him.
He looked around at me, smiling blankly. ‘What trees?’
‘The trees, Father. The forest. Where is it? Aren’t we there yet?’
‘You mean where we are cutting? That way. About a mile.’ He gestured.
I peered into the smoking distance and could just make out a low, dark, ragged line between the gray haze and the gray sky.
My father looked at his watch. ‘Ten minutes before I have to go,’ he said. ‘Come and meet your boss.’”
“My father had managed to get me a job in the tool shop. He was very pleased that he had done this because it showed that he was respected. Most boys, he said, had to start with the cutting crews. They began as what he called ‘saw-monkeys.’ Saw-monkeys had to dash from place to place carrying chain saws that were still running, because the cutters lost time if they had to start up the saws in every new place. Saw-monkeys were always the first to be sent in to where a tree had fallen — and everyone knew that it was a good idea to wait for a while after a tree had fallen. That is because not everything that had lived on or near the tree vanished into the forest right away. Snakes, in particular, were very stubborn and would often hide close to the fallen tree. Many saw-monkeys were bitten by snakes.
Saw-monkeys had to carry heavy steel cables to the fallen tree and lock them on, so that the big dragging machines could tear the tree out of the forest. And if the cutting was on a slope, and if there had been rain, the logs were sometimes pulled down on top of the saw-monkeys, and they would be crushed to death. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, a cable would snap and whip back; in the past couple of years, three saw-monkeys had been killed by broken cables. One had been cut in half at the waist like a piece of cheese sliced by a wire. The captain of that crew had told my father that the top half of the saw-monkey’s body had landed on the ground while the bottom half was still standing on its legs.
So my father was pleased that he had wrangled me a safe job at the camp. The pay was better, too.
The problem was, Paul,” said El Gato, “that I was now, in my mind and in my heart and in my soul, a soccer player. When my father first came home and told us that he had secured this job for me in the tool shop, he was very proud. My mother thanked God and hugged me. I am ashamed to say that I felt no gratitude, or even any interest. And I know this hurt my father, although he did not show it. I did not even bother to ask him what the tool shop was. So on that first day, when he led me across the camp toward the drilling and the hammering and the workbenches, I had no idea what to expect.
My father led me to the door of one of the blue-painted metal sheds. We went inside, and he took off his cap and knocked at a door to our left. No one answered. He knocked again, louder. We heard shouting approach the door. It was pulled open by a short, stocky man who was yelling into a two-way radiophone. He was completely, shiningly bald. He hardly looked at us, just jerked his head to tell us to enter. He stalked across to an open window and stuck the upper half of his body out of it, still yelling into the phone. Father and I stood awkwardly in the middle of the office, staring at the man’s backside.
‘How the hell am I supposed to do that?’ The boss spoke with some foreign accent that made him sound angrier than he already was.
We could not hear the reply through the hiss and crackle that came from the phone.
‘Of course it’s impossible! Of course it is! I’m in the middle of a godforsaken jungle!’
More hiss and crackle.
‘I don’t care what he says! I want all of that stuff here in a week. All of it, do you hear me? And you can tell him that if it isn’t, I’m gonna come up there with some of these crazy jungle guys and trash his stinking office!’
Hiss, crackle, squawk.
Among the papers on the boss’s desk was an ashtray, and balanced on the lip of this
He looked around at me, smiling blankly. ‘What trees?’
‘The trees, Father. The forest. Where is it? Aren’t we there yet?’
‘You mean where we are cutting? That way. About a mile.’ He gestured.
I peered into the smoking distance and could just make out a low, dark, ragged line between the gray haze and the gray sky.
My father looked at his watch. ‘Ten minutes before I have to go,’ he said. ‘Come and meet your boss.’”
“My father had managed to get me a job in the tool shop. He was very pleased that he had done this because it showed that he was respected. Most boys, he said, had to start with the cutting crews. They began as what he called ‘saw-monkeys.’ Saw-monkeys had to dash from place to place carrying chain saws that were still running, because the cutters lost time if they had to start up the saws in every new place. Saw-monkeys were always the first to be sent in to where a tree had fallen — and everyone knew that it was a good idea to wait for a while after a tree had fallen. That is because not everything that had lived on or near the tree vanished into the forest right away. Snakes, in particular, were very stubborn and would often hide close to the fallen tree. Many saw-monkeys were bitten by snakes.
Saw-monkeys had to carry heavy steel cables to the fallen tree and lock them on, so that the big dragging machines could tear the tree out of the forest. And if the cutting was on a slope, and if there had been rain, the logs were sometimes pulled down on top of the saw-monkeys, and they would be crushed to death. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, a cable would snap and whip back; in the past couple of years, three saw-monkeys had been killed by broken cables. One had been cut in half at the waist like a piece of cheese sliced by a wire. The captain of that crew had told my father that the top half of the saw-monkey’s body had landed on the ground while the bottom half was still standing on its legs.
So my father was pleased that he had wrangled me a safe job at the camp. The pay was better, too.
The problem was, Paul,” said El Gato, “that I was now, in my mind and in my heart and in my soul, a soccer player. When my father first came home and told us that he had secured this job for me in the tool shop, he was very proud. My mother thanked God and hugged me. I am ashamed to say that I felt no gratitude, or even any interest. And I know this hurt my father, although he did not show it. I did not even bother to ask him what the tool shop was. So on that first day, when he led me across the camp toward the drilling and the hammering and the workbenches, I had no idea what to expect.
My father led me to the door of one of the blue-painted metal sheds. We went inside, and he took off his cap and knocked at a door to our left. No one answered. He knocked again, louder. We heard shouting approach the door. It was pulled open by a short, stocky man who was yelling into a two-way radiophone. He was completely, shiningly bald. He hardly looked at us, just jerked his head to tell us to enter. He stalked across to an open window and stuck the upper half of his body out of it, still yelling into the phone. Father and I stood awkwardly in the middle of the office, staring at the man’s backside.
‘How the hell am I supposed to do that?’ The boss spoke with some foreign accent that made him sound angrier than he already was.
We could not hear the reply through the hiss and crackle that came from the phone.
‘Of course it’s impossible! Of course it is! I’m in the middle of a godforsaken jungle!’
More hiss and crackle.
‘I don’t care what he says! I want all of that stuff here in a week. All of it, do you hear me? And you can tell him that if it isn’t, I’m gonna come up there with some of these crazy jungle guys and trash his stinking office!’
Hiss, crackle, squawk.
Among the papers on the boss’s desk was an ashtray, and balanced on the lip of this
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