“What a great freaking day,” I said to myself.
Looking at the vans clock I realized that over an hour had passed and Grant was still asleep. Based upon his long winded snores I did not think he would wake up anytime soon, on his own accord at least. If this was how the rest of the day was going to go there would probably be little learning done on my part and even less training done on his. If not for the GPS I’d be driving down the highway without any clue to where I was actually driving to.
We had left the shop a little after seven and were on the open road headed towards the Kansas boarder by seven-thirty. Grant had been asleep minutes after pulling out of the parking lot. I had gotten to know the androgynous GPS unit better than him since then. It would not have been so bad had I not lost all the radio stations shortly after leaving town. Like all the other millions of utility vans in the country this van had no CD player or mp3 jack. Even if it had I was not prepared to have jobs so far away from the city that day requiring me to bring my own music. With it being my first day in the field I was not truly prepared for anything other than getting out of the classroom. For over an hour all I had to listen to was the wind whistling and the clatter of satellite dishes in the back.
“Exit highway at exit thirty-one. Two miles,” the GPS chimed.
Our destination was not much further and I offered up a small prayer in thanks. Much further and madness would have set in. Taking the exit I followed the more frequent directions. Kansas may be the most boring landscape in the world but Colorado’s plains could only be ranked a little lower. Beige grasses growing out of beige dirt is far from stimulating.
“Must be the theme for the day,” I joked aloud.
I nearly swerved off the road when Grant asked, “What’s that?”
“Nothing. Nothing.” I regained control and said, “We are almost to the first job.”
He looked at the GPS’ display and shook his head. “Already? That was fast.”
“Yeah,” is all I could think to reply. I could not even muster a little sarcasm. He would have probably missed it anyways.
Down a county highway and a private dirt road we at last saw our destination. An ancient, tiny house sat next to a dilapidated looking barn. Sitting on the house’s front stoop was a dark haired man smoking a cigarette. As we slowed to park he offered a wave. He stood up and before entering the house gestured for us to come right in. It was a pretty standard greeting to service men I had learned at a previous job. I was glad something felt familiar for once.
I parked the van next to the man’s well used, very dust truck. It was less a farm country stereotype than a farm country necessity. It felt good stepping out of the van and being able to stretch my legs after the boring drive. I expected Grant to pull the safety cones as company policy demanded but as I watched him head strait to the house I knew that so far away from the city and prying eyes company policy was out of mind. A few hurried steps and I caught up to him as he knocked on the door before walking in. I followed shuffling my feet on the door mat.
Instantly the smells of strong spices and homemade food filled my head. The house may have been classic American country but the cooking and decorating inside was defiantly not. Regardless it made me hungry. When my stomach growled I hoped that I was the only one who heard it.
Grant waved and asked, “Hola, hablo Ingles?”
Being Grant I was sure he missed the brief pause before the man replied, “Um, yeah, I speak English.”
Defiantly not a Spanish accent.
“Great,” Grant continued, “we are here to get you set up today.”
I remained quiet while the two review the days work order and the plan to get the dish set up. With everything confirmed Grant motioned me to head out so we could start running cable and mount the dish.
I must have had a look on my face because once outside he asked, “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” I said trying not to laugh.
Like in cartoons it was as if a light bulb turned on above his head, “Oh, was it me asking him if he spoke English?”
“No, not so much that you asked him if he spoke English,” I admitted.
“There are a lot of Spanish-speaking only people down here. You’ll see you have to ask that question a lot,” he explained.
I had to let him know what was going to make me laugh all day.
“He’s not Spanish or Mexican Grant. He’s middle eastern!”
(wc:844)
