January 16, 2005
Up, Freddie
When I was a child my father added a den onto our house. My grandfather owned a laundry and dairy supply company on Indian Street, and my father got one of the drivers, Freddie, to moonlight delivering building materials to the house. At least I think he was moonlighting. Seems to me he was delivering supplies during the old 9 to 5, with my grandfather none the wiser.
At any rate, Freddie's company truck had an elevator lift gate on the back, so after the supplies were unloaded we would stand on the lift and cry "Up, Freddie!" When he had the lift at bed level we would cry "Down, Freddie!" This would go on for hours if we didn't lose our concentration to the errant butterfly.
I've often felt bad about that, and figured that kind, gentle black man probably wanted to strangle us little blackguards. And then today it hit me: Shit! Freddie didn't care. He was on the clock. Up Freddie beat the hell out of unloading tons of laundry and dairy supplies. And given my workaday of late I could fucking groove on a few days of eight hours of "Up, Velociman! Down, Velociman!" I could handle that shit with ease.
My bet is you're just wishing you get freddie up!
Posted by: Michele at January 17, 2005 7:05 AMYou mean those are the secret commands??
Posted by: Christina at January 17, 2005 8:58 AMPoor old Freddie. He had an excuse for fucking off all day.
I've had to invent mine lately.
Posted by: Acidman at January 17, 2005 9:10 AMThe farther I am sucked into the belly of the corporate beast the more I appreciate and respect a daily routine at which you can finish a day's work and say to yourself "job well done." Freddy had it good. He knew his role, enjoyed his autonomy, and was not in imminent danger of being downsized. I understand your wistfulness completely. I think I am going to start bagging groceries. At least at the end of the day with that gig, all the shit is in the bag. Done. Finito. Go home and watch the game on TV.
Posted by: rankin' rob at January 17, 2005 12:15 PMBack when my cousin was about 3 feet tall, he had the cushy job of workin' the hoist at the bulk barn. Lil' bastid made only 50 cents less an hour then I did for haulin' and rackin' the shit. We'd pull the trailer off the harvester, hook up up to the White, and haul it back to the bulk barns. Once we arrived, he' grab the handle of the hoist and wait for ol' cousin 'Neck to holla up or down. Two simple commands which he could, and did, execute rightfully with the magig buttons.
Sometimes I wonder how many times that 'kid' laughed his ass of when I left at the end of the summer about how he only made 50 cents less per hour then I did. Hell, he didn't even have half the vices Ii did yet. He made 2.25, I made 2.75. You ain't gonna get rich workin' a 'bacca field. But you'll have fun, and have memories. I guess thats what's important. Up, down... maybe that's why I like coachin' football....
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