Everything Was Beautiful and No Highwaymen Hurt

It was night, wind a gusty torrent, ghostly galleon sailing and so forth.

Cold as fuck. Frost and ice clung on to every single surface, forks frozen, pipe frozen, booger froze in my nosen.

Some asshole had dumped over eight bunks of PVC sched 80 conduit into the back lot, a random act of stupidity, not an evidence of an over-all stupidity on the part of the dumper. Pipe of all sizes, ten foot sticks, dumped over and left over night for two nights, tied themselves in a dark gray love-knot. I had been equipped with only the shittiest of supplies, gloves a-shitty. And so on. Beautiful.

I built a new bunk of pipe, drug it from asunder, melded it in wonder. Motherfucker is six feet tall and eight feet deep. I hope I'm not, and somehow know I will end up, being the guy in a week or two who has to drag that PVC megalith inside and try to work it into the pipe corral.

At one point, the forklift, having found the drainage from a faucet left on for weeks, went spinning in the moonlight, careening in the moonlight, skidding in the moonlight and totally fucking knocked over a stack of iron 2 inch pipe.

I pulled in to the rollcage, barely saving my hand. The black pipe loosened in its casement and my face would have possibly burnt like a brand had not it been frozen. The black waves fell all around the forklift's breast in the moonlight. (Goddamn it, I wish I could see better in the moonlight). Fuck working in the moonlight. I'm pretty sure I shouted obscenities at the moonlight.

I stacked all that bullshit back up over the course of three hours, my hands freezing on the pipes. I lited the stack to a shabby former form and went to work on the PVC again. After a couple hours of wading through the , plaited, gray bramblefuck, I had another bunk built. I scooped it up onto the forklift after I used my truck to jump the battery that the cold had claimed. After rolling into the cage and lifting the bunk about two feet of the required ten, the forklift, victim of circumstance was dead from the blast of a broken propane regulator.

And so on. Beautiful.

Anyway, twelve hours and minor frostbite later, I would be home. But I will know that next time the wind blows a gusty torrent and the moon sails a ghostly galleon, and so forth, the rest of the broken bunks will wait with love knot tied in gray, woven plaits of bullshit.

11.9 hours (don't go into overtime!) of that shit last night. Fuck.