I’ve been going to two of the same weekly meetings for going on six years now. It’s purpose is to keep the stakeholders (buzz word!), utilities, agencies and other CMs (construction managers) abreast of the haps. So have a bunch of “hardhats”—that is, construction workers who represent their various projects, often attending direct from the work zone donning plastic helmets, neon vests and crusty steel-toe boots.
They are a special treat to be around. They are big lugs, mostly all sexist, and tend to have sharp B&T accents (bridge and tunnel—i.e. Long Island and New Jersey commuters). Sample:
Hardhat: Whaddyou mean I gotta reapplye?
Permit Lady: When yowah permits aren’t pict up wid’in twendy-fowah howahs, they awtomatickly expiya, so yoo hafta reapplye. Or tell yowah expedeitah* to do a better job! [insert group laugh]
*Expeditors are hired hands who deal with city agencies and their sundry aggravations.
As a woman, I’m in the severe minority. I spend a lot of my meeting time zoning out, sometimes counting sun-faded tattoos, or comparing how many men have bald spots vs. facial hair. (Are they compensating?)
One of my favorite characters was a guy named Vito**. He tipped the scales around 350 lbs—impressive for someone 5’5”. He was pure entertainment and edification. He always wore a worn green satin baseball jacket that hugged his stout torso like an eggshell.
Whereas I am quite reserved in this setting, Vito never shied from piping up. He reported on the minutiae of his green (buzz word!) luxury tower with pride, ease and logic, his vocal cords stuffed into his puffy neck. He somehow brought mirth to this band of coordinated misfits.
Eventually his luxury condo project topped out and the interior fit-out went on auto pilot…and then Vito stopped showing up. I sometimes wistfully pondered him in my zoneouts, wondering if he’d moved onto to greener or grayer pastures in Bergen County or maybe somewhere off the LIRR.
One day in the meeting, Gary, our pointed leader, was going down the list of projects and got to Vito’s. A voice across the table chimed in—a regular, raspy, mirthful voice.
Gary: I’m sorry—who are you?
Vito: Vito
Gary: Vito?
Vito: Yeah.
Gary: You lost a little weight, huh?
Vito: Yeah about uh-hunerd-an-fifty pounds.
Vito, as he was inexplicably prone to do in the meetings, stood up. In his white button-down and tie he was unrecognizable. A whole new man.
[spontaneous group applause]
Spontaneous applause! It broke out from the likes of 30 hardhats (and two women).
I realized that then that talking about the $33 billion in construction projects around the World Trade Center—reporting their progress, openly eavesdropping on their dilemmas and arguments—made a bunch of construction hacks its own little family.
**Pseudonyms used for the drama of it all.
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