Warning for language, and worries over homophobia. Culture Shock
Sunlight dripped over his shoulders like warm honey. Gideon loathed it, kept his back to it. Rejected it.
His summer construction job had been fine until everything went to pot half an hour ago. He did what he was told, moving supplies, picking up dropped tools and more importantly, dropped nails and screws, occasionally moving sealed buckets of adhesive, or tar, or whatever the job boss said that guy over there needed and why was /he/ standing around like a brick?
The crew treated him like a skinny punk kid, which, well, they were probably right. He'd been counting weeks until he turned eighteen for about...three years, really, and he'd firmly topped out at an underwhelming five-eight, maybe a buck-forty on the scale. With boots.
When he'd applied right before school let out for the summer, entirely because his mother walked past their real office every day on the way from the bus stop to her job at the vet's and mentioned it just as often, he'd been petrified, so scared that he was /sure/ he'd flubbed the interview. Instead, he'd been hired, and then he learned to deal with the constant, jangling fear, doubled. When would the sly remarks meant to be “funny” start? When would someone destroy the tools he was supposed to carry, just like the rest of the crew? Or his boots? His gloves? It didn't matter what they /were/, the point was to take them away to show him he wasn't wanted.
It was boring, exhausting, annoying and decidedly /macho/ work, and he thought he'd kept his head down well enough to avoid attracting attention, until the client had seen him slide of the back of Shea's motorcycle this morning, and realized that the skinny kid was being bussed quite thoroughly by a taller, muscular man with a suggestion of beard, and a single raven-black braid nearly to his waist.
The crew had already seen and ignored it in public, of course, since he'd been working with the same crew for five weeks, but when he crossed through the designated break area on days Shea dropped him off, he got teased... about riding as a passenger on the motorcycle, rather than any other... riding... he wanted to do.
Last week, he'd been called, quietly and privately, into the site office, where his boss had dropped a new pair of stiff leather work gloves –better quality than he'd been able to afford, these were all leather-- on the desk for him, ordering him to pay attention to safety. It wasn't until he'd been ready to try them on, near the stack of brooms he'd cleaned the day before, that he found what /else/ the boss had given him. In the palm of one glove, a foil packet. In the other, the business card for a place called “the Bridge,” which billed itself as a non-alcoholic social club. Written in a neat diagonal slash across the back were the words, “I expect you'll want the day after your birthday off.”
He /still/ hasn't been able to puzzle out which of a dozen different 'tones' the boss might've meant, and the man's brisk bark, bordering on rude, was as inscrutable as ever. The client, arguing fiercely with Mr. McKennon, faded into the background. He kept setting up for the day, but he was waiting for the heavy bootsteps, the hand on his shoulder, the vaguely polite, “We don't think you... mesh... with our work culture.” Or, more likely, just a brisk, “Take a hike, kid.” He'd /almost/ gotten enough –
A heavy step made him jump. He scowled at the last broom he'd cleaned yesterday, still too damp to put to use today, and stood /it/ up to face the monster sunshine, propped against the office trailer. “Man, what a blowhard,” one of the roofers declared. He paused, then asked, “You okay, kid?”
He gaped at –Oh, Rudy. Shit! Rudy was actually /named/ Arthur, but earned his nickname by making the crudest, most direct observations Gideon had ever heard.
“You heard what he said,” Gideon couldn't keep the edge out of his voice. His body and brain were both coiled for a fight.
“I'd call him a dick, but I thought you /liked/ those,” the other man laughed. A hand as big as Gideon's head thumped onto the teen's shoulder. “C'mon. Boss says I'm supposed to put you to work.”
“I thought--” Gideon blurted.
“What? That we're a bunch of low-forehead, macho white dudes and your our token Black, gay, teenaged mascot?” Rudy's laugh rumbled low, even as he shook his head. “Naw. Unless mebbe you're also disabled and mentally ill?” He sounded shockingly hopeful of the prospect. “Then we'd have a full house, all in one kid so skinny I could probably fit you in my lunchbox.”
“But--” He just couldn't seem to find two words in the blank /noise/ inside his head right now.
“Kid,” that enormous, heavy hand landed painlessly on his shoulder again. “Stop starin' at us like we're the tigers in a zoo. Haven't you noticed you're on the same side of the bars as we are?” A tiny shake, meant to get his attention. “You're a construction worker, too, or will be when you finish learning the basics.”
From LJ "Culture Shock" prompt
Culture Shock
Sunlight dripped over his shoulders like warm honey. Gideon loathed it, kept his back to it. Rejected it.
His summer construction job had been fine until everything went to pot half an hour ago. He did what he was told, moving supplies, picking up dropped tools and more importantly, dropped nails and screws, occasionally moving sealed buckets of adhesive, or tar, or whatever the job boss said that guy over there needed and why was /he/ standing around like a brick?
The crew treated him like a skinny punk kid, which, well, they were probably right. He'd been counting weeks until he turned eighteen for about...three years, really, and he'd firmly topped out at an underwhelming five-eight, maybe a buck-forty on the scale. With boots.
When he'd applied right before school let out for the summer, entirely because his mother walked past their real office every day on the way from the bus stop to her job at the vet's and mentioned it just as often, he'd been petrified, so scared that he was /sure/ he'd flubbed the interview. Instead, he'd been hired, and then he learned to deal with the constant, jangling fear, doubled. When would the sly remarks meant to be “funny” start? When would someone destroy the tools he was supposed to carry, just like the rest of the crew? Or his boots? His gloves? It didn't matter what they /were/, the point was to take them away to show him he wasn't wanted.
It was boring, exhausting, annoying and decidedly /macho/ work, and he thought he'd kept his head down well enough to avoid attracting attention, until the client had seen him slide of the back of Shea's motorcycle this morning, and realized that the skinny kid was being bussed quite thoroughly by a taller, muscular man with a suggestion of beard, and a single raven-black braid nearly to his waist.
The crew had already seen and ignored it in public, of course, since he'd been working with the same crew for five weeks, but when he crossed through the designated break area on days Shea dropped him off, he got teased... about riding as a passenger on the motorcycle, rather than any other... riding... he wanted to do.
Last week, he'd been called, quietly and privately, into the site office, where his boss had dropped a new pair of stiff leather work gloves –better quality than he'd been able to afford, these were all leather-- on the desk for him, ordering him to pay attention to safety. It wasn't until he'd been ready to try them on, near the stack of brooms he'd cleaned the day before, that he found what /else/ the boss had given him. In the palm of one glove, a foil packet. In the other, the business card for a place called “the Bridge,” which billed itself as a non-alcoholic social club. Written in a neat diagonal slash across the back were the words, “I expect you'll want the day after your birthday off.”
He /still/ hasn't been able to puzzle out which of a dozen different 'tones' the boss might've meant, and the man's brisk bark, bordering on rude, was as inscrutable as ever. The client, arguing fiercely with Mr. McKennon, faded into the background. He kept setting up for the day, but he was waiting for the heavy bootsteps, the hand on his shoulder, the vaguely polite, “We don't think you... mesh... with our work culture.” Or, more likely, just a brisk, “Take a hike, kid.” He'd /almost/ gotten enough –
A heavy step made him jump. He scowled at the last broom he'd cleaned yesterday, still too damp to put to use today, and stood /it/ up to face the monster sunshine, propped against the office trailer. “Man, what a blowhard,” one of the roofers declared. He paused, then asked, “You okay, kid?”
He gaped at –Oh, Rudy. Shit! Rudy was actually /named/ Arthur, but earned his nickname by making the crudest, most direct observations Gideon had ever heard.
“You heard what he said,” Gideon couldn't keep the edge out of his voice. His body and brain were both coiled for a fight.
“I'd call him a dick, but I thought you /liked/ those,” the other man laughed. A hand as big as Gideon's head thumped onto the teen's shoulder. “C'mon. Boss says I'm supposed to put you to work.”
“I thought--” Gideon blurted.
“What? That we're a bunch of low-forehead, macho white dudes and your our token Black, gay, teenaged mascot?” Rudy's laugh rumbled low, even as he shook his head. “Naw. Unless mebbe you're also disabled and mentally ill?” He sounded shockingly hopeful of the prospect. “Then we'd have a full house, all in one kid so skinny I could probably fit you in my lunchbox.”
“But--” He just couldn't seem to find two words in the blank /noise/ inside his head right now.
“Kid,” that enormous, heavy hand landed painlessly on his shoulder again. “Stop starin' at us like we're the tigers in a zoo. Haven't you noticed you're on the same side of the bars as we are?” A tiny shake, meant to get his attention. “You're a construction worker, too, or will be when you finish learning the basics.”