Nathan Alling Long

The History of Things

I stand in the heat holding a yellow and black sign that reads SLOW as cars wiz by.

College Boy, hired for summer road repair, told me the sign should read SLOWLY.  “Slow,” he said, “is an adjective, like a slow river. Slowly is an adverb, like drive slowly.” He talks like that, like he’s already a teacher.

I tell him I don’t think it matters how the word’s spelt, these damn drivers keep driving too fast.

The first week he started, Mike, the foreman, told me to show the kid the ropes. “You’re good at teaching,” Mike said, though I was pretty sure he picked my ‘cause I’m the only woman on crew.

That morning, I eyed the boy up.  He was tall and in shape, in a recreational sort of way, but I knew that first day he hadn’t done much manual labor. I told him to take it easy, that eight hours on crew would wipe him out.  At lunch, he could barely lift his sandwich. It’d just hit ninety degrees. He took off his hat, wiped his brow of sweat, and said, “Man, it’s hot out here.”

“Wow,” Billy said, “you must be in college.”

“I am,” he said, surprised Billy had guessed right.

We all laughed, but he didn’t get it. Like the wind, some things are too obvious to see.

After that day, we called him College Boy. I don’t even remember his real name anymore. When you get a crew name, it sticks. Like the sloppy paver we called Tarboy. Or my name, V., which is technically short for Vicky, though I know they guys think something else.

After I taught College Boy the ropes, I knew what would happen. I’m no dummy. And here it is, mid-July, and he’s hanging with the other guys. Right now, it’s five of them watching Lee jackhammer old pavement loose while I stand fifty feet away holding up this damn sign.

This morning, Mike handed it to me and said to me, “People pay attention to a woman.”

“Job should go to the newest,” I reminded him. “College Boy.”

“Yeah,” Mike said, “but drivers see you and think, We don’t want to hit her. With a guy, they won’t care.”

I shook my head and took the sign. I’ve been holding it up all morning, though in this heat, it’s like it’s holding up me. I hide behind its shadow and look at the tall trees beyond the highway, wishing I was beneath them.

When I glace back at the boys, laughing and doing nothing, I wonder if College Boy is making out okay, or if he’s pissing them off with some newbie mistake or by talking too much.

Last week during break, he was telling us how macadam was named after some Scottish guy who layered different grades of gravel. Billy rolled his eyes, but I thought it was interesting. I’ve worked nine years on crew and never thought about how macadam got its name.

“That what you learn in school,” Billy said finally, “is the history of things? Out here, you learn to make things.”

Everyone smiled and College Boy shut up.

I was thinking: if, like College Boy says, slow describes a thing, what it describes is this job. Or maybe it’s me who’s slow? I wonder why I’m wasting my life holding up a sign everyone ignores. Why aren’t I in college, so I can get some office job?

Then I think, Who am I kidding? I’m thirty-eight. Plus, who wants to sit in class with a bunch of 20-year-olds?

Around noon, a BMW zips by doing 80. I almost throw my sign at him. “Slow down,” I yell as he sails down the highway. We’ve lost a couple guys to drivers like that. Larry’s in a wheelchair, Pat passed away after a hemorrhage to the brain. People want the magic bullet of the highway, but don’t think about how it gets made.

Anyhow, that’s when I realize the sign is right: Slow as in Slow Down.

Today at lunch, I see College Boy sitting by himself, and sense he’s done something wrong, Since I’ve been alone all morning, I sit beside him.

“How’s it going?” I say, opening my cooler.

“I messed up,” he says.

“How’s that?”

“I put my hard hat on the paver. When it backed up, the hat fell and was crushed into the tar.”

“And now you don’t have a hat,” I say.

“Mike’s getting me another, but he wasn’t happy.”

I nod. He should keep track of his hat by now. A bit slow, I think and consider offering him the sign.

“Want a Snickers?” I say instead. “It’s probably melted, but they still taste good.”

“No thanks,” College Boy says. “I’ve had enough snickers for a day.”

I laugh. “That’s a good one. But don’t worry, they’ll get over it. It’s not like they never made mistakes. Once, Lee lost his keys in the tar and we dug up twenty feet of road to find them.”

College Boy smiles, says, “Thanks.”

That night I go to the bar with my high school friend Ellie. Sometimes we let our boyfriends come along, if they behave, but I don’t have one currently and hers—a dude I call Slacker—doesn’t behave. Plus, eight hours working with a bunch of boys is enough.

Ellie does hair at a downtown salon, Curl Up and Dye. She always looks like she’s stepped out of a magazine. I sit across from her with my sunburnt hands and chipped nails and wondered what people think of us together.

We bitch about work, share stories, though I don’t tell her about College Boy. I keep him to myself.

Tonight, I down enough Buds to kill the ache in my knees and feet. I know I’ll wake stiff tomorrow. Ellie says my aches might be what her mother had, early onset arthritis, but I tell her it’s from holding that damn sign for eight hours.

“What sign?”

“Slow.”

Ellie laughs. “’Slow,’ huh? That describes my day. When no one comes in, I sometimes feel like putting a bullet in my brain.”

“Tell me about it,” I say and order another beer.

The next day, Mike gives me the sign again, and, despite College Boy’s mess up, lets him work with the crew. I’m hung over, so I don’t mind being left alone. Plus, it’s overcast. I can survive the day. I watch the guys tease College Boy, setting their hat on the ground then asking if it’s his.

At lunch, I ask him how he is surviving.

“They’re relentless,” he says.

“Well, hats off to you for dealing with them.”

“You made a pun!” he says, suddenly cheery.

“I did?” I say, but then I get it.

He looks at me. “I don’t know how you deal with it—as a woman, I mean.”

“Lots of beer,” I say.

He smiles. He’s cute when he smiles. If I were ten years younger, I could see going out with him, though we’re nothing alike. Then I think of Ellie, how we’re not alike, but still close. “Want a snickers?” I ask.

“I don’t want to take your food,” he says, which I know means the opposite. I give him the candy bar and watch the muscles in his arms move as he unwraps it.

He takes a bite, then says, “Hey, I realized the other day that slow is also a verb. Like Slow down.”

“Yeah?” I say as though I hadn’t already figured that out—I figure he needs to feel good about something today. “So we don’t have to go changing the signs then?” I say, grinning.

He smiles. “I guess not.”

That night I invite Ellie over for pizza. She brings a bottle of wine.

“No beer?” I say. “Who’s every heard of pizza and wine?”

“I have to watch my figure,” she says.

“Slacker say something rude again?”

“I just want to look good,” she says, though I know I’ve hit oil. I’d say something, but she knows I know, and that’s enough.

“What about you?” she asks, opening the bottle.

I stall. I can’t lie to her, but I can avoid the truth, which is only maybe that I have a crush. But I’ve had lots of crushes before. Few turn into dates, and fewer still boyfriends, with a no-thank-you verdict rolling in before a year’s over. Ellie knows my type: would-be cowboys, musicians, drifters—guys who charm you on the first date, are wild in bed, then start borrowing money or disappearing after a couple months.

“No one whose dating material,” I finally say.

Without a pause, Ellie asks, “So who is he?”

“Whose who?” I say.

“The guy who’s not dating material? An eighty-year-old millionaire?”

“I wish,” I say, taking a gulp of wine. I linger in the last second of my private crush, then I let it out. “Other end of the spectrum.”

“Dirt poor?”

“Probably, but I meant young.”

“Of age?” Ellie asks.

“Barely. In college, so maybe some day rich?”

“And some day older, too,” Ellie says, as though that solves the issue. Why’d I think she wouldn’t be on my side? Still, I feel like I’ve betrayed College Boy, or maybe myself.

“Fun,” Ellie says. “Summer’s half over, so you might as well go for it. What’s there to lose? I’ll do your hair if you want. You’re due for a trim, or are you going au natural? Either way, fun.”

“Well, fun to think about anyway,” I say. I can’t decide if telling her has made it all seem more real or less.

“Whatcha thinking?” Ellie asks as she pours us another glass of wine.

“How disastrous it would be to date this guy.” I pause and swallow. “God,” I say. “I don’t even know his real name.”

“So find out.”

I tell Mike I’m not holding the SLOW sign no more. Period. “Okay,” he says, hands raised in defense.  He gives it to College Boy, finally.

“V!” Billy says as I join the boys. “We missed you.”

Mike gives him a look, but I can tell Billy means it. He and I have worked here the longest.

Now I’m where the action is, I look down the road at College Boy standing there alone. Hope you enjoy life in the slow lane, I think, before Lee catches me looking and says, “You miss your old job, or just being a cougar?”

Everyone laughs.

“Groar!” I roar at him with my hands raised like cat claws. “Oh wait,” I say then, “you’re too damn old.” I turn away, satisfied with the laugh I hear from the crew. But inside I’m thinking, Be careful. They’re a pack and can sniff out a weakness—and desire.

By lunch, Lee’s comment seems to have washed over. It helps that I attacked. Still, I’m cautious when College Boy sits next to me

“What’s your real name again?” I ask, too numbed by the heat to think of a cleverer way to ask.

“Benjamin,” he says, “but I go by Ben.”

“Right,” I say. “And what are you studying?”

“American History.”

“That’s cool,” I say, wondering if I sound like one of his parent’s friends. “Good choice,” I add, “you know, since you live here and all.”

“I’m interested in pre-revolutionary war,” he says. “There were these communes back then, where convicts and Indians and slaves all lived together.”

“Really?” I say.

“Yeah, and in Tennessee, a group formed that didn’t want to be ruled by the British or the US. They tried to form their own country.”

“You know your history,” I say—though of course I wouldn’t know if what he said was true or not.

Ben gets quite then and eats his food. I wonder if I sounded too enthusiastic, or patronizing.  I eat beside him, washing my sandwich down with coffee. “So, you have a girlfriend?” I finally ask.

“No,” he says. “Do you?”

I laugh. I’m used to people thinking I’m a dyke—working road crew, owning a truck, having short hair. I’m no longer offended.

“No girlfriend,” I say, “or boyfriend.”

Ben doesn’t respond, so we finish our lunch in silence. I wonder if he’s interested, then tell myself he couldn’t be, then go back to wondering what if?

That night, I call Ellie and tell her his name is Ben, and he doesn’t have a girlfriend.

“So you’re really doing this, huh?”

“You were the one pushing it,” I remind her.

“I know, I know,” Ellie says. “But still. He’s like, what, twenty? You’re thirty-eight. So what’s the rule? Half your age plus seven…that’d be…well, close enough.”

“I’m getting mixed signals here,” I say.

“From him or me?” Ellie asks.

“Both, but you at the moment.”

“Sorry, Sweetie. I think it sounds like a fun thing. Really. And he doesn’t sound any less mature than Clay.” Clay is Slacker’s other name.

“No, he isn’t,” I say, realizing I can muster up my own defenses.

“Now honey, don’t get testy,” Ellie says.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a costumer,” I snap back. Ellie and I never fight, and I’m startled by my words.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“I’m sorry, too,” I say back, then she says Clay’s at her door and she better go.

The next morning as I drive to work, I ask myself, What are you doing? Seriously, what are you doing? I’m sleepy, and no amount of coffee seems to get a reply out of me. But then I park my truck and see Ben biking up, and I just feel a smile stretch across my face.

Don’t I have the right to feel happy? I ask myself.

Again, no reply.

I know I have to play it cool, though, or the guys will be on my case. I decide to wait a few days before talking again. When I do, I ask Ben if he’s ever gone out drinking with the crew.

“They’ve never invited me,” he says. “I guess I’m not part of their world.”

And am I a part of it? I wonder, but I don’t ask. Instead, I say, “Well, if you want to grab a beer, let me know. I can show you my local bar, Le Lounge.”

“Le Lounge?” he says, laughing. “Is that really the name?”

“Yeah,” I say

“That’s funny,” he says. “I definitely want to check it out.”

I smile, but then have doubts. Will he just gawk at the place, make fun of it?

“Well, let me know,” I say and leave it at that.

I sweat the next few days in silence. After work on Friday, Ben asks if this would be a good night.

“Sure,” I say.

“Cool,” he says, getting on his bike. “I’ll google it and meet you there.”

“It’s nothing fancy,” I warn him, thinking, Me nor the bar.

“So how’d it go?” Ellie asks when I go to her place on Sunday for a trim.

“Alright,” I said. “We split a pitcher, gossiped about the crew. He asked about the bar. We kept it light.”

“Hmm,” Ellie says, holding her scissors near my ear, as though she might poke me if my answers aren’t satisfying. “Does he know you like him? Did you give him a hint? Or was this a work-buddy night?”

“Not sure,” I say. “It’s hard to hit on a boy.”

“He’s in college. Don’t you think he hits on girls? He knows the ropes.”

“I don’t know what they learn in college,” I say. “He seems sheltered. Anyway, I could be his mother.”

“But you’re not,” Ellie says, winking into the mirror. She snips a bit then asks, “Did he say he liked you?”

“He seemed happy we went out.”

“Not the same,” Ellie says, shaking her head. “But, he sounds like a sweet kid.”

“As in ‘too innocent’?” I ask.

“As in ‘beyond our reach.’”

I feel a pain in my chest and shut my eyes as Ellie runs her fingers through my hair. I realize she was kind enough to say ‘out of our reach’, to include herself.

Ellie sets down her scissors until I open my eyes. “You know,” she says, “if you really want this, push harder.”

Monday morning, before I can ask Ben if he wants to hit Le Lounge next Friday, he says, “You got a haircut.”

“Yeah,” I say, brushing my hand through what feels too little hair.

“It looks nice,” he adds.

I smile and tell him I forgot something back in my truck. I don’t want him or the crew to see I’m blushing. Careful, I tell myself, as I look in the rearview mirror. I breathe. He’s going to be gone in a month, I tell myself, but you’re going to be working with these guys for years.

Then I think of what Ellie said. I mean, what else am I doing this summer?

At lunch, I sit alone, knowing I’m too excited to keep cool in front of Ben. He comes up anyway, says, “I got something for you.”

As silly as it sounds, I can’t help but think Flowers? A ring?

He pulls out a snickers bar and hands it to me.

I say thanks, as I try to figure out what this means: is he repaying a debt or saying he likes me?

All afternoon, I watch him shovel gravel and imagine him without his safety vest and T-shirt. We could have fun, I want to tell him, then wonder if I have the nerve to say it to his face.

On Wednesday, I ask if he wants to grab a beer again on Friday.

“Sure,” he says.

Sure as in yes, I wonder, or sure as in why not? I’ve never paid so much attention to words. Maybe I should go back to school.

On Friday, he gets a flat biking to work and asks if I could give him a ride home.

Has he forgotten our date? Or is this part of it?

“You still want to hit Le Lounge?” I ask.

“Oh, right, sure,” he says.

(He’s forgotten; I’m his mother.)

But when we slide into the booth at the bar he says, “Let me get the beer this time.”

(He remembers; I am his date.)

“That’s sweet of you,” I say. “Your mother taught you well. Where is she—I mean, where do your folks live?”

“About an hour way,” Ben says, “but I only see them a couple times a year. Now I’m in college, I feel a million miles away.”

I nod.

“I have my own apartment, so I don’t have to go home on break like most kids. That’s why I’m working, to pay the rent.”

“Right,” I say. I want to ask how old his mother is, but I don’t dare. And what if I knew? It’d only make me more chicken. “Where’d you say your apartment is?”

“Near campus,” he says.

“I’d like to see it some time.”

“Well, you’re taking me home tonight, right?”

I swallow, then remember his bicycle in the back of my truck.  “Right.”

“You can see it then.”

“Great.”

We drink a pitcher. Time passes easy, like a stone dropping to the bottom of a lake. When it suddenly lands, we both seem to know it, the pitcher empty and the conversation run dry. Ben pays, I use the bathroom, and then we head to my truck.

This is it, I tell myself.  

Or it’s not, I reply to myself. He’s just a college boy.

But then we go to open the passenger door at the same time and our hands overlap. There’s a second before I pull away. Still, I can’t help but think our hands are like decoys for our bodies. I get in the truck and start it up. I’m drunk, but no drunker than other nights. I can drive, even to a less familiar part of town. And once we’re there, well—who knows?

Ben talks the whole way, and I make a point of only looking over at him twice, otherwise keeping my eyes on the road. Still, I notice how he’s even cuter when drunk—but I wonder, is that because of him or me?

Does it matter? I ask myself.

No, it doesn’t, I respond. It doesn’t matter at all.

At his place, I follow Ben up the stairs as he carries his bike effortlessly off his shoulder. With one hand as he unlocks the door and turns on the light. “Here it is,” he says.

“Nice,” I say, though it seems sparse. There’re books scattered on the floor and dining table, one of the few pieces of furniture.

“You read a lot,” I say, and I think of Billy’s comment: “You must be in college.”

“Every night,” Ben says, proudly. “It’s the only way to get ahead on fall classes.” He sounds like a teacher.

I nod and ask, “Can I get the whole tour?”

“Sure,” he says, and leads me to the kitchen, which I could already see from the front door. “Kitchen,” he says, then leads me by the bathroom. I peek in and see that it’s clean—a good sign.

“And bedroom,” Ben says, opening the door and turning on the light. There’s a single mattress on the floor and a stack of milk crates with clothes neatly folded inside. By the window is another table and chair. “My desk,” he says, “but I never use it.”

“I like it,” I say. There’re several more books on the bed, open, their pages laying before us like naked bodies.

I sit down on the mattress, which seems impossibly small, then wait to see what he’ll do. I count to ten, but he just stands there, smiling, like he’s happy to simply show someone his life.

“Real comfortable,” I say again, and lean back on the pillow against the wall.

“Thanks,” Ben says, his hands in his pockets.

I close my eyes and open my mouth slightly, then count to ten again. I figure he can’t be that slow, but nothing happens. Finally, I glance up at him. He’s still standing there, smiling, looking at me like I’m something that got misplaced in his room.

“You sleep here alone?” I say.

“Yeah,” he says, “but it’s comfortable.”

Okay, I think and sit up.  “Well, I better go,” I say.

“Ok, V.,” he says, his hands still in his pockets.

We walk back to the living room.

“Thanks for the ride,” he says. “Good thing it’s Friday. I’ll have the weekend to fix the tire.”

“Yeah,” I say and take one last look around. “Well, good night.”

“Goodnight,” Ben says. He holds out his hand and I shake it, because what else am I to do?

I slip out into the night and hear the door close behind me. As I walk down his metal stairs to the parking lot, I feel something burning inside me. I get back to the truck before it erupts. Then I crawl in, put my head on the steering wheel and start to cry.

I’m thirty-eight, and drunk, and all I have is this god-damn truck.

I sit there in the parking lot a long while, not wanting to go home, not knowing how I’ll fill the weekend by myself, or how I’ll go back to work on Monday. I don’t even want to see Ellie and tell her about the night.

Finally, I wipe my eyes, put the truck in gear and pull out, keeping my blurry vision on the road. I don’t know where I’m going, I just drive. Out of town, out onto the highway. I drive slowly, carefully, saying to myself the only thing I can think of that comforts me: I made this road. I made this, I made this, I made this.

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Nathan Alling Long: “‘The History of Things’ is a part of a collection I’m working on titled Conveyance, about America and its relationship to roads/highways. Though I now call Philadelphia my home, I grew up in Maryland, worked for several years on a commune in Tennessee, and have lived in Virginia, DC, Ohio, Alabama, and Oregon. Over the years, I’ve crossed the US over 30 times, by car, train, plane, and hitchhiking. It is partially from those experiences that I’ve based these stories.”