be that guy.”
I have to give that guy from the explosives crew credit. There was no swearing at me. No threats were made. No guns were brandished. Then again, I’m an astute enough reader of death stares that I opted to scram of my own volition.
Put the Shove in Shovel
After the blasting concluded, the excavation resumed. A backhoe showed up on the lot. As the backhoe dug and dumped mounds of earth aside the trench, the bulldozer that had remained onsite pushed it out of the way to make room for more earth as it was dug.
I went into our garage, took my trusty Contractors Choice shovel from its hook on the wall, slung it jauntily over my shoulder, and marched across the lot like the good soldier I am to where the backhoe and bulldozer operators were working. When they saw me walking toward them, they turned off their machines.
“Do you guys need any help?” I asked with deadly earnestness.
“Who the hell are you?” one of them asked me.
“I’m the guy next door,” I said. “My wife and I bought that house …”
“Are you nuts?” the other one asked me.
“Well, I haven’t been certified … yet,” I said. “Neither has it been officially ruled out.”
They shook their heads and turned their machines back on.
Before I went to talk to them, I’d worked out the fact that I could move about a half a cubic foot to one-and-a-half cubic feet of dirt per shovelful versus the 27 to 54 cubic feet per shovelful the backhoe could move. And I was fully prepared to tell them I didn’t presume to compete with heavy earth-moving equipment. I just wanted to do my part. But they didn’t seem as if they’d be receptive to the idea or that information just then. Besides, they wouldn’t have heard me over the noise from their machines. So, I took my shovel and went home with a hangdog expression on my face, doing my level best to look somewhere between crestfallen and despondent. Anne, to her credit, didn’t even hint at divorce.
The Morals of the Story
Unlike most stories, which typically have one moral, this one has two: First, to master the fine art of idiocy, it’s generally best to administer some sort of test to determine if people have senses of humor before you pull any weird shit on them. Second, not all shovels — or the people who operate them — are created equal. But I think that one may be self-evident.
And for safety’s sake, regardless of what Moe said to Curly, remember dynamite does not always blow down.
Fire in the hole!
Originally Published on https://www.bizcatalyst360.com/category/lifecolumns/notes-to-self/
