Day 13
I am hiding in the office, a five foot square divided corner of the job
trailer that contains a small desk and a chair. There is electric service and I
have plugged in my laptop computer. By mid-afternoon I must complete a two
paragraph daily report to the World Wide Web from the Island (in the next
millennium, these will come to be called blogs). I must also oversee the
excavation block (7 by 5 meters), speak to 200 middle school kids in four
groups of fifty at twenty to thirty minute intervals, and try to keep an eye on
everything else down here. Today it’s not going well due to
interruptions. As it happens, like Scrooge, I am to be visited three times.
First it’s the Savage and FD. Being a pair of large and polar opposite
personalities, they’re usually like oil and water, but today they have made
common cause and have come to see me together.
“Sorry to bother you, but we have something important to ask.”
“I see…and what is it?”
“We would like to go to the hardware store and buy a length of heavy
chain and a padlock.”
“Because…?”
“We want to lock up the port-a-jon.”
“Because…?”
“Well, if we don’t lock it up…people will use it!”
I try just sitting there and not saying anything, but this is a pair
that can have a half-ton chunk of irony whiz right past their heads and shatter
on the ground behind them without either of them noticing anything untoward.
One of them finally blurts out, “By people, we mean non-staff and
volunteers.”
“You don’t think that folks other than us ever have to pee?”
“But they’ll make the port-o-jon dirty for the rest of us! People are
pigs!’
…and so on. In the end, my calculus is that I have much to do, and the
quickest way to get them to leave is to say yes. I extract a promise that they
will leave the key in a place known to the staff so we can relieve ourselves.
They finally go away, to begin constructing the replica Eastern Woodlands house
and to send one of the technicians to the hardware store.
I type another two sentences and there is another knock. It’s Miss E…
“Yes?”
“Look, I know you’re busy, but I just thought I should tell you that if
Mr. Savage puts his hand on me one more time, I’m going to punch his teeth
straight down his throat! Are you OK with that?”
I am looking at this lovely and fiery young woman, and my head is full
of twitching synapses that are making mostly incomplete connections. I point
out that what she has proposed is rash and is not the approved procedure for
dealing with an incidence of sexual harassment in government service. She
replies that she is confident that her plan of action will get results, and less
so about following the prescribed procedures. In the end, after sitting
there and blinking at her for a full minute, I decide that she’s probably
correct.
“Alright.”
“Alright then!” She spins on her heel and walks out. I never hear
anything else about it.
Back to my diary entry. If I can just get a couple more sentences down
in the next five minutes, I can dump it onto a disk and go check everyone’s
field notes before the next busload of kids arrives. Donald, the
photographer and web master from the museum, who has been wandering around the
Island all morning taking pictures, will then take the disk to his office, and
by evening there’ll be an entry about today’s efforts on the Island for the
whole world to share.
But it ain’t to be. There is another knock at the office door.
Without waiting for a “come in” Mr. Savage flings the door open. He is
livid…slobbering mad! In full regalia and bristling as he is with
weapons, he requires attention.
“What’s the matter?”
“You know what HE’s doing?”
“No…?”
“HE’s using a metal knife and a saw on those poles and the bark!
HE’s ruining the house!”
Clearly FD and Mr. Savage have reverted to the warm and fraternal bon
ami that has characterized their relationship over the years.
“Come on now…Ruining it? How so?”
I have ignited the powder keg! He is now red as a tomato, his eyes bug
out, his chest expands, and this loudest of men, screams in my face: “HE’S
BUILDING IT LIKE…LIKE…LIKE A FUCKING WHITE MAN!!!!!!”
It’s of course unhelpful to point out that the reason for this may be
that FD is as manifestly Caucasian as they get, but I can’t help myself.
Mr Savage storms out, and I throw in the towel on my little diary entry
and grab my clipboard. It’s time to look in on the excavation, and get ready
for some sixth graders…
To be continued...
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