The sun was blazing down on me as beads of sweat rolled down my body mixing with the dirt and grime that was all over my body. It was a typical summer's day. The heat was overbearing, but I need to make money to support my family. Construction is grueling work, but work is work and if I'm getting paid then I don't care what the work is. Though this job is rather unpleasant, the best part is getting to work with some tenacious men.
I befriended another Irish immigrant by the name of Declan O'Neill. Declan was newly married and was trying to save up enough money to have his bride come to America. There was not a single day where Declan didn't talk about Aoife. It's sweet, but sometimes it makes me want to vomit, especially since my wife and I aren't on the best of terms as of late. Nine other men work with us. Polish immigrants Krzysztof Kowalski and Edek Jankowski, American natives Charles Davis, John Jennings, and James Harding, Greek immigrants Constantine Nikolaou and Georgie Papageorgiou, Italian immigrant brothers Matteo and Angelo Rossi.
Though we all have different backgrounds we have common goals; to stay alive for as long as possible and to make as much money as possible. After painstaking work that started at dawn, finally, three o'clock rolled around. The boys and I walk across a beam that stretched out to a point where one false move would land us into a casket. We sat down and were peacefully eating lunch on top of the beam when a photographer introduced himself and asked if he could take a picture of us.
He tells us that he wants to capture the life of construction workers. None of us had any objections, we were too tired and hungry to care. Even though Angelo whispered to me, "He probably doesn't care about us at all" before he took out a cigarette and asked me to light it. The tip of the cigarette met with the small brilliant flame of my lighter. The smoke from the tobacco rolled in paper danced across the sky, I watched it make some precise moves until my eyes landed back on the photographer.
I had thought that this photographer would take the picture from an angle, from safety, but he had walked onto the beam parallel and in front of us to take the picture. All I could think about was how crazy this photographer is. He was willing to sacrifice his life for a picture, just as we are willing to do any work to get money to support our families. He told us to act "natural", but how?
I never have been photographed like this before plus how can I act calm when this photographer is asking to see Jesus. The photographer seemed to be waiting for the perfect moment to take this picture since he hasn't moved from the position he was in for a while. Angelo stared at his lunch box. "I wonder what will be in here today?" he says. But he always has the same lunch. I think he says this every time just to give himself hope that one day there will be something different in that lunchbox and that's the day when we won't be struggling for money.
I don't even bother looking at my lunch, I already know what it is, some stale bread and butter, and some of the dandelion salad my wife and I had for dinner last night. Though very unappetizing it still beats eating disease-infested potatoes. Declan and I now focus on Angelo's lunch, like we are children waiting for a big surprise to be revealed. Though Declan, now with his shirt off, teases Angelo about his lunch. "You have the same thing for lunch every day. We all do, why act surprised to see what's in there?" "You'll understand when your wife makes you lunch one day. You can figure out what's different about her meals each time. Even if it's a slight difference it is still exhilarating to notice or figure it out."
I can understand Angelo's words all too well. My wife's cooking changes depending on the mood she's in. Like last night she was furious with me, so the dandelion salad was extra bitter than usual. Angelo opened his lunchbox, three rolls, a small portion of dandelion salad, and a small piece of meat that was mostly fat. Again the same thing as usual. I look away at Angelo's lunch and fix my eyes on my own. Before I opened it I looked up and saw that the photographer was gone.
